The Passenger Seat He Saved for His Mistress

Four years together, and I always sat in the back seat of Victor Delgado's car.

He said the passenger seat was the most dangerous spot, that he couldn't bear to put me at risk.

It moved me so much I praised him to everyone I met for being so thoughtful.

Until today, when I borrowed his car to get to the airport and opened the glovebox looking for tissues.

It was stuffed with women's hydrating mist, period-cramp patches, even a pair of lace underwear still in its packaging.

On the dashcam, his voice went soft and doting as he spoke to his female assistant:

"Silly girl, of course the passenger seat is yours and only yours."

"Putting her in the back makes it easy for me to keep them straight, who's an outsider and who's family."

I swallowed my disgust and wrapped that underwear in the prettiest gift box I could find.

I mailed it anonymously to the company front desk. Recipient: all coworkers.

The box was opened at the front desk right at the peak of the lunch crowd.

The young admin girl chirped, "Director Delgado, there's a gift box for you! It's gorgeous!"

Thinking it was an expensive present from a client, she slit the packaging open right in front of everyone, all curiosity.

A pair of sexy black lace underwear slid off the velvet lining.

It hit the polished marble counter with a small slap.

The air froze in an instant.

On the card tucked inside, one line of printed text was both glaring and mocking:

"Lost and found. Director Delgado's thoughtful pick."

The crowd went dead silent for a few seconds, then broke into a smothered buzz of talk.

"God, isn't that the same brand of bag from Director Delgado's car?"

"Isn't his girlfriend Edith Henson from strategy? Whose underwear is this?"

"Who else? That new little assistant. She's in Director Delgado's passenger seat every single day."

I stood at the very edge of the crowd, my heart squeezed by an invisible hand, cold and aching.

In the crowd, Marion Fox, the new assistant, went white in a flash.

The coffee cup in her hand jolted.

The scalding liquid spilled across her pure white dress, blooming into an ugly yellow stain.

She didn't care about the burn, didn't care how she looked.

The first thing she did was turn to Victor Delgado, who'd come out of his office at the noise, her eyes begging him to save her.

His face was livid as he strode over fast.

He swept the underwear and the lid back into the box and slammed it shut.

There wasn't a moment's hesitation in the movement.

But his gaze cut through the crowd like a blade and fixed on me with perfect aim.

There was no guilt in that look, no explanation.

Only cold scrutiny and contempt.

As if I were the shameless one who deserved to be nailed to the pillory.

He grabbed my wrist, gripping so hard he nearly crushed the bone.

"Come with me!"

He hauled me roughly into the empty fire stairwell.

The door banged shut, cutting off every pair of eyes.

He shoved me hard against the wall, and my back slammed into it, the pain sharp.

He was holding down his fury, forcing the words out through his teeth. "Edith Henson, are you done causing a scene?"

"Over one pair of underwear, you've humiliated me completely!"

I looked up at him. This face I'd known for four years was terrifyingly unfamiliar now.

"The things in the glovebox, whose are they?" I asked, my voice gone hoarse.

He was silent for two seconds, then gave a cold laugh and threw the question back at me.

His tone carried open, undisguised irritation:

"You went through my things? Edith Henson, when did you get so badly raised?"

For the first time, I realized he couldn't even be bothered to spin a decent lie.

He just wanted to pin the blame on me fast, to end this farce that was costing him face.

Just then the stairwell door pushed open, and Marion Fox came chasing after us, her eyes rimmed red.

"Please don't misunderstand Victor," she said, her voice sweet and soft, thick with tears.

"Those things I dropped them in the car by accident. You've got it all wrong, really."

Victor turned at once, planting himself in front of Marion like a wall, frowning at me.

"You heard her. It's a misunderstanding."

"She's timid. Don't frighten her."

I stared at the way his arm went up to shield her without a thought, and my stomach turned over.

Four years. Four years of carsickness so bad I'd nearly black out, begging to sit up front.

He always said, "Don't be difficult. The back seat's safer."

When my period cramps left me sweating through my clothes, all he ever offered was, "Drink more hot water."

Not once did he keep a single heat patch on hand for me.

So it wasn't that he didn't understand. It wasn't that he was just oblivious.

He'd simply given all his tenderness, all his special treatment, to someone else.

I turned and walked away. One more look at the two of them was enough to make me sick.

Behind me, Victor's voice dropped to a low warning.

"Today ends here."

"Pull any more stunts, Edith, and you'll regret it."

Back at my desk, I didn't cry.

There was just something like broken glass packed into my chest, every breath dragging across the sharp edges.

I'd barely sat down when someone posted a photo in the company's anonymous group chat. A close-up of that black lace underwear.

The caption read: "Director Delgado's exclusive front-seat passenger got exposed today. Guess who the lucky lady is?"

The message dropped and the group went up like a bomb.

The crudest guesses and reaction stickers flew everywhere.

Victor, this time you can't control it, no matter how hard you try.

I'd thought that after work, Victor would at least give me some kind of explanation.

Even a fake one. Even a halfhearted one.

Instead, what I got was a louder slap.

I pushed open the door of the apartment Victor and I rented together.

In the entryway sat a pair of pink heels that weren't mine.

The living room lights were on.

Marion was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in my cashmere blanket, crying softly.

And Victor, the man I'd loved for four years.

He was in the open kitchen, head bent, brewing her hot ginger tea.

His movements were practiced, the ratio of brown sugar to ginger slices so precise it might have been rehearsed a hundred times.

I stood frozen in the doorway of my own home, like an unwelcome guest.

He heard the door, looked back, saw me. Not a flicker of surprise.

He only lowered his voice further, soothing Marion.

"Don't be scared. She's not a bad person."

"Edith just loves me too much. She can't handle it right now. She's a little out of control emotionally."

That sentence sickened me more than if he'd just admitted to cheating.

So lightly, he'd taken my pain, my breaking apart, and labeled it as cheap, out-of-control love.

I walked in. The click of my heels against the floor rang out sharp in the quiet living room.

"Marion, why are you in my home?"

Marion shot up from the sofa at once, clutching the blanket tighter, every inch the startled little rabbit.

"I'm sorry. Everyone at the company was talking about me today, and I I was too scared to go back to the dorm alone."

Victor came over carrying the finished ginger tea and demanded coldly,

"Edith, do you have to push someone to the edge like this?"

My eyes fell on that cashmere blanket, and my voice went cold.

"That blanket. Last year, when I had a high fever and was shaking with chills, I wanted to buy one."

"You said three thousand for a blanket was too expensive. Not worth it."

"In the end, I bought it myself, on my own credit card."

He cut me off impatiently, brows knotted tight.

"It's just a blanket. When did you turn into someone this petty, this mean?"

Can't you just be the bigger person here?

Marion bowed her head at exactly the right moment, tears falling one by one, splashing onto the floor.

Victor, maybe I really should go. I don't want your wife to hate me even more

Victor grabbed her wrist. For the first time, right in front of me, he used a tone that left no room for argument.

You're not going anywhere.

She's the one who needs to cool off.

In that moment, my heart sank all the way down.

I walked into the bedroom, ready to pack my things and leave the place that was suffocating me.

The second I opened the door, I froze.

There on my vanity sat Marion's lipstick and perfume, brazenly claiming territory that was mine.

What stung more was the nightstand drawer, left half open.

Inside lay a crumpled movie ticket stub.

The date: the twentieth of last month.

My birthday.

That night, Victor had said he had an important client to entertain.

He'd left me alone at the restaurant I'd reserved, waiting from seven until midnight.

The candles burned down, the cake went cold, and he never came.

Now I finally understood.

His important client was at the movies, spending my birthday with another woman.

I clenched that stub tight in my palm, the sharp edges of the paper biting into my skin.

From the living room came Marion's timid voice.

Victor, do you think your wife is going to break up with you?

Victor's answer carried clearly, weighed with a cruel certainty.

She can't live without me. She'll throw a fit for a couple of days, and she'll get over it soon enough.

I stood behind the door, my back against the cold wall, and suddenly I laughed.

I laughed and laughed, and then the tears came.

Victor, you're far too sure of yourself.

The next day, I forced myself up to meet an important client.

Something twisted in my stomach like a hand wringing it, the pain so bad my fingertips trembled.

The client was a thoughtful middle-aged woman.

Seeing how pale I was, she insisted the moment the meeting ended that her driver take me to the hospital.

Sitting in the car on the way there, I called Victor without quite knowing why.

Maybe a last sliver of hope still lingered in me.

He picked up fast, but his voice was cold as ice.

What now? Still making a scene?

I'm on my way to the hospital. Acute stomach cramps.

My voice came out thin.

There were a few seconds of silence on the other end before he said, grudgingly,

Send me the address. I'll come right over.

I sat in the emergency room for half an hour. He didn't come.

But Marion had posted something new.

A photo of her own hand with an IV line in it, captioned:

Some people act tough but they're soft on the inside. The second they hear you're not feeling well, they drop everything and rush over.

In the corner of the photo, half of a men's watch peeked into frame.

That watch. The one I'd saved three months of salary for, the anniversary gift I'd given him.

When the nurse came to ask me for payment, I realized in my panic I'd left my bag in the client's car.

So I had no choice but to grit my teeth and call Victor again.

This time, Marion answered.

Her voice was frail, with a deliberate edge of showing off.

Edith, Victor's out buying me some porridge right now. Did you need something?

She ground my dignity under her heel and crushed it to dust.

Tell him to come to the hospital. I don't have any money to pay the bill.

Marion drew a soft little breath, and the next second a pained moan came through the phone.

Oh, Victor, my chest hurts so muchit really hurts

Victor snatched the phone away at once, his voice tight with held-back anger.

"Edith, can you just grow up a little? Marion's heart is acting up, and you're still here bothering me!"

I doubled over from the pain, cold sweat sliding down from my temple.

But I heard it clearly.

On the other end of the line, in a gentle voice I'd never heard him use, he was soothing Marion.

"Don't be scared. I'm not leaving. I'm right here with you."

Then the call cut off.

In the end, it was Dana James, the company's legal counsel, passing through the ER.

He saw me curled up on a chair and covered my medical bills.

He saw Victor Delgado's name still lit on my phone screen, and he asked nothing. He just handed me a cup of warm water.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"Don't mention it." His tone was flat.

"That project crisis a while back. You saved me once too."

On my way to the restroom to pull myself together, I passed the ward next door and stopped short.

Through the glass, I saw Victor sitting at the edge of Marion's bed.

He scooped up a spoonful of porridge and blew on it carefully to cool it down.

Marion caught sight of me, and a flicker of smugness crossed her eyes.

She deliberately reached toward Victor and said, all coaxing sweetness,

"Victor, my hands are too weak. Feed me."

Victor looked up and saw me too.

His first reaction wasn't embarrassment. It wasn't guilt.

It was a frown, his eyes full of offended irritation, as if my showing up had interrupted something good.

"Are you following me?"

My throat went tight, and I couldn't get out a single word of explanation.

As I turned to leave, I heard Marion murmur softly behind him,

"It really looks like your wife's angry."

Victor's voice wasn't loud, but it reached my ears clearly enough.

"Her temper flares fast and dies fast. A little coaxing and she's fine."

My steps didn't slow.

Victor, this time I won't give you the chance to coax me again.

The gift-box incident kept stirring inside the company, and it was affecting Victor's promotion to deputy marketing director.

Upper management wanted him to put the whole thing to rest quickly and provide a reasonable explanation.

So he called me into the conference room.

On the table sat a printed "Statement of Clarification."

I picked it up. In black and white, it read plainly:

"I, Edith Henson, acting out of a personal romantic dispute and on impulse, carried out a malicious act of revenge."

"I deliberately purchased women's lingerie and had it sent to the company."

"This conduct has nothing whatsoever to do with Director Delgado or his assistant Marion Fox."

"I hereby offer my sincere apology."

The fingers pinching the paper tightened bit by bit, the knuckles going white.

Victor switched to a gentle tone, the way he'd soothed me countless times before.

"Edith, I know you feel wronged."

"Just sign this statement, and we'll treat it like nothing ever happened. All right?"

"That pair of panties," I said, lifting my eyes to him.

"Did I stuff that into your car myself too, and then mail it to the company?"

He rubbed the spot between his brows, and that impatience I knew so well surfaced on his face.

"Edith, don't make this scene any uglier than it has to be. It does neither of us any good."

Marion sat right beside him, eyes red, silently letting the tears fall.

Her mouth was saying, "Victor, stop pressuring your wife. It's all my fault. I'll just resign"

But her hand was gently pushing a pen across the table toward me.

The two of them playing off each other so perfectly. A match made in heaven.

Seeing that I still wouldn't move, Victor finally laid down his trump card.

He suddenly brought up the big-client project I'd been running for three months, his tone turning loaded with meaning.

"The later-stage budget for that project still needs me to go upstairs and fight for the resources."

You know how it is. The competition's fierce right now.

He was threatening me, out in the open.

If I didn't sign, he'd choke off my project budget and turn three months of my work into nothing.

And I finally understood it completely. He hadn't just betrayed what we'd had.

He was treating my career as a stepping stone for his own rise, and as leverage to bend me.

I picked up the pen.

On both Victor's face and Marion's, a faint smile surfaced, almost too small to catch.

I didn't write my name on the signature line.

In the blank space, I pressed down hard and wrote five words:

I will cooperate with the investigation.

That night, I used collecting the last of my things as an excuse to go back to the apartment.

And while I was there, I took the spare dashcam memory card from his car.

Dana helped me find a professional data recovery specialist.

A few hours later, the recordings that hadn't yet been overwritten came through, clear as anything.

The first was Victor, talking to Marion:

The passenger seat is yours, of course. Always. Putting her in the back makes it easier for me to keep it straight, who's an outsider and who's family.

The second was Marion's voice, worried:

Butwhat if something goes wrong with a client contract?

Victor gave a soft laugh, certain of himself:

Then she takes the fall.

She's the type who'll shoulder anything. And she's the easiest to smooth over.

Coax her a little, let her cry it out, and she'll own up to whatever you want.

By the time I'd heard that, everything in me had gone quiet. I couldn't even cry.

My heart felt frozen over, then smashed apart all at once.

Dana looked at me and asked, low:

Do you want to submit the evidence now, file for an internal investigation?

I looked at the screen, at the company's posting.

The internal notice for Victor's promotion review meeting the next day. I shook my head.

That would let him off too easy.

I closed the recording and slipped that small memory card into my pocket.

Then I took out my phone and sent Victor a message.

Tomorrow I'll come to your review meeting and apologize to Marion in person.

He replied fast: Good girl. Don't disappoint me.

I stared at that weightless little good girl of his, and it felt like staring at the biggest joke in the world.

Slowly, I typed out one line and hit send.

Don't worry. Tomorrow, I'll make sure you never forget it.