My Husband Risked My Life to Protect His Mistress

The discharge papers felt like a death sentence in my hands. Three days after the prop knife incident, Ian had arranged for my early release from the hospital.

"You're fine," he'd insisted, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The doctor says you're healthy enough to attend the Santa Monica yacht party tonight."

"I'm not fine," I'd whispered, wincing as I moved my bandaged shoulder. "I need rest."

What I needed was escape. But with Sophia gone—or so I believed—there was nowhere left to run.

"The car leaves in two hours," Ian said, already walking away. "Wear the blue dress."

---

The blue dress was a calculated choice. Its high neckline and long sleeves concealed my bandages, while the fabric clung to every curve of my body like a second skin. It was the kind of dress that screamed "perfect trophy wife"—exactly what Ian wanted the world to see.

"Beautiful," he murmured as I emerged from our bedroom, his eyes traveling over me with possessive hunger. "No one would ever guess you were hospitalized three days ago."

I forced a smile, though my shoulder throbbed beneath the careful makeup and strategically placed fabric. "Thank you."

His hand settled on the small of my back, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me who was in control. "Tonight is important, Hazel. People are talking."

"About?"

"About us." His smile was tight. "About whether our marriage is falling apart."

The yacht party was in full swing when we arrived. Music drifted across the water as waiters glided between clusters of Hollywood elite and business moguls. Champagne flowed freely, and camera flashes popped like tiny explosions against the twilight sky.

"Hazel!" A producer I'd worked with years ago approached, his eyes darting between Ian and me. "You look... amazing. Considering everything."

"I'm resilient," I said, accepting a glass of champagne I had no intention of drinking.

Ian's grip on my waist tightened. "My wife is stronger than she looks," he told the producer, his voice carrying just enough for nearby guests to hear. "She's been through so much lately."

The pitying glances from others made my skin crawl. They all thought they knew my story—the troubled actress, the unstable wife. No one knew the truth.

---

I escaped to the deck as the party reached its peak, needing air that wasn't thick with perfume and pretense. The Pacific stretched before me, dark and vast under the moonlight. Freedom, if only I could reach it.

"Enjoying the view?"

I didn't need to turn to know who stood behind me. Yara's voice was like ice water down my spine.

"Leave me alone," I said quietly.

"Not until we talk." She moved beside me, her cream silk dress glowing in the moonlight. "You know, I've always wondered what you'd look like broken."

I kept my eyes on the horizon. "Congratulations. You've succeeded."

Her laugh was soft, almost musical. "Not quite."

She leaned closer, her perfume—expensive, cloying—filling my nostrils. "Do you know how your parents died, Hazel?"

My heart stuttered. "The accident—"

"The accident I caused." Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for me. "I was seventeen. Drunk. High. I hit them head-on."

I turned to face her, unable to hide my shock. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Her smile was terrible in its beauty. "I remember everything. The sound of metal crushing. The smell of gasoline. Your mother begging for help as she held your father's broken body."

Bile rose in my throat. "Shut up."

"I drove away," she continued, her eyes glittering with malice. "But not before I heard them calling for help. Begging. Pleading."

I lunged toward her, my good arm raised, but she stepped back, laughing.

"Your sister isn't dead, by the way." The words hit me like a physical blow. "Sophia is very much alive. I just wanted you to think she was gone so you'd stop fighting."

Hope and rage surged through me in equal measure. "Where is she?"

"Somewhere safe." Yara's smile widened. "Somewhere I can visit whenever I want. She's so fragile, your sister. So easily broken."

Something inside me snapped. Across the deck, I caught sight of Ian, watching us with narrowed eyes. Beside him stood a security guard—one of his men, ready to intervene if needed.

But I had my own plan.

My fingers closed around the small signal device Zander had given me weeks ago. With a quick press of my thumb, I activated it, praying he was close enough to receive the signal.

"It's over, Yara," I said, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

I climbed onto the railing, my movements deliberate. The party guests below froze, glasses halfway to lips, conversations dying mid-sentence.

"Hazel!" Ian's voice cut through the sudden silence. "Get down from there!"

I turned to face him one last time, balancing precariously on the edge. Our eyes locked across the distance—his wide with panic, mine calm with resolve.

Then I let go.

The fall seemed to last forever. The wind rushed past my ears, the party sounds fading to a distant hum as the dark Pacific rose to meet me.

As the cold water closed over my head, I made my choice.

Death was better than this life.