My Husband Risked My Life to Protect His Mistress

I stared at Victoria's face, searching for any hint of the mentor who had once championed me. The woman who had taken me under her wing when I was just a nobody with talent and ambition. Now, she couldn't even meet my eyes.

"I'm sorry, Hazel," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't use you on this project anymore."

The script—the one I'd spent weeks preparing for—slid across her desk toward me. I didn't touch it.

"This is because of Ian," I said flatly.

Victoria's perfectly manicured nails tapped against her coffee mug. "He's threatened to pull all Nelson funding from the studio if we hire you."

"He can't do that."

"He can, and he has." She finally looked up, her eyes filled with genuine regret. "Hazel, he's blacklisting you. Not just from my projects—from everyone's."

I felt the room tilt slightly. Without work, how would I pay for Sophia's care? How would I survive?

"There must be something—"

"I'm sorry," she repeated, and I could see she meant it. "If there were anything I could do..."

I stood on shaky legs, gathering what remained of my dignity. "I understand."

---

The director of "Street Shadows" looked at me like I was a piece of meat. Which, I supposed, was appropriate given the role I was auditioning for.

"You'll need to show more... degradation," he said, circling me like a vulture. "The audience needs to believe you've hit rock bottom."

I nodded mechanically, thinking of the call I'd just received from Sophia's care facility. Another month without payment, and they'd move her to the state hospital.

"Can you do that?" he pressed. "Really sell the desperation?"

"I can do whatever you need," I said, the words tasting like ash.

The role was barely more than a cameo—a drug-addicted prostitute with three scenes and no character arc beyond being victimized. Six months ago, I would have laughed at this script. Now, it was my only option.

---

"Action!"

I stumbled through the alley set, arms wrapped around my thin jacket. The makeup artist had done her job well—my face looked hollow, eyes sunken. Nothing like the woman who had accepted an Oscar just months before.

"Cut! Perfect!" The director called. "Let's move on to scene two."

As I made my way back to my mark, a familiar laugh cut through the soundstage. My blood froze.

Yara stood at the edge of the set, surrounded by her usual entourage of sycophants and assistants. She wore a cream designer suit that probably cost more than I'd make all year.

"Well, well," she called loudly enough for everyone to hear. "If it isn't Hollywood's fallen star."

The crew pretended not to listen, but I felt their eyes on me.

"How the mighty have fallen," she continued, approaching me with predatory grace. "From Oscars to... this." She gestured dismissively at my costume.

I kept my face neutral, though my heart hammered against my ribs. "I'm working, Yara. Something you wouldn't understand."

Her smile tightened. "Oh, I understand perfectly." She reached into her purse and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. "Here," she said, pressing it into my hand. "For services rendered."

The humiliation burned through me like acid. Around us, the crew shifted uncomfortably.

"Keep it," I said quietly. "I don't need your charity."

"Oh, but you do." Her voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear. "You need it more than you know."

---

"Scene three, take one!"

The prop knife felt wrong in my hand—heavier than before. But I pushed aside the concern, focusing on delivering my lines.

"Please," I begged the actor playing my pimp. "I need another chance."

"Too late, bitch," he snarled, lunging forward.

The knife was supposed to be a prop—rubber with a retractable blade. But as it plunged into my shoulder, I felt white-hot pain explode through me.

"Cut! Cut!" someone shouted.

Blood bloomed across my costume—real blood. I stumbled backward, my vision blurring as I clutched my shoulder.

Footsteps thundered across the set. Through my haze of pain, I saw Ian pushing through the crowd.

"Ian," I gasped, reaching toward him.

But he didn't come to me. Instead, he rushed past to where Yara had collapsed dramatically into a chair.

"Yara! Baby, are you okay?" His voice was frantic with concern.

"She's bleeding!" Yara sobbed hysterically. "Blood everywhere! It's triggering me!"

I stood there, actual blood seeping between my fingers, watching my husband comfort the woman who had orchestrated my destruction.

"Someone call an ambulance," the director shouted.

"No," Ian snapped, without even looking at me. "Call my private doctor. For Yara—she's having a panic attack."

Not once did he look at me. Not once did he ask if I was okay.

In that moment, as blood dripped onto the soundstage floor and everyone rushed to comfort Yara while I stood alone, I finally understood: I was completely alone in this marriage. And I needed to escape—before it killed me.