My Husband’s Mistress Poisoned Me at the Charity Gala

Three days passed in a haze of pain and fever. The penthouse felt like a mausoleum—beautiful, empty, and suffocating. Lorenzo had left for Boston with Felicity, his parting words still echoing in my mind: "This tantrum is beneath you, Alaina. We'll discuss your... concerns when I return."

Concerns. As if my broken body and shattered heart were mere inconveniences to his schedule.

I lay in the guest bedroom, having been banished from our marital bed when Felicity decided she needed to "rest" after our confrontation. The sheets beneath me were soaked with sweat, my skin burning with an intensity that made each breath a struggle.

"Water," I whispered to the empty room. My throat felt like sandpaper, my lips cracked and bleeding.

I pushed myself up, fighting the wave of nausea that accompanied each movement. The infection in my wounds had spread—I could smell it, that sickly-sweet odor of flesh beginning to decay. Dr. Chen had warned me about this, had begged me to stay in the hospital, but Lorenzo's dismissal had left me with no choice but to return to this beautiful prison.

"One step at a time," I murmured, using the wall for support as I shuffled toward the kitchen.

The hallway stretched before me like an endless corridor. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as I inched forward, leaving a trail of sweat on the polished marble floor.

"Just a little further," I encouraged myself.

I made it halfway before my legs gave out.

The fall seemed to happen in slow motion. I reached out blindly, trying to catch myself against something—anything—but my fingers closed on empty air. The marble floor rushed up to meet me, cold against my fevered skin.

As consciousness slipped away, I thought I heard voices in the hallway. A woman's sharp command. A man's urgent response.

"Alaina!"

That voice—not Lorenzo's. Deeper, warmer somehow.

Darkness claimed me before I could respond.

---

"BP's dropping. Get another round of antibiotics started."

Dr. Chen's voice pulled me back from the void. I blinked against harsh fluorescent lights, trying to orient myself.

"You're back at Mount Sinai," she explained, her face tight with controlled fury. "Your wounds were infected—severely infected. You've developed sepsis, Alaina. If they'd brought you in even six hours later..."

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to.

"Who?" I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

"Everett Foster and your mother found you collapsed in your apartment. They brought you straight here."

Memory flooded back—the fall, the voices, then nothing.

"Your mother's in the waiting room. She's been here the entire time."

I turned my head slightly, wincing at the pain that shot through my neck. Everett sat in the chair beside my bed, his usual carefree expression replaced by something harder, more determined.

"You've been delirious for hours," he said quietly. "Calling out for water, for help."

Shame burned through me, hotter than the fever. "Lorenzo—"

"Is in Boston," Everett finished, his jaw tightening. "With Felicity Watson."

Dr. Chen checked my IV before continuing. "Mr. Foster has been refusing to leave your side. I've had to threaten him with security twice."

A ghost of a smile touched Everett's lips, but his eyes remained serious. "Someone had to make sure you didn't slip away while that bastard was playing house in Boston."

The crude words should have shocked me. Instead, they felt like the truth I'd been avoiding for years.

"When you're stable," Everett continued, taking my hand in his, "you're coming to the Foster estate. Not a request, Alaina. A promise."

I stared at him, seeing past the playboy mask for the first time. Beneath it lay something I'd never noticed before—steel wrapped in silk, determination tempered by compassion.

"You can't—"

"I can," he interrupted, his grip tightening slightly. "And I will."

---

Lorenzo strode into his office, tossing his briefcase onto the leather couch. The Boston trip had been productive—new investors, new opportunities. Felicity had been... accommodating.

"Marcus," he called, knowing his attorney waited in the adjoining room. "What's the status on the Spencer situation?"

Marcus Webb entered, his expression carefully neutral as he placed a thick folder on Lorenzo's desk.

"Your wife has filed for divorce," he said, watching Lorenzo's reaction closely.

Lorenzo's eyebrow arched slightly. "Still with the dramatics? What does she want?"

"The papers are quite clear," Marcus replied, opening the folder to reveal medical reports and legal documents. "She's citing emotional abandonment and physical endangerment."

Lorenzo waved dismissively. "Offer her the minimum settlement according to the prenup. She's just looking for attention."

"Sir," Marcus hesitated, "these medical reports indicate she nearly died from complications related to her accident. The doctor specifically mentions 'lack of proper care' as a contributing factor."

"So?" Lorenzo's voice hardened. "She's an adult. If she can't handle a minor car accident without making a scene—"

"Minor?" Marcus couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice. "She fractured her collarbone and developed sepsis. That's hardly minor."

Lorenzo's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you questioning me, Marcus?"

The attorney fell silent, but Lorenzo caught the flash of something in his eyes—disgust, perhaps. Or pity.

"Handle it," Lorenzo ordered, turning away. "Stall the proceedings, offer the minimum. She'll come crawling back when she realizes she's thrown away everything for nothing."

As Marcus left the office, Lorenzo pulled out his phone, frowning at the lack of messages from Alaina. For a moment, doubt flickered across his face—but it was quickly replaced by cold determination.

She would learn her place. She always did.