My Husband Risked My Life to Protect His Mistress

The afternoon light slanted through the servant's room window, painting bars across the floor. I'd collapsed on the narrow bed after finishing portrait forty-nine, my hands still cramping from holding the brush for sixteen hours straight. Sleep pulled at me like an undertow.

The elevator chimed. Footsteps clicked across marble—sharp, deliberate, expensive heels.

"Iris, dear."

I sat up too fast. The room tilted. Christina stood in the doorway, immaculate in cream Dior, her smile all teeth and venom.

"Mrs. Black." My voice came out hoarse. "Greyson isn't—"

"I'm not here for my son." She stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click that sounded like a trap springing shut. Her gaze swept the cramped space—the paint-stained floor, the canvases stacked against the wall, the single bed where I'd been sleeping in my clothes. "How the mighty have fallen."

I stood, swaying slightly. The locket at my throat felt heavy.

"I thought you should see these." She pulled a manila envelope from her Birkin bag, extracted a stack of photographs. "Your father. Such a devoted man, wasn't he? So concerned with family legacy."

She spread the photos across my unmade bed. Dad in a nightclub, champagne bottle raised. Dad with women draped over him, laughing. Dad at a casino, chips piled high.

My breath caught. "Where did you—"

"He was quite the party animal before he got sick. Or did you think all that money disappeared into thin air?" Her fingers adjusted the pearls at her throat. "You sacrificed everything for a man who gambled away your inheritance. How does that feel, darling?"

The photos were old. I could see it in the grain, the faded colors. But doubt crept in anyway, cold and insidious.

"He loved you," Christina continued, her voice honey-sweet. "But love doesn't pay debts, does it? And now here you are, painting portraits like a common laborer, all for shares that were never really yours to begin with."

She set a small amber bottle on the nightstand. "Vitamins. You look dreadful. Can't have you collapsing before you finish your... obligations."

She left. The door didn't lock this time. Somehow that felt worse.

I stared at the photos until they blurred. Picked up the vitamin bottle. The pills inside rattled like bones.

---

Portrait fifty took three days. I poured everything into it—all the technique I'd learned at art school, all the precision my trembling hands could manage. Gwen reclined on the cream sofa, her expression bored, scrolling through her phone while I worked.

When I finally set down my brush, the canvas glowed. My best work yet. Maybe if I proved my skill, showed what I could really do—

"Done," I whispered.

Gwen glanced up, shrugged. "Whatever."

I stumbled to my room. Took two of Christina's vitamins. Sleep came fast and heavy, pulling me under like drowning.

I woke to screaming.

"Look what she did!" Gwen's voice, shrill with manufactured tears. "She destroyed it!"

I ran to the living room. The fiftieth portrait lay on the floor, canvas slashed in vicious diagonal cuts. Paint bled across the hardwood. Gwen stood beside it, mascara running, clutching a palette knife.

Greyson's hand was on her shoulder. His eyes found mine—cold, absolute.

"I didn't—" My voice broke. "I was sleeping. I would never—"

"Jealousy is ugly, Iris." He stepped toward me. "My mother suggested a traditional discipline method. I think it's appropriate."

He produced a bag of uncooked rice. Poured it across the floor in front of my easel.

"Kneel," he said. "Repaint it. Don't stand until it's finished."

The rice bit into my knees like teeth. I picked up my brush. Gwen watched from the sofa, her smile sharp and satisfied.

Six hours. The rice ground into my skin, each shift sending fresh pain shooting up my legs. My hands shook so badly I had to restart twice. When I finally finished, blood spotted my dress where my knees had been.

Greyson examined the canvas. Nodded once. Walked away.

I couldn't stand. My legs wouldn't hold me.

---

The dining room table was set for three. Greyson sat at the head, Gwen to his right. I stood by the kitchen door in a server's apron, holding a tray of roasted chicken.

"Serve," Greyson said without looking at me.

I placed the platter on the table. My hands were steadier now—the vitamins helped with that, at least. Or maybe I was just going numb.

Gwen pushed food around her plate, her face suddenly pale. She pressed a hand to her mouth.

"Are you alright?" Greyson's voice shifted, concerned.

"I'm fine, I just—" She stood abruptly, swayed. "I've been feeling off lately."

She reached into her purse. Pulled out a small plastic stick. Set it on the table between the wine glasses and the china.

Two pink lines.

The room went silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock.

"I'm pregnant," Gwen whispered. Her hand found her stomach, possessive. "We're having a baby."

Greyson stared at the test. His jaw worked. When he looked up, his eyes found mine across the table.

"An heir," he said. His voice was soft, deadly. "Something you could never give me."

Gwen's smile was triumphant. She touched her stomach again, the gesture deliberate, cruel.

The tray slipped from my hands. It hit the floor with a crash that sounded like my heart breaking.

Fifty portraits down. Fifty to go. And now a child—his child—growing inside the woman who'd taken everything.

I turned and walked out. No one stopped me.

In my room, I took three vitamins instead of two. The sleep that came was thick and dreamless, and I was grateful for it.