His Mistress Is My Biggest Fan

My name is Emma. I used to be an interior designer with my own studio. To support my husband’s startup, I shut it all down, stepping into the shadows to become a full-time housewife.

On my birthday—our third wedding anniversary—he slammed divorce papers on the table.

He told me he had fallen in love with someone else: his subordinate, the woman who had been a constant fixture in our home lately.

But there was one crucial detail he missed.

She never joined his company for him.

She was my junior in college, the most fiercely loyal admirer of my design work. She didn't take that job or frequent our house because she was enamored with him. She did it to track me down, desperate to ask if I would ever design again.

And that man? Right up until the ink dried on those divorce papers, he smugly believed he was just dumping a mediocre, chore-bound wife.

He had no idea that the moment I picked up my drawing pen again, the housewife he looked down on would become a business rival entirely out of his league.

————

Chapter 1

My name is Emma. I used to be an interior designer with my own studio. To support my husband’s startup, I shut it all down, stepping into the shadows to become a full-time housewife.

On my birthday—our third wedding anniversary—he slammed divorce papers on the table.

He told me he had fallen in love with someone else: his subordinate, the woman who had been a constant fixture in our home lately.

But there was one crucial detail he missed.

She never joined his company for him.

She was my junior in college, the most fiercely loyal admirer of my design work. She didn't take that job or frequent our house because she was enamored with him. She did it to track me down, desperate to ask if I would ever design again.

And that man? Right up until the ink dried on those divorce papers, he smugly believed he was just dumping a mediocre, chore-bound wife.

He had no idea that the moment I picked up my drawing pen again, the housewife he looked down on would become a business rival entirely out of his league.

————

I stood before the supermarket meat cooler, staring at the beef labels. Reaching in, I passed over a cut with a thick cap of fat and selected a perfectly marbled sirloin instead.

Today was my thirtieth birthday.

I glanced at my watch. 5:17 PM. The drive home would take twelve minutes. Prepping the steak and sides required at least twenty-five. Ten minutes to preheat the oven, fifteen to set the table. Factoring it all in, I’d have dinner ready by 6:45 at the latest.

Benjamin usually got home around seven. If traffic was light, he might walk through the door by 7:10.

I dropped the sirloin into the shopping cart, grabbed his favorite black pepper sauce, and added a bottle of red wine.

I always operated with a plan—a lingering habit from my old career. Back when I ran my own studio, I scheduled client meetings, construction phases, and material deliveries down to the minute. Even if something went wrong at the last second, I could always pivot to a solid backup plan.

Back then, fresh out of college, I rented a tiny office and plastered the walls with my design drafts. I spent my days sketching, meeting clients, and supervising sites, working late into the night without ever feeling the exhaustion. At first, it was just a handful of regulars. Slowly, people started driving in from neighboring cities specifically to hire me for full-home renovations.

My studio wasn't exceptionally large, but it boasted a steady stream of orders and a stellar reputation.

Three years ago, I married Benjamin Walker.

Right after the wedding, Benjamin’s company was gearing up to expand. He told me that a startup needed someone to hold down the fort at home. He said he couldn't bear to see me running back and forth between dusty construction sites and demanding clients every day. He promised that once the company stabilized, I could reopen my studio.

I believed him.

I shuttered my business, packed my sketches away into boxes one by one, moved into the house under Benjamin's name, and started learning how to orchestrate a life for two.

I learned that he didn't eat peanuts, that his dress shirts required a cold wash. I knew exactly what he craved after a long business trip, and I figured out which dry cleaner could press and return a suit on the same day.

We didn't have children.

So, my time revolved almost entirely around this house and Benjamin.

When outsiders brought me up, I was simply Benjamin Walker’s wife—a woman who kept an immaculate kitchen, managed the household, and took perfect care of her husband.

Few people remembered that I once had a studio of my own, or that I had carved out a name for myself in the design world.

And Benjamin, evidently, had grown accustomed to everyone only remembering his name.

His high-end home furnishing company had expanded rapidly over the past two years, snagging several luxury mansion contracts. He began to believe that he was the sole provider, the true hero of our household. He made the money; I managed the house. To him, it was a perfectly natural division of labor.

Pushing the cart to the register, I paid and grabbed two heavy bags of groceries.

Outside the glass doors, the sky looked grim. The clouds hung low and dense, and the wind nudged the street signs, making them sway gently.

I paused on the steps and checked the time again.

5:32 PM.

If I left right now, I could probably beat the rain.

Freeing up one hand, I pulled out my phone and texted Benjamin.

"I bought your favorite beef. Can you come home a little early tonight? I want to have my birthday dinner with you."

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and hurried toward the parking lot, grocery bags in hand. After a few steps, I stopped and glanced back over my shoulder at the screen.

No reply.

Over the past three years, Benjamin’s hours had crept later and later.

At first, he’d blame it on clients changing designs at the last minute. Then it became corporate networking dinners. Eventually, he couldn't even be bothered to invent an excuse. He would just push the front door open late at night and mutter, "You're still awake."

I had asked him about it a few times, but he always brushed it off, citing a heavy workload.

Yet, whenever I got close, he would instinctively avert his gaze. His phone was perpetually left face-down on the table, and even if he was just stepping into the kitchen for a glass of water, he'd snatch it up and take it with him.

I never found any concrete proof.

No late-night texts, no strange women calling, no blatant crossing of the line.

But all the subtle shifts told me everything I needed to know: Benjamin was slowly withdrawing from this marriage, inch by inch.

I got into the car and set the grocery bags on the passenger seat.

I could call him right now. I could demand to know exactly what he was doing, why he was constantly avoiding me, and ask flat-out if there was someone else.

But today was my birthday.

I didn't want this dinner to become physical proof of our deteriorating marriage. I didn't want my thirtieth birthday ruined by forcing myself to confront suspicions I wasn't ready to answer.

I started the engine, settling for a more practical focus: get dinner ready first, get the table set.

As long as Benjamin was willing to sit down, as long as we could easily talk like we used to, maybe things weren't damaged beyond repair.

As the car pulled out of the parking lot, the first drop of rain hit the windshield. Seconds later, a heavy downpour followed.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and accelerated into the storm.