My Husband Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

The fire tore through my veins, liquid glass shredding my throat—no, that was the memory. The phantom agony of a death I had already lived.

My eyes snapped open. Above me, the familiar velvet canopy of the Westmoor master suite loomed in the suffocating darkness. Beneath the heavy quilt, a violent cramp seized my swollen abdomen. I gasped, my fingers clawing into the mattress, but the sound died in my throat as low voices drifted through the crack of the ajar chamber door.

Conrad. My husband. The man whose wedding ring suddenly felt like a shackle cutting into my flesh.

"The tincture is prepared, Thomas?" Conrad’s voice was an impatient murmur, entirely devoid of the aristocratic warmth he usually weaponized in the drawing rooms of high society.

"Yes, my lord," replied Thomas Hartwell, his heavy boots shifting uneasily against the floorboards. "But… is it truly necessary? The Marchioness is strong. What if she survives the birth naturally?"

"She will not survive," Conrad snapped, the cold certainty in his tone freezing the blood in my veins. "The physician knows his task. The moment the child is born, the dose is administered. A tragic hemorrhage. Nothing more. Sarai is already preparing her mourning gowns. She will take her rightful place here, and the boy will be ours to raise."

In my past life, I had drunk the bitter medicine with trembling, grateful hands, believing my husband was trying to save me. I had choked on my own blood while Sarai Chapman waited in the wings to steal my son, my title, my life.

Another contraction ripped through me, sharp and punishing. The urge to scream, to curl into a sobbing ball of terror, was overwhelmingly primal. But survival demanded absolute silence. I bit the inside of my cheek until the metallic tang of blood flooded my tongue. I focused on the ornate grandfather clock in the corner, timing my breathing to its relentless ticking. *In. Out. Do not let them hear you.*

The door hinges whined. A sliver of golden candlelight spilled across the Persian rug. I instantly let my jaw go slack, smoothing the agonizing tension from my forehead, and fluttered my eyes shut.

Footsteps approached. The heavy tread of Conrad, followed by the shuffling gait of Dr. Aris.

"Alexandria?" Conrad whispered. The false tenderness in his tone made my skin crawl.

I shifted, feigning a groggy awakening, and offered a weak, confused blink. "Conrad? What is the hour?"

"You cried out, my lady," the physician said smoothly, stepping into my line of sight. He held a small, dark glass vial in his right hand. The very sight of it sent a spike of pure adrenaline through my chest. "The premature pains? I have a draught that will ease your suffering."

"No," I breathed, forcing a serene, exhausted smile. I willed my heart rate to slow, adopting the cadence of a woman merely disturbed from slumber. "It was just a nightmare, Doctor. A false alarm. The child is resting now, and so must I."

Conrad’s jaw tightened. A micro-expression, a fleeting shadow of profound disappointment, passed over his handsome features before he masked it with a sigh of relief. "Praise be. We were worried, my sweet." He placed a hand over mine. His palm was clammy.

"Put the medicine away, Aris," Conrad commanded softly. "Save it for when she truly needs it."

Dawn broke over Westmoor Estate like a bruised eye, casting a sickly grey light across the bedchamber. I sat propped against the pillows, wearing the fragile mask of the dutiful wife.

Conrad stood at the foot of the bed, fastening the silver clasps of his traveling cloak. He was bound for the capital—undoubtedly to finalize his arrangements with Sarai, or perhaps to dabble further in the treasonous correspondences he thought I knew nothing about.

"I loathe leaving you in this delicate state," he lied smoothly, leaning down to press his lips to my forehead.

Every muscle in my neck strained to prevent me from recoiling. Instead, I reached up, my pale fingers brushing the lapel of his coat. "Duty calls you, my lord. Do not fret for me. I shall be right here waiting for your return."

He smiled, entirely convinced of his own genius, and swept out of the room.

The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, the frail Marchioness vanished. I threw off the suffocating quilt. My bare feet hit the cold floorboards.

"My lady! You shouldn't be up," came a sharp whisper. Margaret Thornton, my lady’s maid, slipped into the room, her eyes wide with concern.

"Lock the door, Margaret," I commanded. My voice held no tremor. It was absolute.

She paused, registering the sudden, glacial shift in my demeanor, then quickly turned the iron key.

I moved to the mahogany writing desk, ignoring the dull ache in my lower back. I pulled a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill. I did not write in the looping, elegant script of a noblewoman. I wrote in sharp, jagged strokes—the military cipher my father, General Marcus Russell, had taught me in the war-rooms of my childhood.

I sealed the parchment with plain wax, using no crest.

"Margaret," I said, holding the letter out. I met her gaze, letting her see the cold, unyielding fire in my eyes. "This must reach the Western Command. To my father. If it is intercepted, I am dead. If you are caught, you are dead."

Margaret didn't flinch. She took the letter, sliding it swiftly into the bodice of her dress. "It will fly on the fastest horse, my lady."

As she slipped out the servant's door, I walked slowly to the empty wooden cradle sitting by the hearth. I ran my fingertips over the polished rim, feeling the solid wood anchor me. They thought me a lamb waiting for the slaughter. They were about to learn they had cornered a wolf.