My Fiancée is A Mistress

My phone wouldn't stop buzzing, each time I silenced another call.

No need to check—I was sure Sarah and her squad were trashing me, calling me the scum of the earth.

But I didn't give a damn.

Being a scumbag beats being a corpse any day.

I hit the gas, zooming down the coastal highway.

The chill ocean breeze was a slap of relief for my fried brain.

I parked myself on the guardrail, lighting up a cigarette.

Sarah's attempt on my life was a hard pill to swallow.

Yet, why would she even want me dead?

Wasn't I good enough to her?

I watched a couple of seagulls playing tag by the waves, my cig burning down to the nub.

"Shit—"

The sting from the cigarette sparked a flashback to a night, about two weeks before I died in my last life.

That evening, I spotted Sarah's comment under a post blasting mistresses.

"Yep, I'm the mistress, LOL."

I woke her up, phone in hand, demanding an explanation.

Under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, she kneeled on the bed, her face ghostly pale, tears quickly spilling over.

"Honey, I was just kidding."

I said nothing, just gave her the cold shoulder, waiting for her next move.

She edged closer, lifting her eyes to mine, all doe-eyed.

"Babe, you know you'd never let me be the other woman."

"Excuse me?" My laugh was bitter.

I couldn't believe how slick her excuses were.

"Babe~" She tried to sweet-talk her way out again.

I shoved her back, asking sharply, "Sarah, you think this is something to joke about?"

"No, absolutely not." She shook her head, swearing with three fingers raised that she'd never slip up like that again.

I let it slide.

Back then, I figured everyone slips up now and then.

But now, sitting on that guardrail, that night didn't sit right with me.

Her reaction was too intense for a simple slip-up.

First tears, then coyness.

Sarah knew how to play me; she knew just what to do to soften me up.

Her comment wasn't a slip—it was the truth.

She really was having an affair!