The Seven Husbands of Taylor Swift

20

TAYLOR SWIFT
Harry had a habit of disappearing to a nearby hotel after one of our arguments, usually the opulent Mandarin Oriental, a five-star hotel just a stone's throw away. He always booked the presidential suite on the 53rd floor—a staggering $19,000 a night, but it was a mere drop in the ocean for us. This time, though, something felt different. The fight we'd had earlier was sharper, more cutting, and he still hadn't come home.

I decided to go after him, my heart pounding with a mix of dread and determination. As I made my way to the hotel, the city lights blurred by, mirroring the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind. When I reached the Mandarin Oriental, the opulence of the lobby felt like a cruel contrast to the turmoil I was feeling inside.

I took the elevator up to the 53rd floor, the soft hum of classical music doing nothing to calm my nerves. When I finally reached the door of the presidential suite, my hand hovered over the door for a moment before I knocked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Just a minute!" Harry's voice called out from the other side, muffled by the thick door.

And then I heard it—a voice, soft but unmistakably feminine, saying, "No, come here!"

Time seemed to freeze as the blood drained from my face. My heart plummeted, and I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering on the brink of an abyss I wasn't ready to face.

"Honey, it has to be room service," Harry replied, his tone forced, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as whoever was in the room with him.

I felt tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision as I stood there, paralyzed by the sheer weight of what I might find. When the door finally creaked open, there stood Harry, clad in a plush hotel robe, his hair slightly tousled as if he had just stepped out of a shower—or out of bed. His expression was a mixture of guilt and discomfort, the kind you wear when you know you're caught but haven't quite figured out how to talk your way out of it yet.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted me, but the warmth in his voice was gone, replaced by a hollow awkwardness that did nothing to ease my growing panic.

I swallowed hard, my voice trembling as I managed to ask, "Who's the woman?"

It was a simple question, yet it felt like the most difficult thing I'd ever had to say. The tears that had been threatening to spill over finally did, trailing down my cheeks as I waited for an answer that could either shatter or salvage what was left of us.

Harry just stood there, frozen, his silence speaking louder than any words could. The air between us felt thick, almost suffocating. I didn't need him to say anything—I already knew the answer. Pushing past him, I walked into the suite, my heart pounding in my ears.

And there she was—a beautiful blonde, half-hidden beneath the silky sheets, her bare shoulders exposed. She looked at me with wide eyes, maybe a little embarrassed, but not enough to cover herself up. The sight made my stomach churn. I wanted to scream, to cry, but the words wouldn't come. All I knew, in that split second, was that our marriage was over.

"Taylor, what did you expect to happen?" Harry's voice broke the silence, and I turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable, but his words cut deep, laced with an almost casual cruelty.

I felt my hands shake as I met his gaze, struggling to keep my voice steady. "For you to respect me enough to not cheat on me."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as if I were the one being unreasonable. "You treat me like shit, Taylor. I just got fed up with it, okay? I found someone who doesn't make me feel like an asshole."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of me. For a moment, I was too stunned to respond. I knew our marriage had its flaws, but I never imagined it would come to this. Maybe I had been too harsh, too caught up in my own world to see what was happening right in front of me.