My Husband Forced Me to Save His Mistress

The brochure called it a retreat.

Women's Reformation Retreat. Upstate New York. Discreet. Exclusive. Designed to help troubled wives rediscover their purpose.

The building looks like a spa. Stone facade. Tall windows. A circular driveway lined with hedges.

Cole parks at the entrance. Doesn't turn off the engine.

"Two weeks," he says.

I stare straight ahead. My suitcase is in the trunk. Packed by Elizabeth. I don't know what's inside.

"Cole," I say quietly. "Please don't do this."

He doesn't answer. Just gets out. Opens my door.

I don't move.

He leans down. His voice is low. Flat. "Get out of the car, Reese."

I get out.

---

The director's name is Douglas Pratt. He's fifty. Maybe older. Gray suit. Soft hands. He shakes Cole's hand. Nods at me.

"Mrs. Webb," he says. "Welcome."

I don't correct him. The marriage is fake. But he doesn't need to know that.

Cole signs papers. A stack of them. He doesn't read them. Just flips. Signs. Flips. Signs.

Pratt watches me the whole time.

"We'll take excellent care of her," he says.

Cole finishes. Hands the pen back. Looks at me once. Then walks out.

I hear the car start. Hear it pull away.

Pratt smiles. "Let's get you settled."

---

The room is small. Concrete floor. Metal bed frame. A thin mattress. No sheets.

There's a bucket in the corner. A single overhead bulb.

Pratt stands in the doorway. "Orientation begins at five a.m. Someone will wake you."

"Where's the bathroom?" I ask.

He nods toward the bucket.

Then he closes the door. I hear the lock click.

I sit on the mattress. It smells like mildew and sweat. I pull my knees to my chest.

The infection scars pull. I press my hand to my stomach. Breathe through the pain.

The bulb flickers.

I don't sleep.

---

They wake me at four.

A woman in scrubs. No name tag. She doesn't speak. Just gestures for me to follow.

We walk down a hallway. Fluorescent lights. Concrete walls. Doors on both sides. All locked.

She opens one. Points inside.

It's a shower room. Tile. Drains in the floor. No curtains.

She turns on the water. It's freezing. I can see my breath.

"Strip," she says.

I hesitate.

She grabs my shirt. Pulls it over my head. I'm too tired to fight. Too cold.

She shoves me under the water.

I gasp. My whole body seizes. The cold is a knife. Cutting. Slicing.

She holds me there. Counts to sixty. Then turns off the water.

Tosses me a towel. Gray. Rough.

"Get dressed."

She hands me clothes. Shapeless gray cotton. Pants. Shirt. No underwear. No bra.

I dress. My fingers won't work right. Everything is numb.

She leads me to another room. Long table. Metal chairs. Six other women already sitting. They don't look up.

I sit at the end.

A man walks in. Not Pratt. Younger. Thick arms. He's holding a baton.

"Hands on the table," he says.

We all put our hands on the table.

He walks down the line. Slaps the baton on the table beside each woman. The sound is sharp. Loud.

When he gets to me, he stops. Leans down.

"You're the doctor," he says.

I don't answer.

He smiles. Taps the baton against my knuckles. Not hard. Just enough.

"Not anymore."

---

The days blur.

Five a.m. Ice water.

Six a.m. Breakfast. Thin oatmeal. No salt. No sugar.

Seven a.m. Labor. Scrubbing floors. Moving furniture. Digging in the yard.

Noon. Lunch. Broth. Stale bread.

One p.m. More labor.

Six p.m. Dinner. Same as breakfast.

Seven p.m. Reflection. We sit in a circle. Pratt asks questions.

*What did you do wrong?*

*How will you be better?*

*Do you understand your place?*

The women answer. Voices flat. Rehearsed.

I don't answer.

Pratt doesn't push. Just writes something in his notebook.

Nine p.m. Lights out.

I lie on the mattress. Stare at the ceiling. Count my breaths.

I'm on day three when I hear the lock click.

---

It's past midnight. The bulb is off. The room is black.

The door opens. Light from the hallway spills in.

A man steps inside. Not Pratt. Not the guard. Someone else.

He's dirty. Clothes torn. He smells like alcohol and something worse.

He closes the door behind him.

I'm on my feet. Pressed against the wall.

"Who are you?" I say.

He doesn't answer. Just moves toward me. Slow. Smiling.

I grab the chair. It's metal. Bolted to the floor.

I pull. It doesn't move.

He's closer now. Reaching.

I kick. Hard. My foot connects with his knee. He grunts. Stumbles.

I grab the chair again. Pull with everything I have. The bolt snaps.

I swing.

The chair leg hits his shoulder. He shouts. Grabs for me.

I swing again. This time his head. He drops.

I'm screaming now. Wordless. Raw.

I hit him again. And again. Until my hands are slick. Until he stops moving.

I back into the corner. Chair leg still in my hands.

Footsteps. Running. The door opens.

Guards. Pratt. They look at the man on the floor. Then at me.

Pratt's face is calm. "Clean this up," he says to the guards.

He looks at me. "Impressive, Mrs. Webb."

They drag the man out. One of them mops the floor.

Pratt stays. Watching.

"Someone paid extra for that," he says quietly. "Wanted to see if you'd break."

I don't answer. Just stare at him.

He smiles. "You didn't."

He leaves. Locks the door.

I slide down the wall. Sit on the floor. The chair leg is still in my hands.

My palms are bleeding. I don't let go.

I don't sleep.

I don't close my eyes.

I just sit. And wait. And survive.