His Other Woman

Jeanne froze. Her pulse stuttered as her brain leapt ahead—another woman? God, was she caught? Was this Hector’s wife? His live-in girlfriend? She didn’t even ask. What the hell had she stepped into?

The woman stepped fully into the kitchen now, the long black coat swaying with purpose as she moved. Underneath, a crisp white blouse clung to her torso, tucked into a mini skirt that matched the dark sheen of her coat. The sharp clack of leather heels echoed across the marble, slicing the quiet open with every step.

Jeanne didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her hands clenched slightly around the rim of the plate, unsure if she should set it down, offer a smile, run, or apologize. Her heart thundered in a rhythm that didn’t match the calm around her.

The woman pulled off her sunglasses in one smooth motion, folding them carefully and slipping them into the breast pocket of her coat. Her eyes, now fully visible, were icy—beautiful, but cold like jewelry locked in glass. She was already smiling, the kind of smile that didn’t reach past her lips, a smirk born to dominate.

She came closer. Not fast. Not slow. Just… timed. As if she wanted Jeanne to watch her every move.

"You look pale,” the woman said, voice soft, smooth, as if they were old acquaintances. “How are you feeling?”

The words were casual, but her tone held a faint sting. Like she knew. Like she had watched Jeanne arrive and chose now to make the stage hers.

Jeanne tried to reply, but the words tangled in her throat. Her brain screamed: you’ve been caught—you’ve been caught—you’ve been caught.

The woman’s eyes dropped to the plate in Jeanne’s hand.

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head, the playful mask twitching at the edges. “Did Hector bake these?”

“Y-yeah,” Jeanne managed, throat dry.

Celine’s smile widened, her eyes scanning the muffins like they were a punchline only she understood.

“I knew.” Her tone was light, mockingly bright, as if the whole morning had been a delightful little joke crafted for her benefit.

The look in her eyes, though—it wasn’t mirth. It was something else. Displeasure, rooted in something raw and human: jealousy.

She stepped even closer, peering at the plate now in a way that almost felt clinical.

“Chocolate?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know. Her fingers didn’t reach for one. Instead, she let her gaze rise back to Jeanne’s, smile returning, softer this time but no less oppressive.

“So... where’s my man?”

The phrase hit Jeanne like a slap dipped in perfume. Her stomach dropped. The world spun, just a little. She wasn’t sure if it was from shock, or the sudden heat in her ears.

>My man<

Jeanne blinked. The room felt smaller now.

Celine’s eyes didn’t leave hers. There was no amusement anymore—just challenge. Claim. The way a lioness might stare down something smaller for stepping too close to her pride.

And Jeanne stood there, holding the muffins like they were evidence. Like they were hers to explain.

But she didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Because she didn’t know what was happening anymore—only that the soft warmth from moments ago had turned into a slow suffocation.

But then, the air sliced clean by a voice—warm, familiar, grounding.

“Celine? You’re back.”

Hector descended the stairs with both hands full—two cups of coffee carefully balanced. He didn’t seem to notice the frost thick in the kitchen air. Calm, almost oblivious, he placed the coffees on the high shelf near the stairs, the porcelain clinking lightly.

Celine didn’t waste a second. Her heels clicked fast across the floor as she rushed to Hector and pulled him into a tight embrace. It was the kind of hug meant to be seen—possessive and theatrical.

“I missed you so much, Hector,” she whispered, eyes flicking briefly to Jeanne over Hector’s shoulder.

Hector didn’t push her away. He didn’t return it with the same intensity either, but he allowed it. And that allowance was all Jeanne needed to spiral further—her breath catching low in her throat, her heart sinking with guilt she couldn’t logically place.

Her hands clenched tighter around the plate. The muffins now felt like something sinful. A symbol of her misstep. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

“So,” Hector said gently, peeling out of Celine’s arms with practiced grace, “how was your trip?”

Celine smiled, a practiced sweetness, layered with private mischief.

“It was amazing. I did exactly what you told me to do.” Her smile dropped into a performative pout. “But it would’ve been more than amazing if you could’ve gone. I’m still sad you cancelled our plans for some sudden… emergency that night.”

She didn’t need to explain. Jeanne already knew what night that was.

The night she called Hector.

The night he came.

The shame returned in waves. Jeanne’s chest tightened, her mouth dry. She couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes now. Not even her own.

But Hector just chuckled faintly, brushing it off, and turned toward the kitchen again—toward her. His tone was light, easy.

“Did you take all the muffins?” he asked, nodding to the plate in Jeanne’s trembling hands.

She couldn’t speak. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. So she just nodded.

Hector smiled. “Good. Let’s eat them outside. The view is something you have to see!”

He reached forward, casually, fingers brushing her elbow, about to lead her out. But Jeanne didn’t move.

Her feet wouldn’t. Her breath caught.

“Why don’t you ask Miss Celine to join?” she said, barely above a whisper. “I feel… uneasy.”

Hector blinked, caught off-guard. He looked at Celine, then back at Jeanne.

“If you say so…”

He turned, no longer smiling.

“Celine, can you leave us alone?”

Jeanne’s eyes widened in shock. Her mind spun.

Celine’s his woman. That’s what her instincts screamed. So why would he…?

But Celine was composed—almost.

“I want to clean my body in my room. How about that?” she said with a little smirk, voice dipped in tease and challenge.

Hector returned her smile, but his next words cut under the surface, too deliberate, too edged.

“I know you have nothing to do in your ‘room.’ Besides… you have something to do outside, right?”

There was a flicker. A crack in Celine’s composure.

Her jaw tightened. Just a little.

But she kept her grace. “Okay,” she replied smoothly. “As you wish. I’ll get back when you’re done cleaning my room for me.”

She turned on her heels, walked with purpose to her suitcase near the entryway, snatched the handle, and left with the door clicking sharply behind her.

The silence left in her wake was tense, but lighter than before—like a storm had passed, but the air still smelled like thunder.

Hector’s eyes lingered on Jeanne, his smile soft, almost childlike—an invitation to pick up where they left off. But Jeanne’s thoughts were still caught in the wake of Celine’s perfume, her words, her presence. She couldn’t shake the unease.

Hector opened the wide glass door with the kind of elegance that seemed effortless for him. Without a word, he gently guided Jeanne to the rattan chair outside, nestled under a pale morning sky. The wind greeted her first—cool and crisp, stirring her already restless thoughts.

Hector moved in and out, bringing the coffees, the plate of warm muffins, and then, lastly, a thick wool blanket draped over his arm. Without hesitation, he crouched slightly to wrap it around her legs, his hands precise, caring.

“Morning wind this hour sometimes still feels like ice thorns,” he murmured, brushing a strand of her hair away from her cheek. “I don’t want them piercing your delicate skin.”

His voice was dipped in something close to affection, and his eyes held hers longer this time. But still, Jeanne couldn’t find peace.

“Why didn’t we ask Miss Celine to join?” she asked softly. “Instead, you told her to go. Was the room I used actually… hers?”

Hector didn’t flinch. He took a sip of his coffee, composed as ever, like Celine hadn’t been a storm that passed through the house.

“She does have something to do,” he said simply. “I’m just making sure she doesn’t waste time.”

He picked up a muffin, breaking it with elegant fingers, taking a bite without leaving a single crumb on his pristine white shirt. His voice was calm—too calm.

“And your room is my room,” he added. “Don’t think about anything else.”

Jeanne looked down, lips tightening.

“Then what about the woman’s perfume on your table?”

For the first time, Hector paused mid-bite. His eyes lifted slowly to hers.

A beat.

Another.

Then came the smile—wider this time, teasing, deliberate.

“Is this an interrogation?” he asked, his voice thick with mischief. “Are you accusing me of having another woman?” His eyes gleamed. “Why does this feel like jealousy?”

Jeanne immediately turned her face away, heat rising to her cheeks. She didn’t mean to. Not like that. Not in that tone.

“I forgot that you’re such an unserious person,” she muttered, sipping her coffee too quickly.

Hector chuckled low in his throat, clearly enjoying the color rising on her face, the fluster in her fingers.

“Don’t forget,” he said with mock innocence, “I’m still your lover in an affair.”

She didn’t respond. Her hands tightened around the warm cup, gaze fixed on the distance.

Then, as if sensing the shift in her mood, Hector tilted his head.

“You know,” he said lightly, “pregnant moms aren’t recommended to drink too much coffee.”

Still, no answer.

The silence now wasn’t teasing. It was quiet. Heavy.

Hector’s smirk slowly faded.

“Are you mad?” he asked, more seriously this time. “Because of Celine?”

Jeanne’s voice came softly—quiet, like a confession she’d rehearsed too long.

“I just thought Miss Celine was your woman… and just like I made you my affair, maybe you made me your mistress.” Her smile was bitter. “What a mess.”

Hector didn’t react immediately. He took a slow sip, then leaned forward slightly, setting his cup on the table between them. His hand stayed there for a moment, then his gaze rose to meet hers.

And when he spoke again, the tease was gone.

“And what a relief,” he said slowly, "you’re my only woman.”