Mistress No More Read Free

beside her. “I am sick of this—”
    “Let her finish, Kingston.”
    Blinking away tears, Aria wrung her hands. “I always feel like I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. I feel like this marriage is what everyone dreams of but no one has—no one I know anyway. And so I was waiting for something to pop off, something to prove that . . . that . . . that . . .”
    “That what, Aria?” Dr. Matheson nudged.
    “I don’t know. I . . . I . . . don’t . . . I don’t know.” Aria shrugged.
    “You’re right, you don’t know,” Kingston muttered under his breath.
    Aria side-eyed him. “No, what I don’t know is if my husband fucked my friend. I don’t know if my husband was planning on leaving me to be with my friend. That’s what the hell I don’t know.”
    “Because I’m too good to be true,” he drawled.
    “Damn right,” she flung back.
    “So if I beat on you, cuss at you, cheat on you, lie to you, and disrespect you, then what?” he asked, turning in heat to face her, his expression incredulous. “Why is it so hard to believe that there are good men—good black men. That’s crazy!”
    “Because I know men can’t be trusted. As soon as you give them a foot of space they no good ass is off cheating and tricking and doing shit they got no business. I know,” she stressed with emotion. “I. Know.”
    Dr. Matheson jotted something on his notepad. “And how do you know that, Aria?”
    She froze, hating that her eyes shifted. She hated that the fear she carried with her was just as strong as ever. Secrets had a way of revealing themselves. Secrets that filled her with guilt every day. Secrets that could—would—ruin her marriage.
    Wild teen years filled with lots of partying, weed, and even more men—most married. Trying to be grown way too soon. Abortions. Liquors. Scheming. Lying.
    And now she couldn’t have children.
    That was the secret she’d confided to a friend and she’d been afraid Jessa would tell Kingston about it. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t have because he would have confronted her about it. Having children was the next step in his plan for their happily ever after.
    Kingston didn’t know.
    “I just know,” was all that she finally answered.
    “This myth that there are no good black men is just that: a myth,” Kingston said. “I’ve done nothing to make my wife suspect me. Nothing but do what I’m supposed to do as man—as a husband: love my wife. That’s it. I love my wife. I’m good to my wife. And I’m being punished for that. A brotha can’t win for losing.”
    Aria’s eyes were troubled as she shifted them out the window to the late summer scene. All of her doubts plagued her. Was it possible that Kingston was not the guilty husband? Was she punishing her husband for nothing and ruining her marriage?
    Was the fact that a little ghetto girl from Newark with brains enough for a full scholarship to Columbia had actually snagged an upper-middle-class man who seemed to step right out of a romance book so hard to believe?
    “And do you love Kingston, Aria?”
    “With all my heart, Dr. Matheson,” she stated, without hesitation, question, or second thought.
    “And Kingston, do you love Aria?”
    “I love her. I love the hell out of her. . . .”
    Aria felt waves of relief flood over her.
    “But if she doesn’t appreciate me and trust me . . . then I don’t know if we’ll make it.”
    Aria turned to face him. She knew her husband very well. There was no doubt that the words he spoke were not an idle threat.

    Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child. Another woman is pregnant with my husband’s child.
    Anotherwomanispregnantwithmyhusbandschild.
    Renee Clinton dropped her head into her hands and fought the urge to scream at the top of her lungs. To release all the pain, the frustration, and the disappointment. “Maybe if I get it out it’ll stop eating me up inside,” she muttered, her eyes