23 Missed Calls: How I Buried My Husband and His Mistress

Two o'clock on a Thursday afternoon in the Upper East Side. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private medical center on Park Avenue, casting geometric shadows across the pristine white marble floors. I sat in the waiting room, my fingers unconsciously tracing the small lump in my throat.

Twenty-ninth birthday, and I'd given myself the gift of a vocal cord examination.

"Miss Ashwood?" The nurse's voice cut through my brooding. "Dr. Harrison is ready to see you now."

I followed her down the sterile hallway, my mind still replaying last night's performance of Cats when I'd felt that terrifying sensation—not pain, but something worse. Loss of control.

Dr. Harrison was a distinguished man in his sixties who specialized in treating Broadway performers. His patient roster read like a Tony Award nominee list.

"Serenity," he said, studying my X-rays with professional concern, "the vocal nodules are more severe than we initially anticipated."

My heart skipped a beat. 'Shit.'

"We need to perform microsurgery immediately," he continued. "It's not major surgery, but given your profession, I strongly recommend having a family member present. Post-anesthesia recovery can be uncomfortable."

"I can handle it myself." The words came out with a defensive edge I could hear in my own voice.

Dr. Harrison frowned at me over his glasses. "Miss Ashwood, I know you're an independent woman, but this isn't the time to be stubborn. Your husband or boyfriend—"

"My husband is busy," I interrupted. "I don't want to bother him."

'Busy doing what? Busy rehearsing with Vivienne Sterling for their new show?'

The doctor's expression softened with what looked like pity. In this industry, everyone knew who was who, who was sleeping with whom, and who'd been dumped by whom. But nobody knew about Maximilian Cross and me.

Five years. Five years of secret marriage, living like some dirty little secret he kept hidden away.

"Very well," Dr. Harrison sighed. "But you'll need to remain here for observation for two hours post-surgery."

The procedure was quick. When I woke up in the recovery room, my throat felt strangely numb. A nurse handed me a cup of warm water and a note: 'No talking for two hours.'

I nodded and closed my eyes, trying not to think about whether Maximilian would remember today was my birthday.

"Did you hear?" Excited whispers drifted from the next bed over. "It's front page news!"

I opened my eyes. Two nurses were huddled together, staring at a phone screen.

"Maximilian Cross and Vivienne Sterling's new musical Midnight Dreams just secured ten million in funding!" The younger nurse's voice was thick with envy. "My God, they're absolutely perfect together!"

"Look at this photo," the other nurse gushed. "They're at the investors' gala together. That Versace gown Vivienne's wearing is absolutely stunning!"

"I heard they're each other's muses—artistic soulmates!" The young nurse sighed dramatically. "Maximilian's so successful, Vivienne's so talented. I really hope they end up together. They're such a perfect match!"

'Artistic soulmates?' I thought. 'Then what the hell am I? A convenient fuck?'

"Miss Ashwood, are you alright?" The nurse noticed my expression. "You look very pale."

I waved them off, signaling I was fine. But my hands were shaking.

Ten million in funding. Midnight Dreams. Maximilian had never mentioned this project to me. And here I was, his wife, alone in a hospital room recovering from throat surgery.

As evening fell, I was moved to a private room. The sunset painted everything orange—beautiful, but heartbreakingly so.

My phone rang.

Maximilian's name on the screen.

I hesitated for several seconds before answering.

"Happy birthday, Serenity." His voice sounded exhausted. "Sorry for calling so late. Today's been absolutely insane."

"Mm." That's all I could manage. My throat was still recovering.

"You sound off. Coming down with something?"

I was about to explain when a sickeningly sweet female voice cut through the background.

"Max, is that Serenity?" Vivienne's voice was crystal clear, as if she were whispering directly in my ear. "Let me wish her happy birthday!"

Then the phone was yanked away.

"Serenity, honey, happy birthday!" Vivienne's voice dripped with fake intimacy. "Max and I are just celebrating the funding coming through. You know, for Midnight Dreams. He bought me this amazing cake—super delicious! There's half left over. I'll make sure he brings it home to you!"

My heart nearly stopped beating. They were together. On my birthday, they were together celebrating.

"Vivienne—" Maximilian's voice came from somewhere in the background.

Laughter erupted in the background: "Max, you only show personality when Vivienne's around! You two are like an old married couple!"

I hung up.

Tears cascaded down my cheeks, one after another, like a dam bursting.

Five years. Five years of secret marriage, five years of silent endurance, five years of self-deception. I had never mattered. I was nothing more than a disposable supporting character in Maximilian Cross's life, a secret he kept to maintain his perfect bachelor image.

And Vivienne Sterling, that "artistic soulmate," was the leading lady standing in the spotlight.