My Husband Let His Mistress Scar My Face

The world dissolved into chaos around me. Through the haze of burning chemicals and tears, I heard screams—mine, hers, everyone's—blending into a single discordant note.

"Get her!" Someone shouted. "She's got a weapon!"

I felt hands on my shoulders, pulling me back from the woman who'd destroyed my face. Security guards in black suits swarmed around us, their movements a blur through my smoke-filled vision.

"Ma'am, stay down," one guard commanded, his voice urgent but professional.

The woman—Madelyn, I would later learn—thrashed wildly in the grip of two security officers. Her wedding dress tore further as she fought, fabric ripping like paper in her desperate struggle.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, her voice raw with hysteria. "He's mine! He's always been mine!"

I pressed my palms against my burning face, feeling the skin blister beneath my touch. The pain was beyond anything I'd ever experienced—like dipping my face in acid and fire.

"Where's Dominic?" I gasped, trying to orient myself in the chaos. "Dominic!"

I couldn't see him. My eyes, already damaged by the chemicals, strained to find his familiar silhouette among the crowd of concerned faces and flashing camera phones.

"Priscilla." His voice came from somewhere to my left, but when I reached toward it, my fingers found only empty air. "I'm here."

But he wasn't. Not really. I could hear the retreat in his tone, the careful distance he was putting between himself and my ruined face.

"Help me," I pleaded, my voice breaking. "It hurts so much."

Someone grabbed my shoulders—not Dominic's familiar touch, but a stranger's hands, gentle but firm.

"You need to stay still," a woman's voice said. "Don't touch your face. The paramedics are coming."

I fought against her restraint. "Dominic!" I called again, louder this time. "Where are you?"

There was no answer.

---

They moved me to a private room somewhere behind the ballroom—a small office repurposed for medical emergencies. The paramedics were still en route, but someone had brought ice packs and sterile gauze.

"Your husband's been notified," a hotel manager said, hovering nervously by the door. "He's... handling the situation out front."

Handling the situation. Not with me. Not by my side where he belonged.

I reached blindly for my clutch, remembering my phone inside. "My purse," I whispered. "Please."

A kind-faced woman—another guest, I realized—handed me my bag. I fumbled with the clasp, my damaged fingers trembling.

"Let me help," she offered, but I shook my head.

This was something I needed to do myself.

"Voice call," I said, activating my phone's voice command. "Allison Rogers."

The phone dialed, ringing once, twice, three times. Each second stretched like an eternity.

"Pick up," I breathed. "Please pick up."

"Allie speaking." My sister's voice, warm and familiar, broke through the fog of pain.

"Allison," I sobbed, relief washing over me. "I need you."

"What's wrong? Priscilla, what happened?" The concern in her voice sharpened instantly.

"I'm hurt. Badly hurt." I struggled to find words that wouldn't sound as pathetic as I felt. "There was an attack at the gala. Some woman... she threw something at me."

"Chemicals," the hotel manager interjected quietly. "We think it was some kind of acid."

"Acid?" Allison's voice rose in horror. "Oh my God, Priscilla. Where are you now?"

"They're taking me to the hospital." I pressed the ice pack harder against my face, welcoming the numbing cold. "I need you there. Please."

"Of course. I'm coming right now." There was a rustling sound on the other end—Allison moving quickly. "Which hospital?"

---

"Allison?" Her husband's voice called from somewhere in their brownstone. "Who's on the phone?"

"It's Priscilla," Allison replied, her voice tight with urgency as she stroked her swollen belly protectively. "There's been an attack at the gala."

I heard footsteps approaching the phone. "Is everything okay? What happened?"

"James, I'll explain later." Allison's voice was already moving away from the receiver. "I need to get to the hospital now."

"The driver's not answering his phone," James said, following her down the stairs. "Allison, wait. You can't drive in your condition."

"I don't have a choice!" She grabbed her keys from the entryway table. "Priscilla needs me."

"Then wait for me to call another car service—"

"No time." Allison was already at the door, one hand supporting her lower back, the other cradling her belly. "I'll be fine. I'll call you from the hospital."

She stepped out into the night, unaware that a figure lurked in the shadows across the street, watching her every move.