My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me in the ER - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
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The project in my hands was finally nearing completion, but the client kept changing their mind every five minutes. I'd been pulling all-nighters for nearly a week straight, and today was crunch time. Just one final push and we'd be done.
I stretched my stiff muscles, already dreaming about treating myself to a nice dinner tonight—maybe that steakhouse downtown.
Then I nearly jumped out of my skin when I bumped into someone behind me. Of course, it was Mark.
"Working late again?" he asked casually, ignoring how badly he'd startled me.
I forced my heart rate to slow down. "Mr. Mark, what can I do for you?"
A flicker of irritation crossed his face—he hated when I kept things professional between us.
"Listen," he said, "why don't you hand your clients and projects over to Olivia? She could use the experience."
My blood ran cold.
Even knowing how shameless Mark could be, this was beyond ridiculous.
When I didn't respond, he stepped closer, resting his hands on my shoulders like we were having some heartfelt moment. "There've been... rumors around the office. She's just a kid—this project would shut people up. As a senior employee, you should help mentor the juniors."
I actually laughed—that bitter, humorless laugh you save for when life kicks you in the teeth.
Mark knew damn well how many sleepless nights I'd poured into this project. How I'd worked myself into the ER with cardiac arrhythmia. And the second those hospital doors closed behind me? One call from Olivia and he was gone. My life meant less to him than her dry cleaning.
And now he wanted to just hand my work to her like it was nothing?
"Fine," I said. "Have her take over tomorrow."
Might as well submit my resignation too. I was done.
Mark looked shocked—then thrilled. He actually pulled me into a hug. "I misjudged you! I thought you'd be difficult about this. Let me make it up to you—dinner at La Rive? I know you've wanted to go."
That three-star French place by the river? The one I'd begged him to take me to for our anniversary?
Now the thought made me sick.
He kept talking, arm around me like we were some happy couple. "We've been married how many years? We'll get through this. In a few days we'll withdraw the divorce papers, visit your parents—you haven't seen them in ages, right?"
I let him ramble, scrolling through my phone in the car. Then I saw Olivia's latest post—her in an evening gown at La Rive, candlelit dinner for two.
Posted an hour ago.
Same restaurant. Same view of the river.
I almost laughed. She'd already been there, and now Mark was recycling the location for me like some cheap romantic rerun.
We never made it to dinner.
Halfway down the elevator, Olivia called. The look on Mark's face was almost comical.
"Go ahead," I said, waving him off. "I'm exhausted anyway."
He practically tripped over himself calling me a cab, playing the concerned husband—until the car pulled away and he immediately bolted for the parking garage.
Sometimes things are so absurd you have to laugh. I did—until I realized my cheeks were wet.
Whatever. Tomorrow was my last day. After that, Mark and I would be strangers.
At home, I poured myself a victory drink to celebrate my impending freedom. Tipsy, I saw a shooting star and leaned over the balcony railing, chasing that fleeting light—
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Mark yanked me back so hard I stumbled into him. His expensive cologne turned my stomach.
"Shooting star," I mumbled.
That first meteor shower we'd watched together—he'd promised we'd see every one after that, no matter what. Another broken promise.
Mark sighed like I was being childish. "It's just a damn shooting star. I'll take you to see a real meteor shower sometime. Don't scare me like that."
Just a shooting star. That's all our promises meant to him now.
"Tomorrow's our anniversary," he announced (not asked). "I'll pick you up."
I glanced at his bare ring finger—the tan line nearly faded. How long had he stopped pretending?
"Okay."
Let this be our final act.
Of course, he booked the same table where Olivia had sat in her photos. I demanded a different one.
Then I waited. And waited.
By midnight, my phone was dying and my stomach was eating itself. I finally caved and ordered a cake.
When I checked my messages, the company group chat had exploded.
Someone had sent an anonymous email to everyone—photos of Olivia draped over Mark, captioned: "Assistant sleeps her way to the top!"
The kicker? It included shots of me handing projects to Olivia, looking exhausted while she glowed.
Every word pretended to defend me.
Every word painted a target on my back.
I stretched my stiff muscles, already dreaming about treating myself to a nice dinner tonight—maybe that steakhouse downtown.
Then I nearly jumped out of my skin when I bumped into someone behind me. Of course, it was Mark.
"Working late again?" he asked casually, ignoring how badly he'd startled me.
I forced my heart rate to slow down. "Mr. Mark, what can I do for you?"
A flicker of irritation crossed his face—he hated when I kept things professional between us.
"Listen," he said, "why don't you hand your clients and projects over to Olivia? She could use the experience."
My blood ran cold.
Even knowing how shameless Mark could be, this was beyond ridiculous.
When I didn't respond, he stepped closer, resting his hands on my shoulders like we were having some heartfelt moment. "There've been... rumors around the office. She's just a kid—this project would shut people up. As a senior employee, you should help mentor the juniors."
I actually laughed—that bitter, humorless laugh you save for when life kicks you in the teeth.
Mark knew damn well how many sleepless nights I'd poured into this project. How I'd worked myself into the ER with cardiac arrhythmia. And the second those hospital doors closed behind me? One call from Olivia and he was gone. My life meant less to him than her dry cleaning.
And now he wanted to just hand my work to her like it was nothing?
"Fine," I said. "Have her take over tomorrow."
Might as well submit my resignation too. I was done.
Mark looked shocked—then thrilled. He actually pulled me into a hug. "I misjudged you! I thought you'd be difficult about this. Let me make it up to you—dinner at La Rive? I know you've wanted to go."
That three-star French place by the river? The one I'd begged him to take me to for our anniversary?
Now the thought made me sick.
He kept talking, arm around me like we were some happy couple. "We've been married how many years? We'll get through this. In a few days we'll withdraw the divorce papers, visit your parents—you haven't seen them in ages, right?"
I let him ramble, scrolling through my phone in the car. Then I saw Olivia's latest post—her in an evening gown at La Rive, candlelit dinner for two.
Posted an hour ago.
Same restaurant. Same view of the river.
I almost laughed. She'd already been there, and now Mark was recycling the location for me like some cheap romantic rerun.
We never made it to dinner.
Halfway down the elevator, Olivia called. The look on Mark's face was almost comical.
"Go ahead," I said, waving him off. "I'm exhausted anyway."
He practically tripped over himself calling me a cab, playing the concerned husband—until the car pulled away and he immediately bolted for the parking garage.
Sometimes things are so absurd you have to laugh. I did—until I realized my cheeks were wet.
Whatever. Tomorrow was my last day. After that, Mark and I would be strangers.
At home, I poured myself a victory drink to celebrate my impending freedom. Tipsy, I saw a shooting star and leaned over the balcony railing, chasing that fleeting light—
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Mark yanked me back so hard I stumbled into him. His expensive cologne turned my stomach.
"Shooting star," I mumbled.
That first meteor shower we'd watched together—he'd promised we'd see every one after that, no matter what. Another broken promise.
Mark sighed like I was being childish. "It's just a damn shooting star. I'll take you to see a real meteor shower sometime. Don't scare me like that."
Just a shooting star. That's all our promises meant to him now.
"Tomorrow's our anniversary," he announced (not asked). "I'll pick you up."
I glanced at his bare ring finger—the tan line nearly faded. How long had he stopped pretending?
"Okay."
Let this be our final act.
Of course, he booked the same table where Olivia had sat in her photos. I demanded a different one.
Then I waited. And waited.
By midnight, my phone was dying and my stomach was eating itself. I finally caved and ordered a cake.
When I checked my messages, the company group chat had exploded.
Someone had sent an anonymous email to everyone—photos of Olivia draped over Mark, captioned: "Assistant sleeps her way to the top!"
The kicker? It included shots of me handing projects to Olivia, looking exhausted while she glowed.
Every word pretended to defend me.
Every word painted a target on my back.
End of My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me in the ER Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me in the ER book page.