[COMPLETED] My Husband’s Pregnant Mistress Asked Me to Congratulate Her—Then Her October 18 Wedding Date Made Him Panic

Savannah called me the following afternoon.

I nearly declined. Her name was still attached in my mind to the diamond, the pregnancy, and the way she had smiled when she asked me to congratulate her.

But I answered.

“I need to ask you something,” she said.

“You already asked me to congratulate you.”

“I know. I was cruel.”

There was no rehearsed apology in her voice. She sounded tired, and for once she didn't seem interested in winning.

“What do you want?”

“Did Grant tell you we were getting married?”

“No.”

“Did you file for divorce?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Several weeks ago.”

Silence followed.

“He told me your divorce was practically finished,” she said. “He said the court was waiting on one last form.”

“He knew that wasn't true.”

Savannah breathed out slowly.

She told me she had known about me. Grant had described our marriage as over long before she became involved. According to him, we remained married only because I wouldn't accept the paperwork. She admitted that she had chosen not to ask questions when his explanations became inconsistent.

I didn't comfort her. I could understand how someone might be persuaded by a man who spoke confidently. I couldn't forget that she had looked me in the face and enjoyed my humiliation.

“Why October eighteenth?” I asked.

“It was available at the lodge where we wanted the ceremony. I told him about it after we got engaged. He said he'd take care of whatever paperwork was necessary.”

“Did he tell you a divorce decree had been issued?”

“He said it would all be handled.”

“That isn't the same thing.”

“No,” she whispered. “I can see that now.”

I could hear movement at her end of the call. I wondered whether she was looking at the ring.

“Is there anything else I should know?” she asked.

The answer was yes. There was an entire file in Celia's office that Savannah knew nothing about. But I wasn't going to place my legal case in the hands of someone I had met only once.

“You need your own lawyer,” I said. “Don't take legal advice from Grant. And don't sign anything he brings you.”

Savannah went quiet.

“That's exactly what he asked me to do this morning.”

“What did he ask you to sign?”

“A document about the ceremony deposit. He said it was just confirmation that the funds were legitimate.”

I closed my eyes for a moment.

“Show it to an attorney before you touch it.”

She promised she would. I had no way to know if she meant it.

That evening, Celia called with news about the jeweler's payment.

The lender had produced account records showing that sixty-eight thousand four hundred dollars had moved from the loan proceeds into the account Grant used for his development company. From there, the money had been paid to the jeweler.

The dates and account numbers matched.

“What about the ring itself?” I asked.

“We've requested the invoice. We should have it before the hearing.”

It was enough to make me feel sick.

Grant had used money borrowed against my mother's house to pay for a diamond intended for another woman. If the loan had been authorized properly, it would still have been a betrayal. I hadn't authorized it at all.

“Could Savannah have known?”

“I don't know. The evidence doesn't tell us that. We should be careful about deciding what someone understood based on what they wore.”

I thought about Savannah's call. She was beginning to question Grant, but that didn't mean she was suddenly my friend. We were two women he had kept apart by telling each of us different stories.

I wanted the questions to stay where they belonged: with him.

The next morning, I visited the bank branch that handled my ordinary accounts. I didn't request records to which I wasn't entitled. I asked for copies of my own statements and a record of any recent address changes.

The clerk showed me that the mailing preference on one linked account had been altered months earlier. Notices that once came by post had been redirected to electronic delivery.

I had never requested that change.

I took the printed record to Celia.

She examined the dates without comment, then added the page to the file.

“Can he change that without telling me?” I asked.

“He may have been able to change communication settings on an account he shared with you. That doesn't give him permission to authorize a loan against separately owned property.”

It was a small distinction, but it mattered. Not every deceptive thing Grant had done was the same legal wrong. We needed to prove what happened instead of describing everything as a single crime.

That afternoon I stopped by the renovation office Grant used for his business. I didn't go inside. I sat in my car across the street, trying to decide whether I even wanted to see him.

A man came out carrying a box of paperwork. I recognized Ben Ortega, the office manager who had occasionally helped coordinate work on my mother's house.

Ben saw my car and hesitated.

Then he crossed the street.

“Claire. Are you all right?”

“I'm getting there.”

He glanced back toward the building.

“I heard about the loan,” he said quietly.

I kept my hands on the steering wheel.

“What have you heard?”

“Not enough to repeat without looking at the documents.”

He seemed genuinely troubled. I had never known Ben to dramatize anything.

“Then don't guess,” I said. “If you know something important, talk to my attorney.”

He nodded, but didn't leave.

“Grant asked me to put together a file on your mother's property,” he said. “Months ago. I thought it was for repair financing. Then he wanted things dated as though they'd been approved earlier.”

“What things?”

“I told him I wasn't comfortable.”

His face reddened.

“I kept the emails. I didn't delete them.”

I felt an urge to ask him every question Celia had been trying to answer. Instead, I took out her business card and handed it to him.

“Please call her. She'll tell you how to provide whatever you have.”

Ben looked at the card for a long moment.

“I should have said something sooner.”

He returned to the office without waiting for reassurance.

I stayed in the car, looking at the door through which he'd disappeared.

The loan application had looked like a document accidentally created in my name. The changed mailing settings suggested it had been hidden. Ben's remarks suggested someone had wanted the paperwork to look older than it was.

This was no longer a question of whether Grant had bought an expensive ring with money he shouldn't have used.