My Husband Refused to Divorce After His Mistress Killed Mom

The hospital called at two in the afternoon. Mom's vitals had stabilized, the nurse said. She was asking for me.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door, relief flooding through me like warm water. Three weeks since the experimental treatment started, and finally—finally—something was working.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. A photo.

Killian and Astrid at Cipriani. Her hand on his thigh. His mouth at her ear. The timestamp read twenty minutes ago.

I deleted it. Kept walking.

Mount Sinai's ICU smelled like antiseptic and desperation. I'd memorized the route—elevator to the seventh floor, left at the nurses' station, third door on the right. Mom's room had a window that overlooked the East River. On good days, she'd watch the boats and tell me stories about her childhood in Brooklyn, before the cancer, before everything fell apart.

Today, the door was closed.

A nurse I didn't recognize stood outside, her face carefully blank. "Mrs. Warren?"

The sound of my married name made my skin crawl. "I'm here to see my mother. Catherine Harper."

"The doctor will be right with you. If you could just wait—"

I pushed past her.

The room was chaos. Machines screaming. Three doctors crowded around the bed, their movements sharp and urgent. Mom's face was swollen, unrecognizable. Her lips had turned blue.

And on the windowsill, massive and obscene, sat a bouquet of Stargazer lilies. Their sickly-sweet perfume choked the air.

"What the hell are those doing in here?" My voice came out strangled. "She's allergic—she can't—"

A doctor turned. Dr. Patel. I'd met him a dozen times. His eyes were tired. "We're doing everything we can. The anaphylaxis triggered cardiac arrest. Her system is too weak—"

"Get them out!" I lunged for the flowers, knocked the vase to the floor. Water and glass exploded across the linoleum. The lilies sprawled like corpses.

The machines flatlined.

The sound was a single, endless note that drilled into my skull. Dr. Patel called the time of death at 2:47 PM. Someone pulled a sheet over Mom's face. Someone else guided me to a chair in the hallway.

A nurse pressed something into my hand. A small white card, water-stained but still legible.

*So sorry about the bad blood. - A.*

The words blurred. Sharpened. I read them again. Again.

Astrid had been here. Had walked into my mother's room, had looked at her dying in that bed, and had left poison.

Murder dressed up as condolences.

I stood. The hallway tilted, then righted itself. My hands were steady as I pulled out my phone and searched for Killian's location. The Find My app we'd set up for "safety"—another leash, another way for him to track my movements.

Warren Industries. Forty-second floor. Board meeting scheduled for 3 PM.

Perfect.

---

The receptionist tried to stop me. I walked past her like she didn't exist. Down the hall, past the glass-walled offices where junior executives pretended not to stare. The boardroom doors were solid mahogany, designed to intimidate.

I threw them open.

Twelve men in suits turned to look at me. Killian sat at the head of the table, mid-sentence, his expression shifting from surprise to cold fury in the space of a heartbeat.

"Mila. We're in the middle of—"

I walked to the table. Pulled off my wedding ring. The platinum band that had felt like a shackle for two years. I threw it. It bounced once, twice, skittered across the polished wood and stopped in front of him.

"I want a divorce."

Silence. Someone coughed.

Killian's jaw clenched. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us—"

"Your girlfriend murdered my mother." My voice was steady. Clear. It didn't sound like mine. "She brought lilies to her hospital room. Knew about the allergy. Left a note."

I pulled out the card. Held it up.

"She's dead because of you. Because of this—" I gestured at the room, at him, at everything. "I'm done."

Killian stood. His hand closed around my arm, fingers digging into bone. "Everyone out. Now."

The board members fled like rats from a sinking ship. The door clicked shut behind them.

Killian released me. Stepped back. When he spoke, his voice was ice. "You're not getting a divorce."

"Watch me."

"My grandfather's trust." He picked up the ring, turned it over in his fingers. "I need to be married until my thirtieth birthday to inherit controlling interest in the company. That's six months away."

"I don't care about your money."

"No. You care about your mother's medical bills." His smile was a knife. "The ones I paid. The ones that are still being paid, for the funeral, the burial plot, all of it. Walk away now, and I'll sue you for every penny. You'll spend the rest of your life drowning in debt."

The room spun. "You can't—"

"I can. I will." He stepped closer. "Six months, Mila. Then you can have your freedom. Until then, you're going nowhere."