My Husband Let His Mistress Scar My Face

The Plaza Hotel glittered like a jewel box around me, crystal chandeliers casting golden light across Manhattan's elite. I smoothed my hands down the midnight blue silk of my gown, a dress I'd chosen specifically to complement Dominic's eyes. Tonight was supposed to be our crowning achievement—my husband's official introduction as CEO of Rogers Holdings.

"Are you ready?" I whispered, reaching up to adjust Dominic's tie. The knot was already perfect, but I needed to touch him, to reassure him. To reassure myself.

Dominic shifted uncomfortably under my touch. "I think so."

Something in his voice made me pause. I studied his face—the face I'd woken up to every morning for three years. His normally confident features were drawn tight, and tiny beads of sweat dotted his forehead despite the cool air conditioning.

"You're nervous," I said, reaching into my clutch for a handkerchief. "It's normal. This is a big night."

He nodded, but his eyes darted to his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. Again. The third time in five minutes.

"Who's texting you?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light.

"Just work stuff." He slipped the phone back into his jacket without showing me. "Last-minute details for tomorrow."

I wanted to press further, but August Rogers—my father—caught my eye from across the room. He nodded slightly, signaling it was almost time. The orchestra transitioned to a new piece, and the crowd quieted.

"Your father's about to introduce you," I said, straightening Dominic's already immaculate lapels. "Remember what we practiced?"

"Priscilla." Dominic's voice was strange, strained. "I—"

"Don't thank me," I interrupted with a smile. "We're partners, remember? This is our dream."

He swallowed hard and nodded, but something cold settled in my stomach. Before I could examine the feeling, my father tapped the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," August Rogers boomed, commanding the room with the same authority he'd used to build our empire. "Thank you for joining us tonight. It gives me tremendous pleasure to introduce the next chapter of Rogers Holdings—my son-in-law and your new CEO, Dominic Rivera!"

Applause erupted around us. Dominic squeezed my hand once before walking toward the stage. I watched him go, my chest swelling with pride. From scholarship student to CEO—we'd built this together.

Then came the scream.

It cut through the applause like a knife, raw and primal. Heads turned toward the grand entrance where security guards were suddenly scrambling.

"Stop! You can't go in there!"

"Let me through! I need to see him!"

My blood turned to ice as a figure pushed past the guards. A woman—her hair wild, her makeup smeared, wearing what looked like a wedding dress torn and jagged at the hem. But it was her eyes that froze me in place—wild, desperate, burning with hatred.

"Dominic!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the marble columns. "Dominic, where are you?"

The crowd parted like water around a stone. Champagne glasses paused midway to lips. Conversations died instantly.

"I'm sorry, miss," one security guard said, reaching for her arm. "You need to leave."

"No!" She yanked away from him, her gaze finally locking on Dominic frozen at the edge of the stage. "Dominic! Tell them! Tell them who I am!"

My husband's face drained of color. He wasn't looking at the woman—he was looking at me, his expression unreadable.

"Who is she?" I whispered, but he didn't answer.

The woman's eyes found mine next, and something even colder than before washed over me. She knew me. She hated me.

"You!" she spat, lunging forward with surprising speed. "You stole my life!"

Before anyone could react, she reached into the folds of her ragged dress and pulled out a small glass vial. The liquid inside caught the light—clear, innocent-looking.

"You think you're so perfect," she hissed, uncorking it with trembling fingers. "Priscilla Rogers, the precious heiress who can have anything she wants."

I tried to step back, but my heels caught in the hem of my gown. "Security—"

The word hadn't left my lips before she was there, pressing close enough that I could smell her perfume—cheap, cloying—and see the tears streaking her mascara.

"Except you can't have him," she whispered. "Not really."

Then she flung the contents of the vial directly at my face.

Pain exploded across my skin like fire. I heard screaming—my own—as something hot and corrosive ate into my flesh. Smoke rose from my cheeks, my nose, my lips. The world tilted sideways as I collapsed to the marble floor.

Through the haze of agony, I reached out blindly. "Dominic..."

He was there, just steps away. Our eyes met through the smoke and tears and chemicals burning my vision.

Then he stepped back.

Not toward me. Back. His hands raised to protect his tuxedo as if my pain might stain the fabric.

"Get it off me," he gasped, dancing away from where I writhed on the floor. "Don't let it touch me!"

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was my husband's polished shoes, retreating rapidly across the ballroom floor.