My Groom’s Mistress Tried to Kill Me for My Fortune

The silence of my phone felt wrong. Two weeks before our "wedding of the century," and something was off. I stared at the screen, scrolling through messages that should have been there but weren't.

"Strange," I murmured, my finger hovering over the blank space where James Morrison's message should have been. James, Lorenzo's business partner, had promised to send me the final charity gala details yesterday.

The bathroom door was closed, steam seeping out from beneath it. Chase was in the shower, his phone charging on the nightstand. My heart pounded as I reached for it.

"Don't," I whispered to myself. "This is invasion of privacy."

But wasn't it stranger that I couldn't reach anyone? That every male contact seemed to have vanished from my digital life?

I picked up his phone, my fingers trembling. The passcode was still my birthday—a cruel irony if what I suspected was true.

One swipe revealed his cloud account. Another revealed mine.

"No, no, no," I breathed as I scrolled through the settings. Every male contact—business partners, old friends, even my doctor—had been systematically blocked. Not just from calls, but from existence in my digital world.

A folder labeled "AA Monitoring" caught my eye. Inside were screenshots of my messages, emails, even my browser history. A keylogger had been installed on all my devices.

"You paranoid bastard," I whispered, tears stinging my eyes.

A text thread from "K" caught my attention. The messages had been deleted but not thoroughly enough.

"Is the private suite ready at Mount Sinai? She'll never know."

"The doctors are all paid off. No one will question why she can't access that wing."

My blood ran cold. Mount Sinai—the hospital where Chase claimed he'd established a special rehabilitation wing just for me. The wing I'd never actually seen.

---

"Take me to Mount Sinai," I told my driver, slipping him an extra hundred. "I need an emergency check-up."

"Miss Anderson, shouldn't we call Mr. Harper first?"

"He's in meetings all day." I forced a smile. "I'll be fine."

The hospital corridors were sterile and bright. I wheeled myself toward the private wing, my heart hammering against my ribs. Two nurses nodded respectfully as I passed.

"Miss Anderson! We didn't expect you today."

"Just a surprise visit," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.

The hallway to the private wing required a key card. Fortunately, Chase had given me one "for emergencies." He'd never imagined I'd use it this way.

The door swung open silently. Instead of medical equipment, I found myself in what could only be described as a luxury maternity suite. Fresh flowers adorned the tables, and sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows.

I heard voices from the adjoining room. I wheeled myself closer, my breath catching in my throat.

Through the cracked door, I saw them.

Chase sat on the edge of a bed, feeding strawberries to a woman with long auburn hair. Her hand rested protectively over her swollen belly.

"You look beautiful pregnant," Chase murmured, his voice tender in a way I hadn't heard in years.

"Once the wedding secures Anna's trust fund, we can finally be together openly," the woman said.

I nearly gasped aloud. Khloe Dixon—my former sorority sister.

"Our baby deserves better than sneaking around," she continued, her hand reaching up to touch Chase's face.

"And he'll have it all," Chase promised. "The wedding is just for show. Once we have control of her assets, we won't need to pretend anymore."

---

I returned home shaking with rage. Every muscle in my body trembled as I waited for Chase to return.

When he walked through the door, his face was a perfect mask of concern.

"Anna? What's wrong? You look pale."

"You tell me," I said, my voice low. "How's Khloe?"

His expression flickered—just for a moment—before settling back into caring fiancé mode. "Khloe? Your old friend from college? Why are you thinking about her?"

"I saw her today. At Mount Sinai. In the maternity suite."

Chase's face hardened. "You're confused, darling. You've been under so much stress with the wedding."

"I heard everything, Chase."

Instead of denial, his demeanor shifted completely. He crossed to the medicine cabinet, pulling out a small bottle.

"You're having another episode," he said calmly, shaking out a pill. "Pre-wedding hysteria. It's common."

He approached me with the pill in one hand, water in the other. "Take this. It will help you calm down."

I stared at the white tablet, realization dawning. How many of these had I taken over the years?

"Dr. Whitfield warned me about these episodes," Chase continued, his voice taking on an edge. "If you can't control yourself, we may need to consider more intensive treatment. Perhaps a facility where you can rest properly."

I took the pill, pretending to swallow while hiding it under my tongue.

"Good girl," he said, kissing my forehead. "Now, no more talk of Khloe or hospitals."

As soon as he left the room, I spat the pill into my hand. Staring at it, I wondered how many of these I'd taken over the years. How many had kept me docile, compliant—paralyzed?

My fingers closed around the pill as a new thought formed: What if I'd never been truly paralyzed at all?