My Husband Planned My Death for His Mistress

The leather seat of our Mercedes hugged my body as we sped along the I-95, the Manhattan skyline growing larger through the windshield. I placed my hand protectively over my still-flat stomach, feeling a flutter of excitement. Today was the day we'd hear our baby's heartbeat for the first time.

"Mason, can you believe it?" I said, turning to my husband. "In just a few minutes, we'll know if it's a boy or girl."

Mason's eyes remained fixed on the road, his jaw tight. "Let's just get through the appointment first."

Something in his voice made me study his profile—the sharp angle of his nose, the tension around his eyes. Eight years of marriage had taught me to read the subtle signs of his moods.

"Is everything okay?" I asked. "You've been distracted all morning."

His phone buzzed again. Third time in five minutes. He glanced down, and I caught the name on the screen before he snatched it up: "K."

"Work emergency," he muttered, thumbs flying across the screen.

"Can't it wait?" I pressed. "This is important."

"What's important is paying attention to the road," he snapped, his voice cutting through the car's quiet interior.

I flinched, taken aback by his sudden anger. Mason never raised his voice to me—at least not before today.

"I'm sorry," I said softly, though I wasn't sure what I was apologizing for.

His phone buzzed again. This time, instead of ignoring it, he looked down.

"Mason!" I gasped as the car drifted into the neighboring lane.

A blaring horn pierced the air. A semi-truck swerved, missing us by inches.

"Mason!" I screamed again.

He jerked the wheel violently, overcorrecting. The world spun in a blur of gray sky and concrete as our Mercedes fishtailed across the highway. The guardrail rushed toward us, metal screaming against metal as we crashed through it.

The car tumbled down the embankment, each impact sending shockwaves through my body. Glass shattered around me. My seatbelt cut into my chest.

When we finally came to rest, upside down in the grass, all I could hear was the hiss of steam from the crumpled hood and my own ragged breathing.

"Mason?" I whispered, tasting blood.

He hung limply from his seatbelt, eyes closed. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead.

"Mason!" I cried louder, struggling against my seatbelt. Pain shot through my abdomen.

His phone, somehow thrown onto the dashboard during the crash, began to ring. Its screen illuminated with the same single letter: K.

I stretched my hand toward it, wincing as glass cut into my palm. If it was an ambulance or hospital calling...

"Hello?" I gasped into the phone.

"Who is this?" A woman's voice, breathless and panicked.

"This is Alexis Grant. There's been an accident. Mason is hurt."

Silence stretched between us before the woman spoke again, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Did he do it? Is he free of you yet?"

The words hit me like another car crash. Free of me?

"Who is this?" I demanded, but a sudden, searing pain ripped through my lower abdomen, stealing my breath.

"Oh God," I moaned, clutching my stomach. Something warm trickled down my thighs.

"Hello?" the woman called. "Mason? What happened?"

I couldn't answer. Another wave of agony tore through me, and I screamed—a primal sound of loss that echoed across the embankment as sirens wailed in the distance.

Hours later, I opened my eyes to the sterile white ceiling of Mount Sinai Hospital. The steady beep of monitors filled the silence. An IV dripped clear fluid into my arm.

"She's awake," a nurse called out.

Footsteps approached, and Mason appeared beside my bed. His right hand was wrapped in layers of pristine white bandages.

"The doctors say you'll recover fully," he said, his voice gentle in a way that felt foreign after the accident. "I'm so sorry, Alexis. I tried to save you."

He squeezed my left hand with his uninjured one.

"The baby," I whispered.

His face crumpled in practiced grief. "I'm so sorry."

A doctor entered, praising Mason's heroism. "Your husband's quick reflexes saved your life, Mrs. Grant. Though unfortunately, the trauma was too severe for the pregnancy."

Mason nodded solemnly. "I swerved to avoid a truck. I would have protected you both if I could."

I stared at him, hollow with loss and suspicion. Something wasn't right.

Later, when the doctor left, Mason leaned down to kiss my forehead. "I need to make some calls. The practice needs to know what happened."

He stepped into the hallway, but I kept my eyes open, watching through half-closed lids as he pulled out his phone.

"Don't fucking call me again!" he hissed into the receiver. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Your timing was off! She's still alive!"

A pause as he listened.

"No, you don't understand. Everything is ruined now."

I closed my eyes completely, a cold certainty settling in my bones. My husband hadn't just been distracted.

He'd been planning something far worse.