After My Surgeon Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me Chapter 8 – I stared at my vibrating phone on the coffee table, watching Chris’s name flash across the screen for the fifth time in an hour. Next to it, my laptop displayed the latest society column:
“Parker-Montgomery Split Rocks Boston Elite.”
The headline gave me a strange sense of satisfaction.
My mother entered the sunroom carrying two cups of tea, her face composed but eyes blazing with protective fury.
“The Winthrops just called,” she announced, setting my cup down with perfect precision.
“They’ve rescinded Christopher’s membership at the country club. Apparently they don’t appreciate members who publicly humiliate their wives.”
I sipped my tea, letting the warmth spread through me. “How many does that make now?”
“Four clubs, three charity boards, and most of your father’s business associates have made their positions clear.” A small, satisfied smile played at the corners of her mouth. “The Montgomerys’ social calendar must be looking rather empty these days.”
My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t Chris it was Marcus.
“The hospital ethics committee just concluded their meeting,” he said when I answered.
“They’ve extended Chris’s administrative leave indefinitely. Three patients have formally requested different surgeons, citing ‘ethical concerns about Dr. Montgomery’s judgment.’”
I closed my eyes, absorbing the news. “And Jamie?”
“Requested a transfer to Mass General. Denied.” The satisfaction in Marcus’s voice was unmistakable. “Her residency director suggested she might want to consider options outside Boston altogether.”
After hanging up, I scrolled through my emails. Amid the journalists seeking comments and old acquaintances suddenly eager to reconnect, one message stood out from Chris’s attorney, requesting a meeting to discuss settlement terms.
I forwarded it to Meredith with a single word:
No.
Some things couldn’t be settled with money.
Three days later, I agreed to meet Chris at Maison Laurent neutral territory, a quiet French restaurant where the staff valued discretion. I arrived fifteen minutes early, selecting a corner table with a clear view of the entrance.
When Chris walked in, I barely recognized him. The confident swagger was gone. His tailored suit hung slightly loose, and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He scanned the restaurant, his expression shifting from anxiety to relief when he spotted me.
“Evelyn,” he breathed, sliding into the seat across from me. “Thank you for coming.”
I nodded, saying nothing.
“You look…” His eyes traveled over my face, my hair, my simple but elegant dress. “You look wonderful.”
“What do you want, Chris?” I kept my voice level, my hands folded calmly on the table.
He leaned forward, his expression earnest.
“I want to fix this. We can work through this, Evie. What happened with Jamie—it was a mistake. A stupid, meaningless mistake.”
“A three-month mistake?” I raised an eyebrow. “With photographic evidence? In our home?”
His charm surfaced, that practiced smile that had once made my heart flutter.
“People recover from affairs all the time. We have history. A foundation. With counseling—”
“No.”
The smile faltered.
“Evie, please. I’m losing everything. The hospital, my reputation…”
“Those are consequences, Chris. Not my problem.”
His expression darkened.
“You orchestrated this. The blog post, the board meeting you planned it all.”
“Yes.”
The admission seemed to stun him. He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“Why?” he finally asked.
“If you were unhappy, you could have just asked for a divorce. Why destroy me?”
I studied him, this man I’d once thought I could love.
“Because you never once saw me. Not really. I was furniture to you, Chris. A convenient accessory.”
“That’s not true,” he protested, reaching for my hand.
I pulled away.
“You want to know when I decided to leave? It wasn’t when I found Jamie’s scarf. It wasn’t even when I saw the photos of you two.”
I leaned forward, my voice soft but firm.
“It was three years ago, six months into our marriage, when I realized you’d never once asked what made me happy.”
His face crumpled.
“Evie, please. I love you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I stood, gathering my purse.
“And I stopped loving you long before Jamie entered the picture.”
As I walked away, I felt his eyes on my back watching, finally, as I disappeared from his life.
What he didn’t know was that I was already planning my next move.
Because Evelyn Parker’s story was just beginning.
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