After My Husband Saved His Mistress, I Faked My Death

The summons came at dawn.

My father's voice crackled through the phone, each word sharper than broken glass. "The Hamptons. Now."

I knew better than to argue. The Spencer estate waited like a mausoleum—cold, imposing, and filled with ghosts. My grandfather's death had left it emptier than before, but my father's rage made it feel smaller, suffocating.

The car ride stretched endlessly. I rehearsed explanations, excuses, anything to deflect his fury. But deep down, I knew nothing would spare me.

Douglas Spencer stood in the library when I arrived, his back to me as he gazed out at the manicured gardens. The riding crop in his hand tapped rhythmically against his leg.

"You've failed me," he said without turning. "The stock is in free fall."

"Jasper's statement—"

"Your husband." He spat the word like poison. "The man you were supposed to control."

I swallowed hard. "I didn't expect him to—"

"To what? Tell the truth?" He turned slowly, his face a mask of contempt. "To admit that our marriage was nothing but a farce?"

The first blow caught me across the shoulder blades. I gasped, stumbling forward as the leather bit through my blouse.

"You promised me you could handle him," Douglas hissed, advancing. "You promised me the Spencer name would be protected."

The riding crop whistled through the air again. This time I felt it across my back, opening skin. Blood bloomed hot and wet beneath my torn clothes.

"Daddy, please—" I begged, but the word only fueled his rage.

"Your grandfather trusted you," he snarled. "Look what you've done!"

The blows came faster now, each one precise and calculated. My legs buckled as he targeted my thighs, the welts rising like angry serpents across my skin.

"Stop," I gasped, curling into myself. "You're going to kill me."

Something in his eyes shifted—not compassion, but satisfaction. "That would solve many problems."

He locked me in the library afterward, my body a map of bruised flesh and open wounds. The antique lock clicked with finality as he left me alone with the leather-bound books and my own ragged breathing.

Blood pooled beneath me as I dragged myself toward the desk. My hidden phone—a small rebellion against his control—lay tucked inside a hollowed-out volume of Shakespeare. My fingers trembled as I retrieved it, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through my body.

Jasper's number was still at the top of my contacts list. Muscle memory from a year of dialing it in hope.

"Jasper," I whispered when he answered, my voice barely audible. "Help me."

There was a pause, then the clink of silverware. Restaurant noises in the background.

"Raven?" His voice was distant, distracted. "I'm in the middle of something."

"He's going to kill me," I choked out, tasting copper. "Please... my father... he's lost control."

I heard a woman's voice then—soft, concerned. "Who is it, Jasper?"

"Emily," I realized aloud, my heart sinking further.

"Jasper, don't hang up," I pleaded. "I need you."

There was a rustling sound, then Emily's voice came through clearly: "She just wants attention because you helped me. You can't give in to her manipulation."

"Jasper, please," I begged. "I'm bleeding. I can't—"

The line went dead.

He'd declined the call.

I stared at the phone in disbelief as it slipped from my nerveless fingers. The screen showed his name, the call duration—thirty-seven seconds of my life spent begging for help that would never come.

Tears mixed with blood on my cheeks as I fumbled to dial again. Not Jasper this time.

"Erik," I whispered when he answered. "I need help."

---

The library windows shattered inward with a crash that seemed to shake the foundations of the old house. Glass rained down as dark figures swarmed through the opening.

Erik Crawford stepped through the debris like something from a nightmare—or a dream. His usually immaculate suit was dusty from the climb, his eyes blazing with cold fury.

"Raven," he breathed, dropping to his knees beside me.

I tried to speak, but consciousness was slipping away. Blood loss, shock—I didn't know which was winning.

"Don't move," he ordered, his voice gentle despite the rage I could feel radiating from him. "We're getting you out of here."

Strong arms lifted me as if I weighed nothing. Through blurring vision, I saw Erik's security team securing the room, their movements precise and efficient.

"The library door was locked from the outside," one reported. "No one's coming to check on her."

Erik's jaw tightened. "Get the medical kit."

As they carried me through the shattered window and into the night air, Erik stayed close, his hand steady on my forehead.

"I've got you," he murmured. "You're safe now."

But as darkness claimed me, one thought echoed through my fading consciousness: Jasper had heard my voice. He'd heard me begging for my life.

And he'd chosen her.