My Husband Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

The frost on the balcony railing bit through my velvet gloves, but I did not pull my hands away. I stood in the shadows of the upper gallery, looking down at the courtyard. The heavy oak doors of the study burst open.

Sarai was cast out onto the frozen gravel like a broken doll. She clutched her stomach, her knees giving way. The wail that tore from her throat was not human; it was the sound of an animal caught in a snare, realizing the hunter has finally arrived. Blood stained the hem of her silk gown, a dark, blooming shadow against the winter white.

Conrad did not follow her out. The doors clicked shut, locking her in the cold.

I pressed my palm against my own swollen belly, feeling the strong, rhythmic kick of my son. My heart beat in a slow, steady cadence. There was no pity in me. Only the glacial, terrifying satisfaction of a board cleared of its first major threat. She had wanted to steal my life. Instead, Conrad had stripped her of hers to save his own neck.

Weeks bled into a bitter, gray February. The estate was suffocated by a tense silence. Conrad avoided my gaze, drinking heavily in his study, while I walked the grounds, growing heavier, creeping closer to the precipice of my past.

I was in the dormant rose garden when the silence shattered. Margaret had stepped away to fetch my heavier cloak. The crunch of gravel was my only warning.

Sarai launched herself from the skeletal hedgerows.

She was unrecognizable—gaunt, her hair a wild, matted tangle, her eyes burning with the fever of a grief-maddened mind. "You!" she shrieked, her voice scraping like rusted iron. "You stole him! You stole my baby!"

She slammed into me. I had a fraction of a second to react. I twisted violently, throwing my weight sideways to shield my womb. My shoulder hit the frozen earth with a bone-jarring crack. Sarai’s nails clawed at my face, her breath hot and reeking of sour wine and decay.

"I'll kill you!" she sobbed, her fingers digging into my throat. "I'll take yours!"

I did not scream. I brought my knee up hard into her ribs, breaking her grip just as the guards, alerted by the commotion, swarmed the path. They hauled her off me, her limbs thrashing wildly.

Conrad appeared at the edge of the garden, his face ashen. "Sarai," he breathed, stepping forward. "Let her go. She isn't in her right mind—"

A sharp, paralyzing tear ripped through my lower abdomen. I gasped, my vision whiting out for a terrifying second. My water broke, soaking the frozen earth beneath me. Too early. It was too early.

"Throw her in the holding cells," I commanded. My voice was a breathless rasp, but it carried the absolute weight of iron.

"Alexandria, be reasonable, she needs a physician—" Conrad started, his hands trembling.

"If you release the woman who just attempted to murder the First Lady of the Realm," I hissed, gripping Margaret’s arm as she hoisted me up, "I will see you hang beside her. The cells. Now."

Conrad flinched as if struck. He stepped back, letting the guards drag the screaming Sarai toward the dungeons.

Then, the true agony began.

They carried me to the birthing chamber. The very room where I had died. The velvet curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the smell of burning lavender, sweat, and copper. Every contraction was a tidal wave, threatening to drag me under into the dark memory of my previous life.

Through the haze of pain, I saw the door open. Dr. Evans, the estate physician Conrad had bribed with my own coin in that other life, approached the bed. He held a small glass vial, the liquid inside a pale, innocent amber.

"Drink this, my lady," he murmured, his eyes darting nervously to the shadows. "To ease the tearing."

The memory of that poison burning down my throat hit me so fiercely I choked. I slapped his hand. The vial shattered against the stone floor.

"Get out," I snarled, my teeth bared.

Evans blinked, stepping back. "My lady, Lord Westmoor insisted—"

"I do not care what my husband insists!" I gripped the bedpost, my knuckles white. "By the authority of the Crown, you are banished from this room. Margaret!"

The door swung open again. Lady Catherine’s trusted royal physician, a stern woman with steady, unbribable hands, stepped over the broken glass. Margaret locked the heavy oak door behind her, sliding the iron bolt into place. Conrad was shut out. Death was shut out.

For six agonizing hours, I waged war against my own body. I used the memory of my murder as kindling, letting the rage fuel my pushes when my strength faltered. I would not die here. Not again.

With one final, earth-shattering scream, the room fell silent.

Then, a cry. Sharp, furious, and full of life.

"A son, my lady," the royal physician whispered, gently laying the squalling, blood-slicked infant onto my chest. "Healthy and strong."

I wrapped my arms around William, burying my face in his damp hair. Tears, hot and entirely real, spilled down my cheeks. I had crossed the threshold of my own grave, and I had brought my son back with me.

The march to Conrad's ruin was no longer a plan. It was a promise.