My Husband Let His Mistress Scar My Face

The Plaza Hotel's VIP suite reeked of expensive cologne and vomit. I could smell it even through my damaged nostrils as security escorted me to where Dominic had been found hiding.

"He's been making calls since the attack," the hotel manager explained quietly. "Trying to reach his PR team."

I pressed my bandaged face gently against the door frame, peering through the crack. Dominic paced frantically inside, his tuxedo jacket discarded on the king-sized bed, his bow tie hanging limply around his neck. His phone was pressed to his ear.

"I don't care what it costs," he hissed. "Buy every headline. Tell them it was a disgruntled employee. Tell them anything but the truth."

He ran his free hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that would have been endearing if I hadn't just learned what a monster he was.

"The board can't know about this," he continued, his voice rising. "Not until after the vote. I'm inches away from controlling the company."

That's when his phone chimed with an incoming video call. He glanced at the screen, and I watched the blood drain from his face.

"Madelyn?" he whispered, as if answering would make it more real.

He swiped to answer, and I saw my own reflection appear on his screen—well, what was left of it. Beside me, Allison's terrified face filled the frame, her hands still protectively cradling her belly.

"Choose wisely," Madelyn's voice purred from the speaker.

Dominic's face contorted. He stumbled backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed. Then his body convulsed, and he vomited onto the pristine white carpet.

"I'll be there," he choked out between heaves. "Don't do anything until I get there."

He ended the call and collapsed onto the bed, his breathing ragged. I watched as he fumbled for a bottle of water, rinsed his mouth, then grabbed his jacket.

"Not the front entrance," he muttered to himself, checking his reflection in the mirror. "Too many reporters."

He slipped out through the connecting door to another suite, then disappeared down the service stairs.

---

"Find him," August Rogers commanded, his voice as cold as steel.

I'd never seen my father like this—the diplomatic businessman replaced by something harder, more dangerous. We were in his study at the penthouse, watching security footage from the hotel on multiple screens.

"The woman who attacked you is Madelyn Boyd," he said, tapping a frozen frame of Madelyn's face. "And these two men with her—they're not random thugs."

Victoria Chen, our head of security, leaned forward. "Ex-military contractors. They've worked for several development companies doing 'eviction assistance.'"

"Thugs for hire," my father translated, his jaw tight. "And they were at the gala because someone paid them."

He turned to Victoria. "I want the Tier 1 team mobilized immediately. Full tactical gear."

"Should we notify the police?" Victoria asked.

August's laugh was humorless. "The police will ask questions. They'll negotiate. They'll try to save everyone."

His eyes met mine across the room. "I don't need everyone saved, Victoria. Just my daughters."

He tapped another screen showing a map of Brooklyn. "Dominic's phone signal is pinging here—the Rivera Tower construction site."

"The foundation pouring was scheduled for tonight," I said, remembering the project timeline. "It would be deserted."

"Except for them," Victoria nodded, already moving toward the door. "I'll have the team there in ten minutes."

---

The wind howled across the rooftop, whipping my hair across my burned face. Madelyn paced behind us, the gun never wavering from its target—our backs.

"Where is he?" she demanded, checking her phone again. "He should be here by now."

As if summoned by her words, the elevator motor groaned to life. We all turned to watch as the metal cage slowly ascended, carrying a single figure.

Dominic stepped onto the rooftop, his hair disheveled from the wind during his ride up. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—me and Allison bound and teetering at the edge, Madelyn's gun steady in her hand.

"Priscilla," he breathed, taking a step forward.

Then he stopped. Just three meters from the elevator, he froze, his eyes darting between us and the relative safety of his escape route.

"Madelyn," he said finally, his voice shaking. "What have you done?"

She laughed, the sound almost lost in the wind. "What have I done? I've created a little drama to force your hand."

Dominic's gaze never left Madelyn's face. "How could you do this to me?"

Not "How could you hurt my wife?" Not "How could you endanger my sister-in-law?" But "How could you do this to me?"

In that moment, as I stood balanced on the edge of death, I finally saw my husband clearly.

"Answer me!" he demanded, his voice rising with indignation. "How could you create such a mess for me to clean up?"

Madelyn's smile faltered slightly, as if even she couldn't quite believe his selfishness.

"Your wife and sister-in-law are about to die," she said slowly. "And that's what concerns you?"

Dominic's eyes darted to the elevator again. He took a small step backward.

"This is going to ruin everything," he whispered. "Everything I've worked for."

And in that moment, as the concrete foundation waited hungrily below us, I realized that Dominic Rivera had never loved me at all.