My husband smirked and said, «My ex will be at Christmas dinner. Try not to make it awkward. Behave yourself for once.» I nodded, of course, pretending his words didn’t sting. What he didn’t know was that I had sent out an invitation of my own. When the doorbell rang, his face drained of color, and the room fell dead silent. «Try not to make it awkward. Behave yourself for once.» Hudson doesn’t even look up from his phone when he says it.

He just takes another sip of his scotch, completely casual, like he’s reminding me to pick up his dry cleaning instead of demanding I host his ex-girlfriend at our Christmas dinner. I’m standing in our Lincoln Park apartment holding a dish towel, my hands still wet from washing the dinner plates he barely touched. For a moment I can’t move.

Can’t breathe. The words hang in the air between us like poison. «Behave yourself.

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Now let’s see what happens next. As if I’m the problem. As if I’m some unruly child who needs constant correction instead of his wife of four years who’s done nothing but shrink herself to fit his expectations.

«Of course, honey,» I hear myself say, voice perfectly pleasant. «Whatever you want.» He finally glances up, gives me that satisfied little smirk that used to make my heart flutter.

Now it makes my stomach turn. Because what Hudson doesn’t know, what he can’t possibly know, is that I’ve already seen his phone. I know exactly why Willow is really coming to Christmas dinner.

And I’ve invited someone too. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up to show you exactly how I became this woman.

The one standing in a designer kitchen swallowing humiliation with a smile, planning revenge behind perfect manners. Four years ago, I thought I’d won the lottery when Hudson Whitmore proposed. We met at a corporate fundraiser where I was coordinating the event.

Making sure the ice sculptures didn’t melt, the champagne kept flowing, the silent auction ran smoothly. He was there representing Morrison & Blake, the investment firm where he worked as an analyst. Handsome in his tailored suit, confident in that way that comes from old money and Ivy League degrees.

Charming when he wanted to be. He pursued me with the same focused intensity he applied to his stock portfolios. Flowers delivered to my office.

Reservations at restaurants I couldn’t afford. Weekend trips to his family’s lake house in Wisconsin. He made me feel special, chosen like I was the only woman in Chicago who mattered.

Six months later he proposed. A year after that, we were married in a ceremony his mother planned down to the last detail. In a venue his parents paid for, with a guest list that included more of his colleagues than my friends.

I should have noticed the pattern then, but I was young, 26 to his 31, and I mistook his control for care, his possessiveness for devotion. The changes started small. Subtle suggestions that became firm opinions that became unspoken rules.

«That dress is a bit much for a work dinner, don’t you think? Maybe something more conservative. Your friends are nice, but they’re not really our crowd.»

«Why don’t we focus on building relationships that benefit both our careers? Event planning is fine for single women, but now that you’re my wife you don’t need to work. We don’t need the money and honestly, Bella, planning birthday parties isn’t exactly a real career.»

That last one came 8 months into our marriage. I’d been promoted to Senior Coordinator at the boutique firm where I’d worked for 3 years. I loved my job.

The creativity, the problem solving, the satisfaction of pulling off a perfect event. But Hudson framed quitting as an upgrade, a privilege. «Stay home,» he said.

«Take care of the apartment. Be my wife. Isn’t that what you want?»

I wanted to be a good wife. I wanted him to be proud of me. So I quit.

Now 3 years later I spend my days in this beautiful apartment that feels more like a showroom than a home. Everything is in shades of grey and cream. Sophisticated, mature, expensive.

Hudson’s taste, not mine. I would have chosen color. Warm terracottas, deep blues, anything with life in it.

But Hudson said jewel tones were dated and suburban. So we went with his aesthetic. I fill my time decorating, reorganizing, hosting dinners for Hudson’s colleagues and their wives.

The wives are always polite, always friendly, but there’s a distance there. They talk about their careers. Law, medicine, finance.

And then they turn to me and ask what I do and I have to say, «I’m a homemaker,» while watching something shift in their expressions. Pity maybe. Or judgment.

I can never quite tell. Hudson comes home late most nights now. Working late, he says, though he never explains what deals require his attention until 9 or 10 p.m.

I’ve learned not to ask. The one time I questioned whether he really needed to be at the office so much he got that edge in his voice. The one that isn’t quite anger but feels like a warning.

«Bella I’m building our future. Do you think this lifestyle pays for itself? The apartment, the car, your credit card?»

«Someone has to do the actual work.» So I stopped asking. Instead I became the perfect wife.

I learned to have dinner ready whenever he walked through the door. Learned to keep the apartment magazine perfect. Learned to dress the way he preferred.

Learned to smile and nod during his work dinners while his colleagues’ wives discussed cases and surgeries and market trends. I learned to make myself smaller. Tonight was supposed to be different.

It’s October 20th. Not an anniversary or birthday but I’d wanted to do something nice. I spent all afternoon preparing Hudson’s favorite meal.

Pan-seared salmon with a lemon butter sauce. Roasted asparagus with parmesan. Wild rice pilaf made from scratch.

I set the table with our wedding china. The set his parents gave us, white with gold trim. I lit candles.

Opened a bottle of wine. Wore the navy dress. Hudson walked through the door at 9.14, barely glanced at the table and headed straight for the bar cart.

And then he told me about Willow. Willow Brennan. The ex-girlfriend from college.

The one he dated for two years before we met. I knew about her. Hudson mentioned her occasionally, always in this nostalgic tone that made it clear she occupied a different tier in his mind than I did.

«Willow thinks the tech sector is overvalued. Willow recommended this restaurant. Willow always understood complex financial instruments in a way most people don’t.»

I’d felt twinges of jealousy over the years, but I’d pushed them down. She was in Boston working at some high-powered law firm making partner living a life completely separate from ours. She was the past.

I was the present. Except now she’s moving back to Chicago. And Hudson wants her at our Christmas dinner.

«She’s important to me, Bella.» He’d said like that explained everything. «We’re still close friends.

She’ll be alone for the holidays and I think it would be nice to include her.» I’d suggested inviting my sister Claire instead. She’d been asking to visit and her kids would love the city at Christmas.

But Hudson dismissed that immediately. «Your sister talks too much. Besides, this isn’t about her.»

«Willow is moving back to town. She’s going to be part of our social circle and I need you to be mature about this.» Then came the line that’s still echoing in my head.

«Try not to make it awkward. Behave yourself for once.» For once.

As if I’m constantly misbehaving. As if I’m always embarrassing him. Always failing to meet some standard he hasn’t bothered to explain.

I’d smiled and agreed because that’s what I do now. That’s who I’ve become. Except two nights ago I stopped being that woman.

Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep. Hudson was snoring beside me. One arm flung across my side of the bed and his phone kept lighting up on the nightstand with notifications.

Usually I ignore it. Work emails, market alerts, nothing that concerns me. But that night something made me look.

The screen was unlocked. An incoming text from W was visible in the preview. «Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.

Miss you so much.» My heart started pounding. I picked up the phone with shaking hands and opened the message thread.

What I found destroyed me. Months of messages. Hundreds of them.

Hudson and Willow had been in constant contact the entire time she was in Boston. They’d been meeting up during his business trips. Trips I’d helped him pack for, kissed him goodbye for, welcomed him home from without a shred of suspicion.

The messages weren’t just friendly catch-ups between exes. They were intimate, explicit, full of longing and inside jokes and references to a shared future. «Willow, I miss you.

Can’t wait to be in the same city again.» «Hudson, me too. It’s been torture being apart.

Just a few more weeks.» «Willow, does she suspect anything?» «Hudson, god no. Belle is too focused on throw pillows and dinner parties to notice anything.

She’s harmless.» Harmless. That word kept appearing.

Over and over Hudson described me as harmless. Simple. Easy to manage.

Easy to control. «Willow, you always said she was… Simple.» «Hudson she is.

That’s why I married her. Easy to manage. Easy to control.

Not like you, you’ve always been on my level.» I’d sat there in the dark, reading message after message, watching my marriage dissolve into something ugly and calculated. Hudson hadn’t married me because he loved me.