“Then Who Am I?”
A man in a sharp navy suit knocked on our front door just as I was scrubbing the baseboards in yoga pants and an old college tee. I opened the door with a rag in one hand and cleaning spray in the other.
“Ah,” he said, smiling warmly, “you must be Mr. Lambert’s cleaning lady—Liliya, right? I’m his business partner.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
Before I could process, he was already nodding and stepping forward like we were old friends. “Mrs. Lambert showed me your picture!”
I froze.
Mrs. Lambert?
I stared at him, heart pounding in my chest. I’m Mrs. Lambert. Or at least I thought I was.
But if someone else was introducing me as the cleaning lady, and there’s a different woman going around calling herself Mrs. Lambert…
Okay. No panic. Not yet.
I forced a smile, wiping my hands on the towel at my hip. “Oh? You’ve known them long?”
“Oh, for years!” he beamed, oblivious.
“Wow,” I said sweetly, “Then you must have pictures with them. I’d love to see one. Just for fun.”
Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and scrolled for a second.
“Here,” he said, turning the screen toward me.
My stomach flipped. My face went cold.
It was him—my husband, Alex—grinning on a yacht next to a tall brunette in a white summer dress. His arm wrapped tightly around her waist.
They were sipping champagne. Smiling at each other like a couple on their honeymoon.
Behind them: a glittering banner that read “Happy 1st Anniversary, Alex & Chloe!”
I swallowed hard.
Chloe.
Mrs. Lambert?
He’d married someone else.
My knees nearly gave out, but I gripped the doorframe.
“Oh,” I managed. “What a…nice picture.”
The man chuckled. “They’re such a sweet couple, aren’t they? Chloe’s just radiant.”
I smiled through my teeth. “She sure is.”
He patted my shoulder. “Tell Mr. Lambert I stopped by, will you?”
“I will,” I said, and closed the door slowly.
I stood there for a full minute, shaking.
Then I walked straight to Alex’s office, opened his desk drawer, and pulled out the manila folder he thought I’d never find.
Inside were two marriage certificates.
One to me—dated five years ago.
One to Chloe—dated thirteen months ago.
I stared down at the proof, the betrayal burning a hole through my chest.
But I didn’t cry.
I planned.
That night, Alex came home whistling. I had dinner ready, candles lit, wine poured.
“Wow,” he grinned. “What’s the occasion?”
I smiled. “Oh, nothing. Just thought it was time we cleaned house.”