My Husband Risked My Life to Protect His Mistress

The sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils as consciousness slowly returned. My shoulder throbbed with dull pain, the memory of cold metal piercing my flesh still vivid. I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, trying to orient myself.

"Ms. Lawrence." A deep voice came from my right. "You're awake."

I turned my head to see a doctor checking my IV. Something about him seemed familiar—the set of his jaw, the intensity of his dark eyes.

"Where..." My voice came out as a rasp.

"Seattle Memorial Hospital." He leaned closer, adjusting my monitors. "I'm Dr. Rivera."

Zander. The name clicked into place. But he wasn't dressed as I remembered from our meeting at the gala. His white coat and stethoscope were convincing—too convincing.

"You're not a doctor," I whispered.

A slight smile curved his lips as he checked my vitals. "Not officially. But I know enough to ensure you're receiving proper care."

He glanced toward the door before leaning closer. "Your husband is currently giving a press conference outside. Would you like to see?"

Zander pulled out a tablet and turned up the volume. Ian's face filled the screen, his expression grave but controlled.

"My wife has been struggling with mental health issues," he was saying, his voice dripping with false concern. "This unfortunate accident on set was the result of her erratic behavior. We're grateful no one else was seriously injured."

The reporters murmured sympathetically as Ian continued spinning his web of lies.

"An accident?" I choked out, my hand clenching the bedsheet. "He's saying I did this to myself?"

Zander's eyes met mine, steady and certain. "He's saying whatever serves his purpose."

"He's going to kill me," I whispered, the realization settling like ice in my veins. "If I stay here, he will kill me."

---

The door to my hospital room swung open hours later. I expected a nurse, but instead, Yara glided in, elegant in a cream pantsuit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

"Look at you," she said, her voice honey-sweet with poison underneath. "All alone."

I tried to sit up straighter, wincing as pain shot through my shoulder. "What do you want?"

"Just checking on family." She perched on the edge of my bed, her weight barely making an impression. "Though perhaps not for much longer."

Her perfectly manicured fingers traced the edge of my blanket. "I've moved Sophia."

My heart stuttered. "What?"

"To a lovely state facility." Her smile widened. "So much more... appropriate for her condition. And for your protection, of course."

"You had no right—"

"I had every right." Her voice hardened. "Ian signed the papers. He agrees you're not fit to care for her properly."

I lunged forward, forgetting my injury. Pain exploded through my shoulder as I grabbed her wrist. "Where is she?"

"Somewhere safe." Yara's eyes glittered with malice. "Somewhere you can't hurt her with your instability."

I released her, falling back against the pillows as dizziness washed over me.

"Oh, and Hazel?" She stood, smoothing her suit. "I sleep in Ian's bed when you're away. Have for years."

The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with the echo of her words.

---

My phone rang at 3:17 AM. I fumbled for it in the darkness, hope flaring that it might be news about Sophia.

"Hazel?" The voice was unfamiliar, thick with tears. "Is this Hazel Lawrence?"

"Yes?" I sat up, suddenly alert. "Who is this?"

"I'm calling from Westlake State Facility." The woman's voice broke. "I'm so sorry to inform you that your sister, Sophia Lawrence, passed away an hour ago."

The phone slipped from my numb fingers. "No."

"Seizure activity," the voice continued, sounding distant through the roaring in my ears. "We did everything we could, but..."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The room spun around me as sobs tore from my throat.

"Ms. Lawrence? Are you there?"

"She can't be gone," I whispered. "Please, no."

"Her last words were your name," the woman said gently. "She was asking for you."

Something inside me shattered. The last tether holding me to this life—to this fight—snapped like a thread stretched too thin.

I'd failed her. Just as I'd failed my parents.

"Ms. Lawrence?" The voice sharpened with concern. "Are you still there?"

I ended the call and stared at the darkness. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that I had nothing left to live for.

Or perhaps, nothing left to die for.