After My Husband Took My Skin for His Mistress

The scent of jasmine tea filled the kitchen as I carefully arranged fresh flowers in a crystal vase. My shoulder still ached from the accident, but the physical therapy was helping. Small victories, I supposed. At least I could lift my arm without wincing now.

"Hailey?" Alani's voice drifted from the hallway. "Could you help me with something?"

I set down the vase, wiping my hands on a towel. "Of course."

She stood by the stove, stirring a pot of water that had begun to boil. Steam rose in wispy tendrils around her face, making her look almost ethereal in her white sundress.

"I'm making tea for Ephraim," she explained, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "He mentioned he had a headache this morning."

I moved closer, noticing how she angled herself away from me. "Let me help you with that. You shouldn't be lifting heavy pots with your injuries."

"Oh, I'm fine," she insisted, but her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the kettle.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.

The pot slipped from her grasp. Boiling water cascaded down her leg, and her scream pierced the air—a sound so raw and agonized that I froze for a moment before lunging forward.

"Alani!" I grabbed a dish towel and tried to soak up the scalding liquid. "Let me see—"

"No!" She jerked away from me, her face contorted in pain. "Don't touch me!"

Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Ephraim appeared in the doorway, his face draining of color as he took in the scene.

"What happened?" he demanded, rushing to Alani's side.

"The pot slipped," she sobbed, clinging to him. "It's so hot, Ephraim. It hurts so much."

"Let me see," he urged, trying to examine her leg.

"No," she whimpered, pulling away. "It's too... too horrible. I can't let you see."

I stood back, watching this performance with growing unease. Something felt wrong. The way she'd positioned herself near the stove. How the pot had seemed to slip so conveniently.

---

The private clinic smelled of antiseptic and money. I sat in the waiting room, my leg throbbing beneath its bandages, while Ephraim paced outside the examination room.

"How is she?" I asked when he finally emerged.

His face was grave. "It's worse than we thought. Third-degree burns over most of her thigh."

The doctor—a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who'd arrived suspiciously quickly—nodded in agreement. "The damage is extensive. We're looking at potential necrosis if we don't intervene quickly."

"What kind of intervention?" I asked.

"Skin grafting," the doctor replied smoothly. "We need to remove the dead tissue and replace it with healthy skin."

Ephraim ran a hand through his hair. "What are the options?"

"Synthetic materials are available," the doctor said, "but for someone of Ms. Moore's age and... aesthetic considerations, a natural graft would be preferable. Particularly from a close match—family member or someone with similar tissue type."

Alani's voice called weakly from the examination room. "Ephraim? Is someone there?"

He rushed to her side without hesitation.

---

The living room felt colder than usual as Ephraim sat across from me, his expression unreadable. The medical reports lay between us on the coffee table—papers that looked official but somehow felt wrong.

"Hailey," he began, his voice carefully controlled. "I need to ask something of you."

I tensed, my fingers curling into fists. "What is it?"

"Alani needs a skin graft." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "The doctor says a close match is best."

Realization dawned slowly, like ice water trickling down my spine. "You want me to..."

"You're the same age, similar complexion." His eyes held mine, unflinching. "It would be a simple procedure. Just a small section from your thigh."

"From my thigh?" I echoed, horror rising in my chest. "Ephraim, that's—"

"That's what I'm asking of you." His voice hardened. "After everything I've done for you."

The room seemed to tilt. "This isn't... normal. People don't ask this of each other."

"Don't they?" He reached for his phone, fingers flying over the screen. "Let me remind you what normal looks like."

He turned the screen toward me. A spreadsheet filled with numbers—dollar amounts, dates, descriptions.

"Ten years," he said quietly. "Every dress, every meal, every surgery to fix what the foster system broke in you. Every dollar I've spent giving you a life worth living."

My stomach churned as I scrolled through the entries. Each one a reminder of my place in his world.

"It's time to balance the ledger, Hailey." His voice was soft but unyielding. "Or did you think my generosity was never going to require anything in return?"

I stared at him, this man who'd shaped my entire adult life, and saw something I'd never noticed before—the cold calculation behind his generosity.

"You can't seriously expect me to—"

"I do expect it." He stood, towering over me. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to yourself why you're so ungrateful for the life I gave you."