My Love Died after he Brought Another Woman Home

The day Adriana Cotton's five-year marriage ended, it began with the scent of lilies.

They were her favorite. A large bouquet sat on the grand mahogany table in the foyer, a birthday gift from her husband, Gifford.

He always remembered.

For five years, Gifford Stanton had been the architect of his perfect wife. He'd sculpted her from the raw material of Adriana Cotton, sanding down her sharp edges, muting her vibrant colors, until she became the poised, quiet, elegant Mrs. Stanton. A woman who hosted flawless dinner parties and whose placid existence was a testament to the Stanton family's legendary discipline.

She had become a stranger to herself to be the woman he required.

A car door slammed outside.

Gifford was home, earlier than expected.

Adriana smoothed the front of her silk dress. She walked to the foyer, the gentle, practiced smile she wore like a uniform already in place. Ready to be the perfect wife on her birthday.

The front door opened.

Gifford stood there, tall and impeccable in his tailored suit. But he was not alone.

A young woman lingered just behind him, looking pale and out of place in a simple cotton dress that seemed to shrink in the opulent entryway. She clutched the strap of a worn canvas bag, her eyes wide and nervous.

"Adriana," Gifford said. His tone was not celebratory. It was flat. An announcement. "This is Jovita Griffith."

Adriana's smile felt stiff on her lips. She did not know the name.

"Jovita's mother was the woman who saved my grandmother's life years ago," Gifford continued, his gaze fixed on Adriana, a silent command in his eyes. "Jovita has just returned from her studies abroad and has nowhere to go. She'll be staying with us."

He did not ask. He informed.

The air in the foyer grew thick. The sweet scent of the lilies suddenly felt suffocating.

Adriana looked at the girl, Jovita. She saw the flicker of something in the girl's eyes. It was not nervousness. It was calculation.

"Welcome to our home," Adriana said. Her voice was steady, exactly as Gifford would expect.

Later that night, there was no birthday dinner. No celebration.

Gifford was cloistered in his study with Jovita, the low murmur of their voices drifting into the hall. He was discussing the trust fund he'd set up for her education, his tone patient and kind. Hers was soft and grateful.

Adriana sat alone in the cavernous living room, the space feeling colder and more empty than ever before.

She remembered Gifford's proposal. He hadn't spoken of love. He had spoken of legacy, of partnership, of the standards the Stanton name required. He had told her she was the only woman he'd met who had the grace to be his wife. A promise of a shared, orderly world.

That promise now felt like a cage.

She went upstairs, her steps silent on the plush runner. She had to say something. This wasn't right. Not on her birthday. Not in their home.

She stopped at his study door. It was slightly ajar.

"You've been so kind to me, Gifford," Jovita was saying. "I don't know how I can ever repay you. My mother always said your family were saints."

"It's our duty," Gifford replied. "We don't forget our debts."

Adriana felt a chill. She pushed the door open.

They both looked up. Gifford's expression hardened.

"Adriana. We're busy."