I’m the mistress of a married man — not proud of it, but it’s the truth. It took me months to get his attention. I noticed the way he ordered his coffee, the type of tie he wore, even the exact shade his wife’s hair was.
I grew mine out, dyed it the same warm brown, even styled it like hers. Eventually, he noticed me. One lunch “by coincidence” led to secret dinners, then hotel rooms.
Two years later, he walked away from his wife and kids, telling me I was “worth the risk.” He treated me like I was the center of his world — expensive trips, surprise gifts, late-night drives just to bring me dessert. Then, out of nowhere, I got an anonymous package in the mail. Inside was a single photograph: him and his wife, smiling in front of their old house.
On the back, in her handwriting, it read: “You can have him — just know he’s been here before.”In that moment, I realized I wasn’t special. I was just next.And the truth hit me hard — men like him never change. I’d given years of my life chasing something built on lies.
The thrill was gone, replaced by the weight of knowing I was living her story, only with my name swapped in. I wasn’t the winner in this game; I was just the latest fool.The next morning, I packed every trace of him into a box — the gifts, the notes, the photos — and left it on his doorstep without a word. I blocked his number, deleted our pictures, and booked a solo trip out of town.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t chasing him… I was finally walking away for good.