My Husband Let Them Burn Me for His Mistress

The call came at midnight. Wren's phone buzzed on the nightstand. He picked it up and walked out of the bedroom without looking at me.

I heard his voice through the door. Low. Tense. Then silence.

He came back twenty minutes later. His face was gray.

"I have to go out," he said.

"Now?"

"My father wants to see me."

He left without saying anything else.

I didn't sleep. I lay in bed and watched the shadows move across the ceiling until the sky turned pale.

Wren came back at dawn. He smelled like cigarettes and something sharp. Whiskey, maybe. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to me.

"What did he want?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. He rubbed his face with both hands.

"There's a problem," he said finally.

"What kind of problem?"

"Someone has pictures. Of me and Arlet. They're threatening to publish them."

I sat up. "When?"

"Soon. This week, maybe."

"So tell them the truth."

He turned to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot. "The truth will destroy everything. The company. My family's reputation. Yours."

"Mine," I repeated.

"People will say you knew. That you were complicit. That you stayed for the money."

I stared at him. "I stayed because you told me to."

He looked away. "My father has a plan."

"What plan?"

"He'll handle it. I just need to do what he says."

"Wren—"

"I don't have a choice, Emerald."

He stood up and walked out of the room.

I didn't see him for two days after that.

Arlet stayed in her room. The house was quiet. Too quiet. I painted in the spare room and tried not to think about tabloids or photographs or what people would say.

On the third day, Wren came to find me.

I was at the easel. My hands were shaking so badly I'd given up trying to hold the brush. I set it down when he walked in.

"We need to talk," he said.

I turned around. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He looked thinner. Older.

"About what?"

"The situation is handled."

"How?"

"My father took care of it."

I waited.

"You don't need to worry about the pictures anymore," he said. "They won't be published."

"How did he stop them?"

Wren hesitated. "He made an arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement?"

"The kind that works."

He turned to leave.

"Wren."

He stopped.

"What did he do?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "You're better off not knowing."

He left.

That night, I couldn't sleep again. I kept thinking about Augustine. About the way Wren's voice sounded when he said *arrangement*. About the look on his face when I asked what it meant.

I got up and went downstairs. The house was dark. I walked through the living room to the study. The door was closed but not locked.

I pushed it open.

Wren's desk was covered in papers. I turned on the lamp and started looking through them. Bills. Contracts. Nothing useful.

Then I found the folder.

It was thin. Brown. Tucked under a stack of financial statements. I opened it.

Inside were printed emails. The first one was from Augustine to someone named Damian Cross. The subject line read: *Containment Protocol*.

I scanned the text. Words jumped out at me. *Staged event. Media displacement. Temporary incapacitation. No permanent visible damage.*

My hands went cold.

The second email was a reply. Short. Professional. *Understood. Timeline is seventy-two hours. Compensation as discussed.*

The third email was from Wren. *Proceed as planned. Ensure medical team is on standby.*

I read it three times.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

I turned around. Wren stood in the doorway. He looked at the folder in my hands.

"You weren't supposed to see that," he said quietly.

"What is this?"

He stepped into the room. "Put it down."

"What is this, Wren?"

"It's handled. That's all you need to know."

I looked down at the emails again. *Temporary incapacitation.*

"Who's Damian Cross?"

Wren didn't answer.

"What does 'staged event' mean?"

"Emerald—"

"What did you do?"

He crossed the room and took the folder from my hands. He closed it and set it on the desk.

"I did what I had to do," he said. "To protect you. To protect all of us."

I stepped back. "You're scaring me."

"You don't need to be scared. It's over."

"What's over?"

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "Go back to bed."

I didn't move.

"Go," he said again. His voice was harder now.

I left the study. I walked upstairs and lay down in the dark.

I didn't sleep.

Two days later, they came for me.

I was in the garden. It was late afternoon. The light was soft and golden. I was trying to sketch with a pencil, but my hands wouldn't cooperate.

I heard the car before I saw it. A black van. It pulled up to the side gate.

Three men got out. They wore dark clothes. Gloves. Masks.

I stood up. The pencil fell from my hand.

One of them said my name.

I ran.

I made it ten feet before they caught me. One grabbed my arm. Another covered my mouth. I tried to scream but the sound died in my throat.

They dragged me to the van. I kicked. I twisted. I bit down on the glove covering my mouth.

Someone hit me. Not hard. Just enough to stun me.

They pushed me inside. The door slammed shut.

I was on the floor. My head was spinning. I tried to sit up.

Someone tied a blindfold over my eyes. Someone else bound my wrists.

The van started moving.

I heard voices. Low. Calm. Professional.

"How long to the site?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Good. Let's get this over with."

I tried to speak. My voice came out broken. "Please—"

"Quiet."

I felt the van turn. Then stop. Then move again.

I lost track of time.

When the van finally stopped, they pulled me out. I stumbled. Someone caught me and dragged me forward.

I heard a door open. Then close.

They sat me down in a chair. Someone removed the blindfold.

I blinked. The room was small. Concrete walls. A single bulb overhead.

One of the men stood in front of me. He was tall. Broad-shouldered. His face was covered.

"This won't take long," he said.

He pulled something from his pocket. A syringe.

I tried to stand. Someone pushed me back down.

"Hold still," the man said.

He grabbed my right hand. Turned it palm-up.

I screamed.

The needle went in.

The pain was immediate. Sharp. Burning. It spread up my arm like fire.

I screamed again.

The man stepped back. He capped the syringe and put it away.

"Give it forty-eight hours," he said to someone behind me. "Then call it in."

I couldn't feel my hand anymore. I looked down. My fingers were twitching. Jerking.

Then they stopped moving altogether.

The man leaned down. His voice was quiet. Almost gentle.

"You'll be fine," he said. "This is just for show."

Then he put the blindfold back on.

And I was alone in the dark.