After My Husband Saved His Mistress Over His Dying Sister

The engine of the modified SUV roared to life, a guttural growl that usually signaled salvation. My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles bleaching white, my mind already calculating the route to the Stone estate. Ten miles. Wet roads. I shifted into drive, my foot hovering over the accelerator.

*Bang. Bang. Bang.*

The sound of a fist against the tempered glass shattered my focus. I jerked my head to the left. Richard stood in the rain, his face twisted into a mask of impatience. Beside him, Adrianna was slumped against his chest, clutching her stomach with theatrical fragility.

I didn't unlock the door. I rolled the window down two inches, letting the damp Seattle air hiss into the cabin.

"Move," Richard barked, rain dripping from his nose. "Unlock it. We need to go to the hospital. Now."

"I'm responding to a Code Blue, Richard," I said, my voice clipped and cold. "A cardiac arrest. I don't have time."

"I don't care about your work drama!" Richard shouted, grabbing the door handle and yanking it violently. "Adrianna is in pain! She has severe cramps. She can barely stand!"

I looked at Adrianna. Her posture was a perfect curve of distress, yet her breathing was even, her color high. "She's stable. Call an Uber. I have a patient who isn't breathing."

"You selfish bitch!" Richard roared. He reached through the crack in the window, his fingers scrambling until he hit the unlock button. The locks clicked open.

Before I could protest, he wrenched the rear door open. "Get in, Adrianna. Careful, baby, careful."

"Richard, get out!" I turned in my seat, panic rising in my throat like bile. "This is a specialized vehicle. I have equipment prepped in the front seat. I cannot be a taxi service right now!"

He ignored me, guiding Adrianna into the back seat as if she were made of spun glass, then sliding in beside her. He slammed the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "Drive. St. Jude's is on the way. Drop us off first."

"St. Jude's is five miles in the wrong direction!" I screamed, slamming my hand against the steering wheel. "The patient has ten minutes, Richard! Ten minutes before brain death begins!"

"Just drive!" he bellowed, kicking the back of my seat. The impact jolted my spine.

I had no choice. If I tried to force them out, I’d lose precious minutes I didn't have. I slammed on the gas, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt as we peeled out of the driveway. I flipped the toggle for the strobe lights, casting a rhythmic red-and-white glare against the passing houses.

On the passenger seat beside me, the portable external pacemaker began its startup sequence. It was a rhythmic, high-pitched *beep-beep-beep*, signaling that the capacitors were charging, ready to shock a stopped heart back into rhythm the moment I arrived.

I wove through the traffic, cutting across the double yellow line to bypass a stalled delivery truck. The beeping grew faster, louder. It was the sound of hope.

"Turn that off!" Richard’s voice came from the back, jagged with irritation.

"It's the external pacer," I said, my eyes locked on the rain-slicked road. "It needs to pre-charge. It takes time to calibrate."

"It's giving Adrianna a migraine! Can't you see she's suffering?" Richard leaned forward, his cologne washing over me—a suffocating wave of musk and entitlement.

"That machine is the only thing that will keep the patient alive," I warned, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "If I turn it off, it resets. I lose the window."

"I don't give a damn!" Richard snapped. His hand shot forward between the front seats.

"Don't touch it!" I lunged, but I had to keep one hand on the wheel to navigate a sharp turn.

His fingers found the power switch. *Click.*

The beeping died. The cabin fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the slap of windshield wipers and Adrianna’s soft, performative whimpers.

"Richard," I whispered, the horror of it settling in my chest like lead. "You have no idea what you just did."

"I made it quiet," he muttered, leaning back to coo over Adrianna. "Better? Is that better, sweetheart?"

We hit a red light at the intersection of 4th and Pike. I gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked. In the rearview mirror, the scene played out like a grotesque film. Richard was massaging Adrianna’s neck, his face close to hers, whispering promises of comfort and care. He treated me not as his wife, not as a doctor, but as the help—an inconvenience to be managed.

"Smooth out the stops, Vanessa," Richard said, not looking up. "You're jostling her."

I watched them. I watched my husband tenderly brush a stray hair from his mistress's forehead while his sister lay dying on a floor ten miles away.

Then, Adrianna’s eyes flicked up.

She caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. Her face was pressed against Richard’s shoulder, her expression one of practiced agony, but her eyes... her eyes were clear. Cold. Mocking.

Slowly, deliberately, she moved her hand. She placed it over Richard’s on her knee, interlacing their fingers. She squeezed, her gaze never leaving mine in the glass. It wasn't a seek for comfort. It was a claim.

*I have him,* the look said. *Even now. Even in your emergency. I come first.*

The light turned green. I pressed the accelerator, the silence of the dead pacemaker screaming in my ears.