My Fiancé Forced Me to Save His Mistress

I booked a corner table at the little Italian place in the West Village.

It was the same table where Calum had proposed when we were twenty-one. Back then, he had knocked over a bread basket because his hands were shaking so hard. Back then, his eyes had held only me.

I wore the navy slip dress he used to love. The silk pulled tight against the bandages taped over my right flank, sending a dull ache through my ribs with every breath. I sat there with a glass of water and watched the candle burn down.

I waited two hours.

When the front door finally chimed, Calum walked in fast. His dark hair was messy. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, and his eyes never left the glowing screen of his phone.

He slid into the booth across from me without taking off his coat.

"Sorry," he said, tapping the screen twice before flipping the phone face-down on the white tablecloth. "Meetings at the office ran late."

The lie hung between us like smoke.

I looked at his tired face. I wanted to find the boy from the playground. I wanted to find the man who had promised to protect me.

"Calum," I said quietly. My voice sounded thin and rough. "We need to talk about what happened at the hospital."

His jaw tightened. "Aurelia, don't start."

"I woke up," I whispered. My fingers curled around the edge of the table. "The anesthesia failed halfway through. I felt the scalpel. I was screaming, Calum. Your guards held my shoulders down against the metal."

A shadow crossed his eyes, but it vanished instantly, replaced by hard irritation. He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a hiss.

"Valentina almost died, Aurelia. Can you think about someone other than yourself for once?"

The words hit me right in the chest. My breath caught in my throat.

"I gave her my kidney," I said. "I didn't even have a choice."

"And you saved your sister's life," he snapped, leaning back. "Stop acting like a victim. It’s done. She's recovering, and you’re fine."

Before I could speak, his phone lit up on the linen. The screen showed a photo of Valentina, smiling in a floral sundress.

Calum grabbed the phone before the second ring. He swiped the screen and brought it to his ear.

"Val? What’s wrong?" His tone changed in a second. The anger vanished. It turned soft, hurried, terrified. "Are you in pain? Did the nurse give you your meds? Stay still. I’m on my way."

He stood up, kicking his chair back. He didn't look at our menus. He didn't look at the unfinished glass of wine the waiter had brought.

"I have to go," he said, already turning toward the door. "Valentina has a fever. Put the bill on my card."

He walked out into the rain.

I sat in the dim booth alone. The waiter came by, saw my empty table, and quietly took away the second setting.

Under the table, I slid my palm over my stomach. My skin was warm beneath the silk.

*Just you and me now,* I thought.

I knew then, with absolute clarity, that our twenty years were gone. You cannot save something from a man who has already thrown it away.

***

Forty-eight hours later, the photos flooded Manhattan.

Valentina didn't waste a single second. She hired one of the city's top society photographers and leaked an entire album to the gossip columns and private club group chats.

There was Calum, his hand resting possessively on Valentina’s waist at a gallery opening.

There was Calum, gently wrapping his charcoal overcoat around her shoulders on the Daniels terrace under the moonlight.

There was Calum, bending his head close to hers, his lips inches from her cheek as she laughed behind an antique lace fan.

The captions were sickeningly sweet. The society blogs ate it up. By Friday morning, the whispered rumor had become fact across every salon on the Upper East Side: *Calum Elliott proposed to the wrong sister. He is hopelessly in love with Valentina.*

I had to attend the annual Metropolitan Children's Gala luncheon. As a Daniels daughter, staying home would look like surrender.

I wore a high-collared cream dress. As I stepped near the mimosa bar, two voices drifted from behind a floral pillar.

"Did you see the picture from the terrace?" Chloe whispered, her glass clinking against her bracelet. "He looks at Valentina like she's made of spun gold."

"I know," Sarah murmured back, sipping her drink. "Poor Aurelia. Still clinging to that ring. It's honestly embarrassing. Valentina was always the prettier one anyway."

I stopped right beside them.

The two women turned. Chloe froze, her glass halfway to her lips. Sarah went pale, looking down at her designer heels.

The silence dragged out. Neither of them apologized. Neither of them tried to fix it. They just stared at me, waiting to see if I would scream or cry.

I didn't do either.

"Excuse me," I said evenly.

I walked past them, my head held high, and stepped into the marble powder room.

I locked myself inside. I walked to the brass sinks and stared into the mirror.

My face was pale. Dark purple circles bruised the skin beneath my eyes. And right at the base of my throat, ugly red blotches were creeping up my pale skin—a severe stress rash that broke out whenever I felt trapped.

I looked at the girl in the mirror. She looked tired. She looked haunted.

But her eyes were completely dry. I was done crying over people who viewed my agony as entertainment.

I reached into my purse, pulled out a small silk scarf, and wrapped it neatly around my neck. I tied a tight, elegant knot to hide every trace of the rash.

I smoothed the front of my dress, opened the door, and walked straight back into the room.