My Husband Forced Me to Serve His Mistress

All I did was refuse a toast at Ivy’s welcome banquet.

The man I’d been married to pried open my mouth and forced hard liquor down my throat.

My body broke out in hives, my chest seized, and I nearly suffocated from an allergic reaction.

And him? He held Ivy in his arms and pointed at me with contempt.

“She used to kneel and beg to drink for me—now she claims she’s allergic? So good at making a scene.”

They laughed, mocked me, and even urged him to kiss her in front of me.

He agreed without hesitation, kissing her deeply before carrying her off to a hotel as I was abandoned on the floor, breathless, begging for help.

After returning from the hospital, I packed my bags. And drafted the divorce papers.

---

The amber liquid in the crystal glass caught the chandelier's light, casting golden reflections that danced mockingly before my eyes. Around me, the Hamptons estate buzzed with the kind of laughter that came easily to people who had never known want, never felt the crushing weight of desperation.

My dress—a castoff from James's previous charity auction—hung loose around my shoulders, the faded burgundy fabric a stark contrast to the designer gowns that swirled around me like exotic flowers. I tugged at the neckline, trying to make it sit properly, but it was hopeless. Everything about me felt wrong in this glittering world.

"Ladies and gentlemen," James's voice boomed across the marble-floored ballroom, commanding attention with the effortless authority that had first drawn me to him five years ago. "I want you all to meet someone very special."

My stomach clenched as his arm snaked around Ivy Meyer's tiny waist, pulling her closer to the microphone. She looked radiant in a slip dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, her honey-blonde hair cascading in perfect waves over bare shoulders.

"Ivy has just returned from her successful stint in London, and I'm thrilled to announce that she'll be joining Smith & Associates as our new Chief Public Relations Consultant."

The crowd erupted in polite applause. I watched Ivy's face light up with practiced surprise, as if she hadn't known this moment was coming. As if the three of them hadn't planned this entire evening around her grand entrance back into James's life.

"Now," James continued, his eyes finding mine across the room with laser precision, "I think it's only fitting that my wife, as the gracious hostess of this evening, should lead us in a toast to welcome Ivy home."

A server appeared beside me as if summoned, offering a silver tray with a single glass filled to the brim with bourbon. The sharp, medicinal scent hit me immediately, making my throat constrict in memory of past reactions.

I looked up at James, hoping to catch his eye, to remind him silently of what he already knew. But his gaze was cold, expectant, surrounded by the eager faces of his Wall Street cronies and their wives.

"James," I said quietly, stepping closer so only he could hear. "You know I can't—my allergy to alcohol is severe. And I haven't been feeling well lately."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but the smile never left his face. "What did you say?"

The conversations around us began to die down as people sensed the shift in atmosphere. I felt heat creep up my neck, the familiar burn of public humiliation.

"I just... I'm not feeling well tonight, and you know what happens when I—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Lia." His voice cut through the air like a whip, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear clearly. "Are you seriously going to pull this manipulative bullshit tonight? On Ivy's night?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I felt dozens of pairs of eyes boring into me, some amused, others disgusted. A woman in emerald green leaned toward her companion and whispered something that made them both snicker.

"I'm not being manipulative," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just asking—"

"You're asking to make a scene." James stepped closer, his cologne overwhelming in its intensity. "You're asking to embarrass me in front of my colleagues and friends because you can't stand that someone else is getting attention for once."

The words hit like physical blows. Around us, the crowd had formed a loose circle, pretending to continue their conversations while hanging on every word.

"Do you remember," James continued, his voice taking on that sickeningly sweet tone he used when he wanted to hurt me most, "how desperate you were to marry me five years ago? How you threw yourself at me, begging me to save your precious mother? You didn't have any allergies then, did you? You drank whatever I put in front of you and smiled while you did it."

Someone in the crowd let out a low whistle. Another person chuckled. The sound made my skin crawl.

"But now," he went on, "now that you've gotten comfortable, now that you think you can play the delicate flower, you want to embarrass me? Make me look like a husband who can't control his own wife?"

The glass in my hand trembled. The bourbon's fumes made my eyes water, or maybe those were tears. I couldn't tell anymore.

"James, please," I whispered. "I'm not trying to embarrass you. I just—"

"Enough."

His hand shot out and clamped around my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks with bruising force. The crowd's energy shifted, some people stepping back while others leaned in, sensing blood in the water.

"You want to play games?" His breath was hot against my ear, but his voice carried clearly to the audience. "Let's play."

Before I could react, his other hand grabbed the glass from my trembling fingers and brought it to my lips. The bourbon's harsh scent filled my nostrils, making my stomach lurch.

"No, James, don't—"

He tilted the glass, and the liquid fire poured into my mouth, down my throat, choking off my protests. I tried to pull away, but his grip on my jaw was iron-strong. The bourbon burned like acid, and I could feel my body's immediate rejection of the alcohol.

"There," he said, releasing me so suddenly I stumbled backward. "Was that so difficult?"

The crowd erupted in applause and wolf whistles. Someone shouted, "Now that's how you handle a difficult wife!" The laughter that followed felt like glass shards in my ears.

Already, I could feel the familiar tightening in my chest, the way my airways began to constrict. My skin started to tingle, then burn. I looked down at my arms and watched in horror as red welts began to bloom across my pale skin like some grotesque flower.

"I can't... I can't breathe," I gasped, clutching at my throat.

But James had already turned away, pulling Ivy into his arms. "Don't mind her," he said to the crowd, his voice carrying easily over my increasingly desperate wheezing. "She's always been dramatic. It's part of her charm."

The room began to spin. My knees buckled, and I hit the marble floor hard, the impact jarring through my bones. The faces above me blurred together, some concerned, most merely curious, like I was an interesting sideshow.

"Help," I tried to say, but only a strangled wheeze came out. My vision was darkening at the edges, and each breath felt like trying to suck air through a straw.

Through the haze, I saw James lean down to kiss Ivy, his hand tangling in her perfect hair. The crowd cheered again as he swept her up in his arms, carrying her toward the grand staircase like some romantic hero.

"Poor thing looks positively frightful," I heard Ivy's voice, sweet and wondering. "Look how red she's gotten all over. It's quite the spectacle, isn't it?"

More laughter. More applause. And then they were gone, disappearing up the stairs toward the master bedroom, leaving me convulsing on the cold marble floor like discarded trash.

Darkness crept in from all sides as my body fought a losing battle against the poison coursing through my veins. The last thing I saw before unconsciousness claimed me was a young server's horrified face as he pulled out his phone, his fingers flying over the screen.

Help was coming. But as the world faded to black, I wondered if it would be too late.