Chapter 4 - The Unwelcome Guest
Before I could demand an explanation or demand to know what kind of sick game they were playing, a venue employee hurried around the corner, breathing heavily and looking flustered.
"Excuse me! Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell?" the young man called out, stopping in front of us. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's a situation downstairs at the main entrance."
I frowned, my mind still reeling from the betrayal in front of me. "What kind of situation? We already brought the wedding cake yesterday."
"I understand, ma'am," the employee stammered, wringing his hands. "It's not about the cake. There's a woman downstairs... and she's causing quite a scene. She's demanding to speak with the family immediately."
David closed his eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath of pure defeat.
"Who is she?" I demanded, turning back to the staff member.
The employee hesitated, casting an uneasy glance at David and Emma before answering. "She says... she says her name is Laura Mitchell."
The hallway fell into a tomb-like silence. The ambient music from the ballroom downstairs felt miles away.
David's knees seemed to buckle slightly. "She's here?" he whispered to himself, the color completely drained from his face.
Then, without offering a single word of explanation, he turned and rushed blindly down the hallway toward the grand staircase.
"David! Stop!" I cried out, but it was useless.
I bolted after him, my heels clicking frantically against the hardwood floor. Emma scrambled right behind us, sobbing openly now, her carefully styled hair bouncing with every desperate step.
We burst through the double doors leading to the grand marble lobby.
Near the front entrance, surrounded by towering floral arrangements and welcoming signs, stood a woman I had never laid eyes on in my life.
She appeared to be around my age, impeccably dressed in a tailored navy blazer, with sophisticated blonde hair styled to perfection, and an expression carved from absolute, unyielding steel—the look of a woman who had spent years waiting for this exact confrontation.
David skidded to a halt several feet away from her, his chest heaving.
"You need to leave," David snapped, his voice shaking with a fury I had never heard from him before.
The woman threw her head back and let out a bitter, cutting laugh. "Still protecting her after all these years, David? Are you really that pathetic?"
My stomach twisted into a violent knot. I pushed past David, stepping directly into the woman's line of sight.
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, my voice echoing off the marble pillars.
The woman's sharp, intelligent eyes shifted from David to me. She took in my designer dress, my panicked expression, and the tear-streaked face of my daughter standing a few paces back.
For a split second, I couldn't control my rage anymore. All the paranoia, the sleepless nights, the bakery mystery—it all culminated into a volcanic eruption.
"How long?" I screamed, pointing a shaking finger at her. "How long have you been sleeping with my husband?"
The woman stared at me, blinking in utter shock. The hostile, bitter expression on her face instantly dissolved, replaced by a profound, heartbreaking wave of genuine disbelief.
"Oh, my God," she whispered.
She slowly turned her gaze toward David, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "You haven't told her anything, have you? Twenty-eight years, and you still lied to her?"
"Don't you dare," David hissed, stepping forward as if to physically block her.
The stranger ignored him entirely. She turned her eyes back to me, her expression softening into something that looked hauntingly like pity.
"Mrs. Mitchell," she said gently, her voice steady and clear. "Your husband and I are not having an affair."
I stopped dead in my tracks, my mouth parting slightly. "What? Then explain why you were with him at my daughter's bakery! Explain why you're using my name!"
For the first time, a flash of deep, sorrowful pain crossed the stranger's face. She glanced past my shoulder, looking directly at the young woman standing behind me.
May you like
Toward Emma.
"That," the stranger said softly, "is not the question you should be asking."
