TO HIS NEW WIFE

  A TWISTY AND UTTERLY UNPUTDOWNABLE PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

  WILLOW ROSE

  BOOKS BY WILLOW ROSE

  Standalones

  To His New Wife

  The Woman He Married

  My Husband’s Mistress

  Detective Billie Ann Wilde series

  Don’t Let Her Go

  Then She’s Gone

  In Her Grave

  Find My Girl

  Emma Frost Mysteries

  Itsy Bitsy Spider

  Miss Polly Had a Dolly

  Run, Run, as Fast as You Can

  Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

  Peek a Boo, I See You

  Tweedledum and Tweedledee

  Easy as One, Two, Three

  There’s No Place Like Home

  Needles and Pins

  Where the Wild Roses Grow

  Waltzing Matilda

  Drip Drop Dead

  Black Frost

  Available in Audio

  Standalones

  The Woman He Married (Available in the UK and the US)

  My Husband’s Mistress (Available in the UK and the US)

  Detective Billie Ann Wilde series

  Don’t Let Her Go (Available in the UK and the US)

  Then She’s Gone (Available in the UK and the US)

  In Her Grave (Available in the UK and the US)

  Find My Girl (Available in the UK and the US)

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  BEFORE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  NOW

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  My Husband’s Mistress

  Prologue

  ONE YEAR LATER

  One

  Hear More from Willow

  Books by Willow Rose

  A Letter From Willow

  Don’t Let Her Go

  Then She's Gone

  In Her Grave

  Publishing Team

  Raising Readers

  PROLOGUE

  The pasta water boils over, hissing as if it’s trying to warn me that I’m about to be arrested. Right before they enter the house, I lunge for the pot with my left hand, burning my fingers as I grab the handle, a cutting knife still in my right.

  Heavy footsteps thud across the marble foyer. Not Benjamin’s familiar stride. These are heavier. Multiple sets. They sound purposeful. Benjamin comes up from the basement. We were having a fight. That’s why I had forgotten about the pasta.

  The kitchen doorway suddenly fills with bodies. Two uniformed officers, their badges catching the amber pendant light, faces set in stone. Behind them, more footsteps. More people.

  “Emma?” The tallest officer asks, though it’s not really a question.

  “Yes,” I say, and my hands tremble.

  Detective Lucas Ramirez steps forward, and I recognize him immediately—Benjamin’s friend, the man I’ve shared dinner with, whose salt-and-pepper hair always looks slightly disheveled by the end of the evening. His eyes won’t meet mine. Bad sign. In advertising, we call this body language “distancing from the toxic brand.” He’s separating himself from me.

  Gone is the man who laughed until he cried at our dinner table last month when Lily’s science project volcano erupted prematurely, sending red foam cascading across the table and onto Ben’s pristine white shirt.

  Gone is the man who brought a bottle of my favorite cabernet and told stories about his rookie days on the force. This is Detective Ramirez now, hand hovering near his radio, eyebrows rising as he spots what’s in my hands. “I need you to put the knife down.”

  I glance at my hand in surprise and put the knife on the counter, slowly, carefully. The pasta water is still boiling violently, overflowing again. I reach to turn it off.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” snaps one of the uniforms.

  I freeze, and my heart starts hammering against my ribs.

  Lucas takes a step forward. His muddy shoes leave light footprints on the tiles. Evidence contamination, my mind notes absurdly. “Emma Stone, you are under arrest for the murder of Alice Stone.”

  Alice? Benjamin’s ex-wife?

  “Me? No. That’s—that’s impossible.” My voice rises, thin and desperate. “You have the wrong person. It’s not me you want to arrest.”

  BEFORE

  ONE

  I stare at my reflection, barely recognizing the woman looking back at me. The makeup artist has worked miracles, transforming my usual tired eyes into something luminous and wide-awake. My hands shake as I touch my face—is this really happening? In three hours, I’ll be Mrs. Benjamin Stone. The thought sends a fresh wave of butterflies through my stomach, wings beating against my ribs like tiny prisoners desperate for escape.

  “Don’t touch,” the makeup artist scolds, gently batting my hand away. “You’ll smudge.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper, but I can’t stop staring. Can’t stop wondering if this is all a dream I’ll wake from, alone in my condo.

  The bridal suite sprawls around me, all cream and gold with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Gulf. Sunlight dances across the water, casting fractured light patterns on the ceiling. My wedding dress hangs on a padded hanger near the bathroom—an ivory silk column that cost more than my first car. Robert—my soon-to-be father-in-law—insisted on paying. “My only son’s wedding should be perfect,” he’d said, pen already moving across the check before I could object.

  Perfect. The word lodges in my throat. What if I’m not perfect enough? What if Benjamin realizes I’m still the awkward account executive who used to stammer when he visited his father’s agency?

  “You’re fidgeting again,” says the hairstylist, bobby pins clenched between her teeth. “Deep breaths.”

  I nod, inhale deeply. The air smells of hairspray and expensive perfume—Chanel N°5, my splurge for today. My “something new” alongside borrowed pearl earrings from my soon-to-be mother-in-law, Margaret, who’d presented them with a warm smile.

  Five years. That’s how long I’ve watched Benjamin Stone from across conference rooms and holiday parties at Stone Advertising, while I was working for his parents. Five years of cataloging the way his hands move when he speaks, the precise angle of his jawline, the rare laugh that transforms his serious face into something boyish and unguarded. Five years of listening to office gossip about the brilliant pediatric surgeon married to the art curator who died tragically in a car accident. They were the perfect couple according to what people said. The perfect family.

  I never spoke to him beyond polite hellos. Never imagined he would notice me. For years, the grief was too heavy for him.

  It was a Tuesday when he first really saw me. I was presenting a campaign for a children’s hospital—his hospital. He stayed after the meeting, asked questions about my research. Thanked me for understanding what parents of sick children need to hear.

  “Would you like to get coffee sometime?” he’d asked, and I’d nearly choked on my own surprise.

  After coffee came dinners. Dinner became weekend plans. His hand found mine across restaurant tables, tentative at first, then certain. When he kissed me the first time, on my doorstep after our third date, I felt dizzy with disbelief. Benjamin Stone was kissing me. Me.

  “Almost done,” the hairstylist murmurs, inserting one final pin into my updo. “You look beautiful, Ms. Caldwell.”

  The door clicks open without a knock. I turn, expecting my mother with her worried eyes and nervous hands—she’d been as surprised as I was to learn that a man like Benjamin had wanted to marry me. “He’s so established, Emma,” she’d whispered. “And you’re so… young.” But instead of her soft, apologetic face, I find Benjamin’s daughter, Lily Stone, standing in the doorway.

  She’s already dressed in her bridesmaid gown—pale blue silk that emphasizes her willowy height. At seventeen, she looks startlingly like the photos I’ve seen of Alice—same straight black hair, same penetrating eyes.

  “Lily,” I say, surprised. “I thought you were getting ready with the other bridesmaids.” The four girls I’d chosen—my best friend from work, Jen; my college roommate, Jessica; my two cousins—they were supposed to be keeping her occupied.

  “I finished early.” Her voice is neutral, polite. Her eyes scan the room, taking in the scattered makeup, my dress, the champagne cooling in an ice bucket. “They’re all talking about boring stuff. Jess
ica keeps showing everyone pictures of her new hunk of a boyfriend, and Megan won’t shut up about the new house she bought at a low interest rate. Boring.”

  The makeup artist and hairstylist exchange glances, pack up their things with practiced efficiency. “We’ll check on you before the ceremony,” the makeup artist says, squeezing my shoulder before they slip out, leaving us alone.

  Lily glides across the room. She’s nothing like a typical teenager; not awkward in her body. “Your veil’s crooked,” she says, reaching for the delicate lace confection pinned atop my head.

  “Oh—thank you.” I sit perfectly still as her cool fingers adjust the pins, hyperaware of how close she stands. And I feel… uncomfortable. Something about Lily has always unnerved me. Perhaps it’s just how much she looks like her mother.

  “Mom wore a cathedral-length veil,” Lily says conversationally, fingers still working. “Twenty feet long. Dad said it was like watching an angel float down the aisle.”

  My stomach clenches. Of course, Lily would think of her mother today. Of course, this is hard for her. “That sounds beautiful,” I say carefully. I’ve seen the photos myself.

  “It was perfect. Their whole wedding was perfect.” She steps back, surveying her work. “There. Now you don’t look lopsided.”

  “Thank you.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “Lily, I know today might be difficult⁠—”

  “Why would it be difficult?” She moves away, picking up a crystal flute and pouring herself champagne with the confidence of someone who’s done it many times before. I guess I should stop her, tell her she’s too young to drink. But I don’t. I want her to have a good day today. I want her to feel like a part of it all, of us. “I’m happy for Dad. He deserves to move on.”

  The words are right, but something in her tone worries me. She sips the champagne, watching me over the rim of the glass.

  “Mom always said Dad was intense when he wanted something.” She traces the rim of the glass with one manicured finger. “Like a hunter. Single-minded. She thought it was romantic, how he pursued her after they met at that gallery opening.”

  I force a smile. I can’t say he actually pursued me. He didn’t have to. “He is passionate about the things he cares about.”

  “Things. People.” Lily shrugs, setting down the glass. “He fixates. Mom said sometimes it was exhausting, being the center of someone’s entire world.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Do you feel that way yet? Like you can’t breathe sometimes because he’s just so… present?”

  My mouth goes dry. I know I’m not Benjamin’s entire world. Lily is. But he treats me well. “I love how attentive Benjamin is.”

  “Of course.” Lily smiles, a perfect replica of polite interest. “I’m sure it’s different with you. Mom was probably just being dramatic. She had episodes like that, especially toward the end.”

  Episodes? The word hangs between us, pregnant with implications I’m afraid to explore. Is she trying to put me off her father? She’s never said anything so pointed to me before. Barely ever mentioned her mother.

  “Your veil looks perfect now,” Lily says, changing subjects with whiplash speed. “You’re going to be a beautiful bride.” She moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Oh, and Emma? Dad hates when women wear red lipstick. Says it looks cheap. Just FYI.”

  The door closes behind her before I can respond. I turn back to the mirror, studying the rich crimson on my lips that the makeup artist spent twenty minutes perfecting. Benjamin has never said anything about disliking red lipstick. He complimented this exact shade last month.

  Just pre-wedding jitters, I tell myself, reaching for a tissue to blot my lips slightly. Just a teenage girl processing complex grief. Nothing more.

  But as I stare at my reflection, at the slightly paler lips and the perfect veil Lily adjusted, an uneasy feeling settles in my stomach alongside the butterflies. For a moment, I see myself through Lily’s eyes—an intruder in a story that was supposed to end differently.

  I push the thought away. Today is my fairy-tale ending. I’ve waited five years to be noticed by Benjamin Stone. Nothing—not nerves, not the ghost of his first marriage, not even the daughter I still need to win over—will take this day from me.

  The white runner stretches before me on the sand. The ocean crashes rhythmically to my right, providing percussion for the string quartet’s rendition of Pachelbel. I clutch my father’s arm, grateful for the support as my heels sink slightly with each step. All those faces turned toward me—the curious, the judgmental, the celebratory—blur into a haze of expectation. I focus instead on Benjamin, waiting at the end of this tenuous white path, his smile steady and sure.

  “You good?” Dad whispers, patting my hand. His rough touch—that of a builder—anchors me to reality. It always has.

  I nod, unable to speak past the knot in my throat. My bouquet—white roses and blue hydrangeas—trembles in my grip. The Florida sun beats down, surprisingly intense for October. Sweat prickles beneath my veil.

  The white chairs arranged in neat rows on either side of the aisle hold Harbor Heights elite—Robert’s business associates, Margaret’s charity board friends, Benjamin’s colleagues from the hospital. I recognize the managing partners from Stone Advertising in the third row, their curious eyes tracking my progress. They’ve watched me climb from junior copywriter to account executive over five years. Now they’re watching me become a Stone.

  I lift my chin, focus on Benjamin’s face. His eyes never leave mine, steady and certain. Whatever people think doesn’t matter. Benjamin chose me.

  Me.

  We reach the altar—a simple driftwood arch draped with white fabric and blue flowers. Dad kisses my cheek, places my hand in Benjamin’s, and steps back. I watch him stand awkwardly in front of my mother, not knowing whether to sit down on the empty chair beside her. Divorced for years, they’ve barely seen one another. I smile and gesture for him to sit. Benjamin’s fingers close around mine, warm and delicate, trained from years of surgical work. Hands that save children. Hands that now hold my future. And I turn back toward him.

  “You’re breathtaking,” he whispers.

  The minister begins the ceremony. Words about love and commitment wash over me, familiar and strange all at once. I’m getting married. To Benjamin Stone. The man I watched from afar for years, inventing reasons to be in meetings where he might appear, volunteering for projects at his father’s agency that might put me in his path.

  I never planned for Alice to die. Never wished for it. But when tragedy cleared a path to Benjamin, I didn’t hesitate to take it. Does that make me terrible? The thought flashes through my mind, unwelcome and disquieting. This isn’t opportunism. This is love. This is destiny.

  “The rings, please,” the minister says.

  Lily steps forward, her bridesmaid’s dress rippling in the sea breeze. The blue fabric matches her eyes, which remain cool and assessing as she holds out the satin pillow. Benjamin reaches for my ring, and I notice a slight tremor in his hand. Stress? Emotion? His jaw tightens—the same tension I noticed earlier on Lily’s face when she entered my dressing room.

  Something passes between father and daughter as their eyes meet—a silent communication I can’t decipher. Benjamin’s fingers brush Lily’s as he takes the ring, and she flinches almost imperceptibly. So slight I might have imagined it, except for the flush that rises on Benjamin’s neck. Embarrassment? Nerves? I can’t tell.

  The moment stretches, elastic and uncertain, before Lily steps back into line with the other bridesmaids. Her face settles into polite blankness.

  Benjamin takes my left hand. The platinum band slides cool and heavy onto my finger, his voice steady as he recites his vows. I respond with mine, surprised at the clarity of my own voice despite the confusion swirling inside me. The ring I place on his finger is new—he removed his previous wedding band when he proposed, and the tan line has long since faded.

  “If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

  My heart stutters. My eyes flick involuntarily to Lily, half expecting her to step forward with some revelation, some reason why I don’t deserve her father. She remains still, but her gaze intensifies, pinning me like an insect to a board.