The Storm After the Affair

The storm was raging outside with torrential rain and flash flood warnings, and the after-school center had already called three times asking for our son to be picked up. I called my husband, asking him to pick him up, but he flatly refused. "A boy shouldn't be coddled. So what if he gets a little wet? I told you, he needs to walk home no matter what the weather is." Unable to talk sense into him, I dashed out into the storm myself. It took forty minutes round-trip. I was soaked to the bone, my sneakers squelching with every step. When I pushed open the front door, the living room lights were glowing warmly, and the heating was turned all the way up. A woman was wearing my husband's oversized button-down, drying her hair with a towel. She looked up, saw me, and smiled with crinkling eyes. "Savannah, you're back? Luke insisted the roads were too dangerous and went out of his way to pick me up from work. He just couldn't leave me stranded." "I told him he was making a mountain out of a molehill. See? You made it back completely fine, too." I stood in the entryway. The rainwater in my sneakers had risen to my ankles, squelching wetly with every tiny shift of my weight. I was soaked through from head to toe. Cold droplets dripped from the ends of my hair, splattering into tiny dark spots on the tile floor. Behind me, my seven-year-old son, Leo, was wrapped in my only waterproof jacket. Only his big, dark eyes peeked out, staring intently at the strange woman standing in our living room. "Mommy, why is she wearing Daddy's shirt?" Leo poked half his face out from the jacket, his voice small and muffled. Before I could answer, the slap of slippers sounded from the stairs. Lucas was walking down in his gray loungewear, phone in hand, the screen still glowing with severe weather alerts. The moment he saw me standing in the foyer, his brows knotted tight. "You went and got him?" He took the stairs two at a time, his slippers slapping loudly against the hardwood as he marched right up to me. "Savannah, haven't I told you a hundred times not to baby him? So what if he walks in the rain? Are you going to spoil him until he's too scared to walk home in a little storm?" As he barked, Leo slipped further out of the jacket. His small shoulder was exposed to the draft, shivering violently. I looked down at my son's pale lips. Ignoring Lucas entirely, I knelt down, pulled the jacket tightly around Leo, and smoothed back the wet strands of hair plastered against his forehead. "Go upstairs, turn on the hot water, and take a bath before you catch a cold." Leo didn't move. His gaze stayed glued to the woman on the couch. "Mommy, she—" "Be a good boy. Go on up," I urged gently, giving him a soft nudge. "Call me when the tub is full." Leo hesitated, glanced back at Lucas, and then scurried up the stairs. Lucas stayed rooted where he was, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched tight. He looked as furious as if I had just slapped him across the face in public. The woman on the couch finally stood up. She walked over barefoot across the rug, her ankles delicate and her toenails painted a soft pastel pink. She pulled Lucas's shirt a little tighter around herself. The hem barely covered the tops of her thighs. She gave me an innocent, gentle smile. "Luke, don't be too hard on Savannah. It was pouring out there. She was just worried about her kid." She stepped right beside Lucas, casually reaching out to pat his forearm. The gesture was so natural, so practiced, it looked like second nature. Under her touch, the tension in Lucas's arm visibly eased, his hostility deflating in an instant. "Have you guys eaten yet? I brewed some hot ginger tea. You should have a mug to warm up." She turned toward the kitchen, took two steps, and looked back over her shoulder, tilting her chin up with a sweet smile. "Savannah, your shoes are completely soaked. Want me to grab you a dry pair of slippers?" The way she said my name carried an airy lilt—dripping with a sickening mix of fake intimacy and condescension. Lucas reached out, caught her wrist, and gently tugged her back. "Why are you bothering with her? If she wants to run around in the rain, let her. Valerie, sit down. Don't lift a finger." Valerie. I rolled the name over in my mind, over and over. Six months ago, she returned from abroad and was parachuted straight into Lucas's company as the new Marketing Director. Within three months, her name became the one he mentioned most. Whenever I brought her up, Lucas had the exact same excuse ready: "She was my college junior. It's tough relocating here. What's wrong with helping her out a bit?" And now, here she was, helped right into my living room, wearing my husband's clothes, while the dampness in her hair carried a sweet, cloying perfume that choked the air. "Lucas." I called his name. "Come here."Lucas's brow twitched. He let go of Valerie's wrist and reluctantly took two steps toward me. Every inch of his body radiated pure annoyance, as if screaming, "What kind of drama are you trying to stir up now?" "Why is she wearing your shirt?" "It was pouring! She was drenched when she got here, so I gave her something dry to change into. What's the big deal?" Lucas raised his voice, his eyes darting toward Valerie as if worried she might hear, before quickly lowering his volume again. "Can you not embarrass me in front of a guest?" "Why is she at our house in the first place?" "It was on the way! She didn't have an umbrella, so I picked her up. The storm got worse, so I told her to wait it out here. What kind of sick garbage is running through your head every single day?" Lucas backed away half a step. His shoulder bumped into the entryway console table. With a sharp crash, the glass vase on top wobbled and toppled over. The bouquet of white lilies, along with murky water, smashed onto the floor, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. Valerie leaned out from the kitchen doorway, holding a mug of tea. Seeing the mess, her eyes went wide. "Oh no—" She hurried over, crouching down to pick up the broken glass with her bare hands. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't come over, Savannah wouldn't—" "Don't touch it." My voice cut through the room like a blade. Valerie's hand froze in midair. A tiny cut had already opened on her index finger, a bead of bright red blood welling up. She let out a soft, sharp gasp. Lucas's expression darkened instantly. He grabbed her arm, pulled her up from the floor, and inspected her finger with frantic concern before glaring at me, his voice trembling with rage. "Savannah, are you serious right now? It's just a damn vase! Can't you see she cut her hand?!" "When she lunged forward, she kicked a piece of glass right into Leo's foot." I remained standing where I was, bent down, and picked up a shard of bloody glass from the floor. Valerie looked down at the tiny scratch on her finger. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her lips parted slightly. Only then did Lucas look toward the staircase. Leo had crept back down at some point and was curled up on the bottom step. He was barefoot. Across the top of his left foot ran a thin, bleeding gash. The cut wasn't deep, but blood was trickling down his pale skin. He hadn't made a sound. He just sat there, watching the three adults in the living room with quiet, dark eyes. "Leo!" Lucas crossed the floor in two strides and bent down to pick him up. "Why are you running around without shoes? Your foot—" Leo shrank back, flinching away from his touch, and looked straight at me. "Mommy, I filled the tub." I walked over, knelt in front of Leo, pulled a tissue from my pocket, and pressed it against the cut on his foot. His toes curled in pain, but he didn't cry. Instead, he used his clean hand to tug softly at my drenched sleeve. "She's a bad person," Leo whispered under his breath, so low only I could hear. I didn't answer. I scooped him into my arms, stepped around the puddle of dirty water, broken glass, and crushed petals, and headed upstairs. As I passed Lucas, he reached out to grab my arm. His grip was tight, his voice edged with panic. "Savannah, listen to me—" "Clean up the living room first," I said without stopping. "Before she steps on another shard and cries to you again." Lucas's hand froze in the air. I carried Leo up to the second floor, set him down under the warm yellow lights of the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Steam rose in thick waves, drowning out the roaring storm raging outside the window."Mommy, your clothes are still dripping." Leo sat on the edge of the tub, looking up at me. Water droplets hung from his long lashes. "You should change out of your wet clothes first." "You soak first." I adjusted the water temperature, poured in a splash of bubble bath, and worked it into a tub full of warm foam. "Mommy will be right back." I shut the bathroom door and walked into the master bedroom, stopping in front of the full-length mirror. The woman in the glass was drenched. Wet black hair clung to her face, her lips were pale blue from the cold, the collar of her shirt was soaked through to a dark gray, and there was a streak of Leo's blood smeared across her wrist. I looked utterly pathetic. Like a stray dog dragged out of a flooded ditch. Yet my eyes were bone dry. I had cried enough over the past six months. From the first time I saw the late-night selfies Valerie sent to Lucas's phone, to the moment our housekeeper mentioned he had taken Valerie to an industry gala as his plus-one. Somewhere along the way, my tear ducts had burned out. I didn't have a single tear left for him. I reached into the top shelf of the closet and pulled out the manila folder buried beneath my storage boxes. The paper was slightly yellowed at the edges. Lucas's scrawled signature was still there at the bottom of the copy he had tried to rip to shreds three years ago. The ink had faded with time. Today, it was time for a fresh one. When I changed into dry clothes and walked back downstairs, Valerie was already gone. Lucas was crouching by the entryway, cleaning up the mess. The broken glass had been swept into the trash, the bruised lilies tossed into a plastic bag, leaving behind a streak of damp, dirty water on the floor. He looked up, tossed the rag aside, and stood up, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. "Is the kid okay?" "Just a scratch. I put a band-aid on it." I walked to the middle of the dining room, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "Sit." Lucas frowned, but he walked over and slumped onto the couch across from me. "How did she get into this house?" I asked. "I told you, I picked her up on the way—" "Lucas, I'm asking how she ended up inside our home." I looked dead into his eyes. "Does she not have an apartment of her own? You had time to pick her up from work, but you couldn't spare ten minutes to pick up your own son?" Lucas's mouth twitched. His throat bobbed twice before he finally forced out an excuse: "She's been sick, and she doesn't know anyone in this city." "So your charity just spilled right over?" Lucas's brows slammed down. "Do you have to twist every single word?" "She was lounging in my living room, wearing my husband's clothes, drinking my tea, and smiling at me like she owns the place." I enunciated every syllable. "Lucas, tell me, what kind of 'mentorship' involves that?" Lucas shot up from the couch. The force shoved the sofa back several inches with a screech across the floor. "Savannah, are you out of your mind?! She's a woman stranded outside in a torrential storm! What's wrong with letting her take shelter for an hour? What kind of disgusting things are you imagining? Do you think everyone is as petty and suspicious as you are?" "She's thirty-three, Lucas, not thirteen." I stood up, the chair legs scraping sharply against the tile. "She has a driver's license, a car, and a smartphone. She's lived in this city for six months. She couldn't find a single coffee shop to wait out the rain, so she had to crawl into another woman's home?" Lucas's face darkened until he looked utterly murderous. The muscles along his jaw tightened into rigid cords. He clenched his fists behind the couch, his knuckles popping. "Savannah, are you deliberately trying to start a war tonight?" Looking at him, an overwhelming exhaustion crushed down on my chest, leaving me breathless. "Let's get a divorce."