My Husband Forced Me to Welcome His Mistress

The silk sheets felt like sandpaper against my skin. I snapped awake, gasping for air as if I'd been drowning. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for escape.

Where was I? The familiar scent of Egyptian cotton and French laundry detergent hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't the sterile, antiseptic smell of the institution. This was... home.

But which home? Which time?

I sat up too quickly, my vision swimming. The Upper East Side penthouse stretched around me in opulent silence—the cream-colored walls, the priceless artwork, the morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Central Park. Every detail screamed wealth and privilege.

My hands trembled as I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The date glowed back at me: June 15th.

My birthday. My fortieth birthday.

"It can't be," I whispered, my voice cracking. "It can't be happening again."

I stumbled out of bed, my bare feet cold against the marble floor as I rushed to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looked back at me with wide, terrified eyes. I touched my face, tracing the smooth skin, the full cheeks, the absence of the hollow-eyed gauntness I remembered.

Young. I was young again.

A strangled laugh escaped my throat. Either I was dreaming, or...

"Welcome back, Mariah," I whispered to my reflection. "Welcome back to the beginning of the end."

The sound of the bedroom door opening sent ice through my veins.

"Ah, you're finally awake." Beckett's voice was smooth as aged whiskey, with the same underlying venom I remembered. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep through this important day."

I turned slowly, forcing my face into the mask of serene confusion I'd perfected in my previous life. He stood in the doorway, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. A crystal flute of champagne dangled from his manicured fingers.

"Important day?" I kept my voice deliberately soft, playing the role of the confused, fragile wife he expected me to be.

Beckett's smile didn't reach his eyes. "My dear, haven't you checked your calendar? Today marks my official ascension to CEO of Ferguson Industries. Grandfather's finally stepped down." He took a sip of champagne, his gaze never leaving mine. "The empire is officially mine."

He approached, each step measured and predatory. I fought the instinct to retreat.

"And to celebrate," he continued, adjusting his platinum cufflinks—a tell I recognized immediately. Whenever he did that, something cruel was coming. "I've made some... lifestyle changes."

My stomach clenched as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. Not a ring box, but something larger. He opened it with theatrical flourish, revealing a set of keys.

"Ivory will be moving into the Hamptons estate next week," he said casually, as if discussing the weather. "I expect you to host a proper welcome dinner for her. Something tasteful, something that will help her transition smoothly into our social circle."

The room tilted sideways. I gripped the edge of the vanity to steady myself.

"Ivory?" I repeated, though of course I knew exactly who he meant.

"Don't act so surprised, Mariah." Beckett's voice hardened. "You've known about our arrangement for years. It's time we made it official."

He stepped closer, his cologne—sandalwood and something darker—invading my space. "You'll host the dinner, and you'll smile while doing it. Understood?"

I nodded mechanically, the good wife responding on autopilot while my mind raced.

"Excellent." He patted my cheek condescendingly. "I knew you'd be reasonable. You always are, aren't you? So... fragile."

After he left, I locked myself in the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left. The cold tile pressed against my knees as I knelt on the floor, shaking uncontrollably.

The memories came flooding back—the institution, the drugs, the endless days of staring at walls while my children suffered. All because of him. Because of her.

I dragged myself to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looked wild-eyed and desperate.

"Not this time," I whispered, touching my wedding ring. The diamond caught the light, throwing fractured rainbows across the bathroom walls. "Not. This. Time."

I straightened my spine and looked deep into my own eyes. "I promise you, Mariah Perry, this time will be different. This time, we fight back."

The plan formed in my mind with crystalline clarity. I would play his game—for now. I would smile and nod and host his precious dinner. But behind the scenes, I would gather evidence, build alliances, and prepare for the divorce that would strip him of everything he valued.

Including me.

I took a deep breath and unlocked the bathroom door. Time to begin the performance of a lifetime.