My Husband’s Mistress Framed Me for a Crime

The neon sign of The Rusty Anchor flickered erratically, casting an eerie red glow over the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. I watched from across the street, hidden behind a row of dumpsters that reeked of stale beer and rotting food. My father had been inside for nearly an hour.

Ronald Bennett stumbled out of the bar, his gait unsteady, his face flushed with alcohol and something else—guilt, perhaps? He fumbled with his jacket pocket, counting something in his hand. Money. Too much money for a man who could barely afford his next drink.

"Did you get what you needed?" I called out, stepping into the light.

He startled, nearly dropping the cash. "Vivian! I—I didn't know you were coming."

"Clearly." I crossed my arms, noting the fresh bruise on his cheekbone. "Who gave you that money?"

"No one," he lied, tucking the bills deeper into his pocket. "Just... just a friend."

"A friend who asked you to show up at Black Enterprises tomorrow?" The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

His eyes widened. "How did you—"

"I know about the script, Dad." My voice broke slightly. "The one that tells you exactly what to say when you create a scene in the lobby."

Ronald looked down at his shoes, scuffing the toe against the pavement. "She said you were keeping money from me. That you were ashamed of me."

"Estella said that." It wasn't a question.

"She recorded our conversation," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Said she was just trying to help me get what's mine."

I felt sick. "She's using you to get to me."

---

The archival department's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I sorted through another stack of files. Three days had passed since my father's visit, and Kingston had doubled my workload in retaliation for my "family drama." The company gala was tomorrow night, and I'd been ordered to prepare all the promotional materials.

"Another late night, Vivian?" Margaret's voice came from the doorway.

"Just finishing up," I lied, my stomach growling audibly. I'd forgotten to eat lunch again.

Margaret set down a paper bag. "I brought you something. You look terrible."

I managed a weak smile. "Thanks."

The sandwich sat untouched as I worked through dinner. By eight o'clock, I was alone in the basement, surrounded by boxes of brochures and promotional items for tomorrow's event.

The elevator chimed. Estella stepped out, immaculate in a designer dress.

"Still working?" she asked, her voice dripping with false concern. "Kingston will be so pleased with your dedication."

I didn't respond, focusing on lifting a heavy box of promotional items.

"You know," she continued, examining her manicure, "it would be a shame if something happened to delay tomorrow's event."

I hefted the box, my vision blurring slightly. "Nothing will delay it."

"That's what I thought." She smiled, stepping back into the elevator.

I made it halfway across the lobby before my knees buckled. The box slipped from my grasp, promotional materials spilling across the marble floor. The room tilted sideways as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision.

I heard shouting. Footsteps. Someone calling for an ambulance.

Then nothing.

---

The hospital room was too bright, too sterile. Antiseptic smell burned my nostrils as consciousness returned in painful fragments.

"She's awake," a nurse said softly.

I blinked, trying to focus. Kingston stood by the window, his silhouette backlit by the harsh fluorescent light.

"Vivian." His voice was different—softer, almost concerned.

"Mr. Black," I whispered, instinctively trying to sit up.

He moved closer, his face etched with something I'd never seen before. Fear? Regret?

"Stay still," he said, gently pressing me back against the pillows. "You collapsed from exhaustion and malnutrition."

I turned away, unwilling to see this unexpected gentleness. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." His hand found mine, warm and steady. "I pushed you too hard."

For a moment, I believed him. For a moment, I thought I saw the man I'd once convinced myself I loved.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Then I heard it—the soft click of a camera from the hallway.

Kingston's expression hardened instantly. He dropped my hand as if burned. "Get some rest," he said coldly, already moving toward the door.

---

The headline screamed across my phone screen: "Heir's Secret Mistress: The Assistant Who Won't Let Go."

Beneath it was a photo of Kingston holding my hand in the hospital room, his expression softened in a way that implied far more than compassion.

My phone rang. Kingston.

"Come to my office when you're discharged," he said without preamble.

"I didn't leak that photo," I said, my voice shaking.

"Save it." His tone was ice. "Be there in an hour."

The hospital corridor stretched endlessly before me as I made my way to Kingston's office. He was waiting, his expression unreadable.

"Sign this," he said, sliding a document across the desk.

I scanned the first paragraph and felt the blood drain from my face. "You want me to claim I harassed you?"

"It's the only way to salvage the company's reputation." His eyes were cold, calculating. "Say you made unwanted advances due to mental instability."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll ensure you never work in this city again." He leaned forward. "Sign it, Vivian. It's your only option."

I stared at the paper, my hand trembling as I reached for the pen.