My Husband Gave Our Bedroom to His Mistress — So I Walked Into the Freezing Woods

Part 1

The scent of crushed lavender and damp wool filled the hallway as I watched my trunk hit the floorboards.

Greg stood by the hearth of our bedroom, meticulously adjusting the gold cufflink on his left wrist.

The firelight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the same jaw that had pressed against my collarbone the night before.

Now, he looked like a stranger made of wax and expensive wool.

“Brenda requires the southern light,” Greg said, his voice entirely conversational.

He could have been discussing the crop yield or the purchase of a new hunting hound.

“Her constitution is delicate, and the physician recommends morning sun.”

The words dropped between us like cheap loose coins clattering on the stone floor.

I looked past him, my hands folded tightly over the heavy brocade of my skirt.

Brenda sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, running a slow, manicured finger over my mahogany vanity.

She was wearing a shawl of pale blue cashmere, the exact shade of my favorite riding habit.

She didn’t look delicate at all.

She looked utterly, terrifyingly comfortable.

A hard, pulsing knot of cowardice and pride locked itself in my throat.

I wanted to scream, to pick up the heavy iron poker from the fireplace and smash the imported venetian mirror into a thousand jagged splinters.

I wanted to rake my nails down Greg’s perfectly shaven cheek and watch him bleed.

I swallowed instead, the dry click sounding deafening in my own ears.

“The blue room has been prepared for you,” Greg added, finally glancing up.

His eyes held no malice, and that was the worst part of it all.

There was no cruelty in his gaze, only a mild inconvenience that I was still standing there.

“It is entirely adequate.”

The blue room was in the guest wing, overlooking the kitchens where it smelled permanently of boiled cabbage.

It was the room where they put elderly aunts and minor, unimportant cousins.

“I see,” I whispered, my voice sounding thin like tearing paper.

Turning on my heel, I walked down the corridor.

The heavy thud of my sensible leather boots was muffled by the persian runners.

Marching past the blue room without stopping, my lungs burned in the thick air of the manor.

It smelled too strongly of Greg’s sandalwood cologne and Brenda’s heavy, cloying rosewater.

Bypassing the kitchens, my feet carried me out through the scullery door and directly into the freezing sleet.

The freezing wind pushed against me until the edge of the estate finally appeared, where the trees stood stripped bare and skeletal against the bruised sky.

Nestled in the encroaching woods sat the old groundskeeper’s cottage, abandoned for three years.

The roof sagged, and the windows were opaque with grime.

Pushing the heavy oak door open sent a shriek echoing from its rusted hinges.

The air inside was frigid, smelling strongly of wet ash and mouse droppings.

It was horrific and filthy, but it was mine.

Closing the door behind me, gravity pulled my body down the rough wood until it hit the dusty floorboards.

Ugly, ragged gasps tore from my throat as my hands pressed into the dirt until my fingernails cracked.

The first night was a brutal lesson in physics, the cold sinking its teeth into my ankles and settling deep inside my chest.

I lay curled on a lumpy horsehair mattress, shivering so violently my teeth clicked together.

The thought of the blue room circled my mind like a vulture, promising a warm fire and a tray of buttered toast.

I listened to the wind claw at the thatched roof and squeezed my eyes shut, fighting a wave of nauseating regret.

When dawn finally broke, I knelt in the dirt before the choked stone hearth.

I scooped out the vile, wet ash with my bare hands until the soot caked black under my nails.

I struck a damp match, pressing so hard the wooden stick snapped and drove a sharp splinter deep into my thumb.

A bead of bright red blood welled up against the black soot.

I let out a guttural scream, kicking the pile of logs until my toes throbbed.

I sat back on my heels and wept for the splinter, the cold, and the silk sheets I had left behind.

Ten minutes later, the tears stopped and the cold remained.

I pulled the splinter out with my teeth, tasting the sharp metallic tang of my own blood.

I layered dry straw under a twig and struck a fourth match.

A fragile tongue of yellow flame licked the straw, and I dropped to my stomach, coaxing it to life.

The fire roared, casting a harsh flickering light against the stone walls.

I held my trembling, bleeding hands out to the heat.

A strange, terrifying sensation bloomed in my chest, not happiness, but ownership.

Three days later, a sharp knock startled me from peeling rotten potatoes with a rusted blade.

I opened the heavy oak door to find Greg standing on the rotting porch.

His immaculate leather boots were caked in thick gray mud.

He stared at my filthy oversized sweater, my matted braid, and the black soot across my cheekbone.

“You look like a beggar,” he snapped, his voice cracking his aristocratic veneer.

“Gather your things and return to the house.”

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms over the bulky sweater.

“No.”

The refusal was so quiet it made him physically step back.

“You will not live in a hovel like a stray dog,” he raised his voice.

“Do you have any idea how this looks?”

“It looks like you gave my bedroom to your mistress,” I said evenly.

“I’m not sure how you expect me to dress it up for the neighbors.”

He stared at me, completely disoriented by the woman who no longer apologized for taking up space.

I offered him a rusty tin cup of hot water, watching his face twist in frustration.

“I don’t want your damn tea,” he growled.

“Suit yourself,” I said, stepping back into the warmth of my fire.

Before he could formulate a response, I shut the heavy oak door right in his face.

The latch clicked into place, leaving him locked out in the freezing wind.

For eighteen days, the peat I bought with a sapphire earring kept my heart beating, rationing every crumb of heat.

When the fuel finally ran out, the desperate trek to the village crossroads in biting sleet became my only hope.

Dan, the carter, pulled his horse to a stop but refused to even look at my face.

“I can’t, ma’am,” he muttered, his voice trembling with sheer terror.

Mr. Craig, the estate manager, had just threatened to terminate the farm leases of anyone caught doing business with me.

Greg hadn’t come down to drag me back; he had simply sat in his warm, dry study and methodically cut my throat.

He was sealing the tomb he built for me, ensuring the winter would finish the job without him lifting a finger.

As Dan dropped a pathetic bundle of kindling at my feet and rolled away into the sleet, the chilling truth finally snapped into focus: my husband didn’t just want me gone, he was actively waiting for me to die.