The Replacement Lover

Crownspire Villa stood in the city's most expensive hillside neighborhood.

Margaret Kennedy returned alone to the marital home she shared with Richard, her complexion pale as she weakly pushed open the door.

In the entryway, a pair of eye-catching red stilettos lay carelessly on the carpet, next to Richard Neville's immaculately polished custom leather shoes.

The housekeeper Tiana was directing two maids cleaning up the coffee table. When she saw Margaret, she didn't even bother to look up. "Mrs. Neville, you're back," she announced flatly.

Margaret didn't respond, her gaze sweeping across the living room. Everything appeared the same as when she'd left, yet all traces of her presence had been thoroughly violated.

Her bone china mug, with a glaring ring of lipstick on the rim, had been carelessly tossed to the corner of the coffee table.

Her cashmere wrap, normally draped over the sofa, was crumpled and stuffed between cushions.

Even the white roses she'd personally arranged had been replaced with gaudy red ones.

The entire space proclaimed another woman's presence.

"Tiana, did we have visitors while I was away?" Margaret's voice was soft but edged with ice.

Tiana straightened, her tone barely concealing her contempt. "Ms. Barnes. Mr. Neville brought her back to get some documents. They stayed for a bit."

Just a bit?

Margaret headed upstairs and pushed open the master bedroom door. Her vanity had been ransacked, several lipstick caps left open.

The closet door was ajar, and her favorite ivory silk robe was missing. By the floor-to-ceiling windows, a burgundy robe lay crumpled on the ground.

She walked over and bent to pick it up. This was one of a matching pair Richard had custom-made for their first anniversary—her ivory one and this burgundy one.

She'd never worn it—Richard had said someone as bland as her couldn't pull off such a color.

Now the robe reeked of Jennifer Barnes's cloying perfume, with several short, coarse hairs that clearly belonged to a man.

On the highest shelf, her treasured limited-edition art book had fallen to the floor, its pages roughly dog-eared.

The maids' hushed conversation drifted up:

"Mr. Neville really dotes on Ms. Barnes. When she was stretching to reach a book, he just put one hand on her waist to steady her..."

"I know! And when Ms. Barnes wanted to walk the dog, Mr. Neville—who's such a neat freak—went downstairs without even changing his shoes!"

Margaret could instantly picture the scene: Richard supporting Jennifer's waist, his eyes filled with an indulgence she'd never received.

On the nightstand sat an elegant gift box with a card. The handwriting was flamboyant and feminine:

[Margaret, Richie told me you don't like this robe, so I took the liberty of trying it on—it's truly gorgeous. This lipstick shade would also look amazing on you. Hope you like it. —Jennifer]

An overwhelming sense of humiliation flooded Margaret's entire being. Walking into her home, wearing her clothes, using her things, sleeping with her husband—and then, with this patronizing gesture, flaunting her victory and Margaret's inadequacy.

"Mrs. Neville, Ms. Barnes meant well. You're always so plain—young women should be more vibrant," Tiana had somehow followed her upstairs and now stood in the doorway, her tone still maddeningly neutral.

Another maid chimed in, "That's right, Mrs. Neville. Ms. Barnes is so nice—she even brought us gifts. She said the most important thing in your relationship with Mr. Neville is mutual understanding."

Margaret lowered her head, a broken laugh escaping her throat. "Understanding what? That my husband brings his mistress to our marital bed?"

Tiana's façade instantly crumbled, her feigned politeness replaced with naked contempt. "Mrs. Neville, you shouldn't speak that way. What's Mr. Neville's status? And what's yours? If it weren't for the Kennedy family back then—"

"My status isn't for servants to judge," Margaret cut her off, the coldness in her eyes instinctively silencing Tiana.

But Tiana quickly straightened her back, as if someone powerful stood behind her. "What good does it do to snap at me? If you've got the nerve, talk to Mr. Neville. Everyone at Crownspire Villa knows Ms. Barnes is the one in his heart. Occupying the position of his wife, you should know your place."

Yes, she should have known her place. From the moment she'd signed that marriage contract—essentially a bill of sale—Margaret had been nothing more than an upscale housekeeper living at Crownspire Villa, a wife in name only.

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was terrifyingly calm. "Bring me a garbage bag."

Tiana froze. "Mrs. Neville, what are you trying to do?"

Margaret didn't waste more words. She snatched a large black garbage bag from one of the maids and headed downstairs.

She picked up the matching bone china mugs belonging to her and Richard, walked straight to the trash can, and let go. The cups shattered into pieces at the bottom of the bin.

She carried the garbage bag upstairs and threw in the burgundy robe along with its custom gift box and accessories.

Then came the makeup that had been tampered with, Jennifer's "gift" on the nightstand, the sofa cushions that had been sat on, the mug with lipstick marks from the coffee table...

She worked in silence, stubbornly finding and discarding every single item in the house that carried Jennifer's essence.

The maids watched in shock, wanting to stop her but intimidated by her resolute aura.

Finally, Margaret slowly walked to the entryway, bent down, and using just two fingers, picked up the red stilettos with obvious disgust. She tossed them out the front door along with the stuffed garbage bag.

After completing this purge, she rushed to the master bathroom, washed her hands thoroughly, then hunched over the sink dry-heaving. Nothing came up except bitter bile.

Looking at her reflection, she suddenly felt like a stranger. What had these five years been for, anyway?

Just then, a man's strong arms encircled her waist, pulling her against his body. A familiar crisp scent enveloped her from behind. The man backed against the bathroom door to close it, then carried her to the bathtub.

Margaret turned to see her husband, Richard.

He wore a black silk robe, collar open to reveal his defined collarbone. He smelled faintly of alcohol and the night chill, mixed with that sickly-sweet perfume and the scent of Jennifer's golden retriever.

His germaphobia was severe—every day after work, he'd insist they shower together. Today was no different.

Margaret thought about how he might have showered here with Jennifer, and nausea rose again. She shoved Richard away, breaking free from his embrace.

"What's wrong with you?" he demanded.

His gaze swept around the unusually barren bathroom, his brow immediately furrowing. Finally, his eyes locked onto Margaret's eerily calm face. Tiana had clearly reported everything.

Margaret remained silent, simply raising her eyes to look at him. Her stare made Richard restless.

"I'll handle the situation with Jennifer," he said stiffly, barely containing his anger.

"How will you handle it? Warn her to be more careful next time? Tell her not to leave evidence? Or maybe just find a more discreet place for your affair?"

Richard's expression darkened completely. "Margaret, watch your words."

Margaret stood up, looking directly at him. Those eyes that once held nothing but adoration now contained only emptiness. "Our agreement never said I had to tolerate your mistress sleeping in my bed, wearing my clothes, using my things."

"She didn't sleep in your bed."

The moment the words left his mouth, Richard himself was stunned. Why was he explaining this?

Margaret laughed, a sound more painful than crying. "Really? Should I thank her for showing such restraint?"

Richard grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward him. He leaned down, his handsome face inches from hers, his hot breath on her skin. "Don't forget what day it is," he said with menace.

That phrase again. Whenever he wanted sex but couldn't be bothered with foreplay, he'd remind her of her ovulation schedule. A reminder that her greatest value was her uterus—a tool that existed solely for pregnancy.

Margaret's heart turned ice-cold. She closed her eyes, surrendering all resistance, like a soulless puppet. "I know," she said. "Let's get it over with."

Her passive submission combined with silent defiance infuriated Richard more than any heated argument could have.

Rage and something else he couldn't identify made his movements rough and uncontrolled. No kisses. No caresses. He used the most primitive form of lovemaking to vent his anger and possessiveness.

Margaret bit her lip hard, hands braced against the cold bathtub, swallowing all pain and humiliation. She stared at the warm light on the ceiling, the brightness making her eyes sting.

This is it, she thought. This is the last time.