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No, no, no.
With shaking hands, I bend over to pick my phone up again and read then reread the post at the bottom of the news alert:
‘Billionaire playboy brothers Tom and Gabriel Costas have been spotted for the first time all summer! Captured exiting their Manhattan office early this morning, the dashing tycoons were spotted escorting two exquisite ladies. That’s right! Thomas Costas’s wife, Victoria, of the Windameyer technology family, and Gabriel Costas’s wife, Sarah, of Hollywood TV fame were once again photographed with the brothers as they head to a restaurant uptown. Despite rumors of trouble in paradise, they sure look cozy to me!’
I stare at the picture, trying to grasp what I’m reading. I turn my attention from the article to stare at the picture.
The woman referred to as Victoria is svelte, brunette, and stunning. Her chic outfit screams money, and her smile makes it seem like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
My eyes drift to the woman the article identified as Sarah – Hollywood ingenue extraordinaire. Like her brunette counterpart, the blond woman is gorgeous, with a tiny frame and impeccable hair and clothing. She boasts a similar catty smile.
I feel my stomach turn sour, and vomit rises in the back of my throat. What is this? Worst of all, my eyes take in Tom and Gabriel. They’re breathtakingly handsome as always, dressed in dark suits with white shirts. They look relaxed and happy too, as they stroll with their wives.
There it is: their wives.
What the hell?
My lovers are married?
Suddenly I can no longer contain my horror. I drop my phone on the plush carpet and rush to the bathroom, completely panicking and physically sick from what I’ve just read. I retch into the toilet as tears course down my cheeks to drip off of my nose. It’s an awful feeling, and I hold my stomach in pain as the heaving continues.
Finally, the vomiting abates and I stumble back to the walk-in, unsure what I’m supposed to do now that I’ve learned that I am, in fact, a mistress.
Not just a mistress to one man. I think, the full scoop of my role dawning on me. You’re a mistress to two.
I pick my phone back up and stare at the photo while my mind races and my heart pounds.
I’ve been so stupid, I chastise myself. What did you expect, Michelle?
After all, I never even thought to ask Tom or Gabriel if they were single. In fact, it was probably the furthest thing from my mind, especially given how much they spoil me and how they’ve been with me nearly every night since I moved to the manor.
I never would have agreed to this arrangement if I’d known, I tell to myself, feeling bruised to my core. Sale or no sale, job or no job, law license or no law license. Nothing is worth this.
Finally, I close the article, unable to stand looking at the beautiful women – physical opposites of me in every way – and how happy my two lovers look next to them.
For the next several minutes, I let myself cry. Not a cute dainty cry, but the heavy kind, full of body shaking sobs.
My heart is broken, I realize, which only makes me cry harder. Sitting alone on the floor of my swanky walk-in closet, surrounded by thousands of dollars of designer clothes, I have never felt more alone or more devastated or more profoundly stupid in my life.
Because the truth that I’ve been harboring these past many months can no longer be ignored.
I’m in love with Tom and Gabriel, and now I have to leave.
I sit up a little straighter, my tears finally subsiding. I look around the absurdly fancy closet through watery eyes, wondering how in the world I’m supposed to go back to life like it was before.
But they lied to you Michelle, I say fiercely to myself, and made you look like a fool.
Suddenly, my emotions turn from sorrow to rage. Feeling a new rush of determination, I stand up and walk to the back of the closet where my humble duffel bag rests in the corner.
Quickly, I stuff my clothes into it. Not the fancy new outfits that the Costases bought me, but the items I brought with me when I first moved here. I go to the bathroom and do the same with my toiletries – toothbrush, hairbrush, and face wash. I ignore the decadent perfumes and expensive face creams.
Once my bag is packed, I strip out of my linen dress and slip on old well-worn jeans and a plain t-shirt.
I pick up my now-packed duffel and head for the bedroom door. But at the entryway, I take a moment to turn around and let my gaze sweep over the room I’ve called home for the past months.
