He Saved His Mistress, Not His Wife

The storm slammed into Chicago at midnight, the wind howling against the floor-to-ceiling glass like a dying animal clawing to get in.

I was lying in the guest bed, my eyes fixed on the shadows dancing across the ceiling.

Suddenly, the door handle turned.

It was locked, but that didn't matter; Dante had the key.

When he entered, the scent of rain and expensive scotch flooded the room, choking the air.

"You are sleeping in here?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yes," I said.

He moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight.

He placed a heavy hand on my hip.

His touch used to set me on fire. Now, it felt like a brand searing into my flesh.

"You were out of line today," he murmured, his thumb tracing a possessive line along my side. "But I forgive you. I know you are grieving."

"Forgive me?" A laugh clawed its way out of my throat—a dry, rusty sound.

"Come back to our room," he said. "I don't like sleeping alone."

He leaned down, nuzzling the sensitive curve of my neck.

The rough grit of his beard scratched my skin.

I went rigid.

I felt like a corpse he was trying to resuscitate.

"Dante, stop," I said.

"You're my wife," he murmured against my skin. "It's been weeks."

He pinned my wrists to the sheets.

Not violently.

Just firmly.

Possessively.

Then, the siren wailed.

The Red Alert.

It cut through the house, shattering the tension and silencing the storm outside.

Dante froze.

He released me instantly, his demeanor shifting in a heartbeat.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. "Transport plane down," he said, scanning the screen. "North Africa. It's carrying the new shipment."

He stood up, buttoning his shirt with practiced efficiency.

The transition from husband to Don was instant.

"I have to go to the Command Center."

Sofia appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a sheer silk robe.

"Dante," she breathed, feigning breathlessness. "I heard the siren. Is it the shipment? My cousin is a pilot on that route."

"I'm going to check," Dante said.

"I'm coming with you," Sofia said, stepping forward. "I can cover the story. Exclusive access."

"It's dangerous," Dante said.

"I'm not afraid," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

"Fine," Dante said. "Get dressed. Five minutes."

He looked at me one last time.

"Secure the windows, Elena. The storm is getting worse. The shutters in the east wing are loose."

"I asked you to fix those shutters three months ago," I said, my voice hollow.

"Priorities," he said dismissively.

He left.

He took Sofia.

He left me in a house that was falling apart.

I went to the east wing, where the gale was already battering the glass.

I tried to pull the heavy steel shutter closed, but the latch was fused with rust.

"Low Priority," I whispered to myself.

Outside, the wind gusted to seventy miles per hour.

With a deafening crack, the window blew in.

Glass exploded inward like shrapnel, peppering the room.

The pressure change sucked the air right out of my lungs.

Behind me, the heavy oak bookcase groaned ominously.

I turned.

It tipped.

It fell in slow motion, a towering shadow descending upon me.

I tried to run.

But I wasn't fast enough.

The weight hit me.

*CRACK.*

My right leg.

I felt the bone snap like a dry twig.

I screamed.

The bookcase pinned me to the floor, crushing me under its immense weight.

Dust and debris filled my mouth, choking my cries.

Above me, the satellite tower on the roof crashed through the ceiling.

Rubble rained down, burying me alive.

Pain.

White-hot, blinding pain radiated from my leg.

And then, a different pain.

A sharp, cramping agony in my lower abdomen.

"No," I whispered, tears mixing with the dust on my face. "No, please."

My hand trembled as it went to my stomach.

I was ten weeks pregnant.

I hadn't told him.

I wanted to surprise him for his birthday.

I reached for my phone, but the screen was shattered, the device dead.

Then, I saw a light.

Dante.

He had come back.

He stood in the doorway, his flashlight beam cutting through the swirling dust.

"Elena!" he shouted.

He ran to me.

He started lifting the heavy wood, his muscles straining.

"Hold on," he grunted. "I've got you."

The pressure eased slightly.

I gasped for air.

"Dante," I choked out. "The baby... I..."

Suddenly, his earpiece crackled.

"Boss! We have a situation. Sofia panicked on the tarmac. She scratched her arm on the door handle. She's fainting at the sight of blood. We need you to stabilize the asset before we launch."

Dante froze.

He looked at me.

Trapped under the wood.

Bleeding.

"She scratched her arm?" he asked the earpiece, disbelief warring with calculation.

"She's hyperventilating, Boss. She won't board without you."

Dante looked down at my leg.

"It's just a broken leg," he muttered, his face hardening. "You're a doctor. You know it's not fatal."

"Dante," I whispered, reaching out. "Don't go."

"I have to secure the mission," he said, his voice cold. "Sofia is key to the media narrative. I'll send the guards back for you."

He let go of the bookcase.

The weight slammed back down on me with crushing force.

I screamed.

He flinched, but he turned around.

He ran.

He ran to the girl with the scratch.

He left his wife and his unborn child under the rubble.

I watched his flashlight fade away into the darkness.

I was alone.

Then, I felt warm liquid pooling between my legs.

It wasn't urine.

It was blood.

I dipped my finger in it.

With trembling hands, I pressed my bloody finger against the floorboards.

I traced the numbers of the divorce lawyer I had memorized.

Then, the darkness took me.