Pancakes for a Stranger's Love

Name: Pancakes for a Stranger's Love
Rating: 5.0 (1 reviews)

Gavin

Romance | Completed

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My husband vanished on our fifth anniversary, leaving me frantic with worry. I thought something terrible had happened until a stranger named Jayda sent me a photo. He wasn't missing; he was in a penthouse, flipping pancakes for her with a smile he hadn't shown me in years. When I tracked them down, Bennett didn't apologize. He shoved me away to protect his pregnant mistress, looking at me with pure disgust. "You're a liability, Iris," he spat, cutting off my access to our bank accounts. "Stop being hysterical." He laughed when I clutched my head in agony, claiming I was faking pain just to ruin his new happiness. He didn't know my "headaches" weren't a plea for attention. They were Stage IV Glioblastoma. While he was buying her the diamond necklace I had always wanted, I was receiving a terminal diagnosis. I looked at the man I sacrificed my entire career for and felt a cold, final resolve. "Fine," I whispered, tossing the medical report in the trash where he wouldn't see it. "Send the divorce papers. I'm done."

Betrayal Pregnancy Divorce Divorce Pregnancy

Chapter 10

The day before yesterday 15:21

Chapter 1

My husband vanished on our fifth anniversary, leaving me frantic with worry.

I thought something terrible had happened until a stranger named Jayda sent me a photo.

He wasn't missing; he was in a penthouse, flipping pancakes for her with a smile he hadn't shown me in years.

When I tracked them down, Bennett didn't apologize.

He shoved me away to protect his pregnant mistress, looking at me with pure disgust.

"You're a liability, Iris," he spat, cutting off my access to our bank accounts. "Stop being hysterical."

He laughed when I clutched my head in agony, claiming I was faking pain just to ruin his new happiness.

He didn't know my "headaches" weren't a plea for attention.

They were Stage IV Glioblastoma.

While he was buying her the diamond necklace I had always wanted, I was receiving a terminal diagnosis.

I looked at the man I sacrificed my entire career for and felt a cold, final resolve.

"Fine," I whispered, tossing the medical report in the trash where he wouldn't see it.

"Send the divorce papers. I'm done."

Chapter 1

Iris Marsh POV:

My head pounded like a drum solo, each beat echoing the emptiness in the bed beside me. It was our fifth anniversary, and Bennett was gone. He' d been gone for days, actually, a silent ghost in our supposedly shared life.

I rolled over, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea through me. My vision blurred at the edges. Not just from the headache, but from the unshed tears. He hadn't just left; he'd vanished. Not a call, not an email, not even a text. Nothing.

My phone lay heavy on the pillow next to me, a constant, mocking reminder of his silence. I reached for it, my fingers trembling. The lock screen showed the same four unread messages I'd sent yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.

Where are you?

Are you okay?

Bennett, please answer me.

It' s our anniversary.

Each message was a tiny shard of my heart, scattered into the digital void. He used to answer within minutes. A simple emoji, a quick "busy," anything. Now, just silence. A heavy, suffocating silence that pressed down on my chest.

My head throbbed. It had been doing this for weeks, these blinding headaches that made it hard to focus, hard to even think straight. I' d blamed it on stress, on the pressure of supporting Bennett' s startup. But now, it felt like my brain was trying to crack open, spilling out all the fear and loneliness inside.

Just as a fresh wave of pain made me gasp, my phone buzzed. Not a call, not a message from Bennett. A friend request on a social media app I barely used. From someone named Jayda Moreno.

My thumb hovered over the screen. Who was this? The name was unfamiliar. A part of me, the part still clinging to hope, wanted to ignore it. But another part, a cold, creeping dread, knew I couldn't. I needed a distraction, anything to pull me from the dark hole of Bennett's absence.

I accepted the request. Almost immediately, another notification popped up. A direct message. Jayda had sent a photo.

My breath hitched. The image loaded slowly, pixel by agonizing pixel. It was Bennett. Laughing. His arm wrapped around a woman I didn't recognize. Her head thrown back, shining dark hair, a vibrant smile. They were in a lavish restaurant, champagne flutes glinting under soft lights.

My stomach dropped. No, this couldn't be real. It had to be an old photo, a client dinner. I zoomed in, my fingers shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone. The shirt Bennett was wearing. I' d bought it for him last month. The watch on his wrist. Our anniversary gift from two years ago.

It was him. And the woman was definitely not me.

A hot, bitter wave of betrayal washed over me, eclipsing even the headache. My vision swam. I typed, my fingers flying across the keyboard, fueled by a raw, white-hot fury.

Who are you? What is this?

The three dots indicating she was typing appeared, then disappeared. Nothing. Just an infuriating silence.

I lay there for what felt like an eternity, the phone a lead weight in my hand, the image of Bennett's laughing face burned into my retinas. Sleep was a distant, impossible dream. Every minute was a fresh sting of what I'd seen.

The first hint of dawn seeped through the blinds, painting the room in a sickly grey light. Exhaustion finally claimed me, dragging me into a fitful, shallow sleep. But even there, there was no escape.

I dreamt of Bennett. He was in our living room, but not with me. He was with her, with Jayda. Her sleek dark hair, her bright, confident smile. He was telling her jokes, the same jokes he used to tell me. She was laughing, that bright, bell-like sound. And I was standing in the corner, invisible.

"Why are you here?" Bennett asked, not even looking at me, his voice cold, distant. "You're ruining everything."

Jayda just smiled. A triumphant, knowing smile.

I woke with a choked sob, tears streaming down my face. The room was bright now, the grey replaced by the harsh reality of morning. My head was still throbbing, worse than before.

My phone buzzed again. Jayda. Another message.

Another photo. Then another. And another.

They weren't in a restaurant this time. They were in a kitchen. A modern, minimalist kitchen, not ours. Bennett, in an apron, flipping pancakes. For her. For Jayda. Her hand resting on his back, a casual, intimate gesture. Another showed him doing dishes, his sleeves rolled up, a tender smile on his face as he looked at her.

My breath caught in my throat. Pancakes. He' d never made pancakes for me. Not once in five years. "Too busy," he'd always said. "Order something." Dishes. He hated doing dishes. Said it was "below him."

A memory flashed: me, begging him to help with chores after a particularly long day working on his startup's pitch deck. He'd just waved his hand dismissively. "Honey, you know I'm not good at domestic stuff. That's your domain."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a furious, desperate bird trapped in a cage. My fingers, numb with shock, flew across the screen again. This time, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Only pure, unadulterated rage.

You think this is funny? Sending me pictures of my husband? What kind of sick game is this?

Does he know you' re doing this? Does he know you' re destroying his marriage?

He never did any of that for me! Never! You think you' ve won? You think you can just waltz in and take my life?

I hit send, the screen blurring through my tears. My chest burned. I waited, but there was no reply. Just the infuriating, mocking silence.