My Prince Cut Off My Arm for His Mistress

The news spread quickly. Like poison through water.

I'd been at Victor's club for barely a week when Maren Willis swept in, her perfume cutting through the stale air like a blade. She wasn't supposed to be here—not alone, not with that predatory gleam in her eyes.

"Where's the little ferryman?" she asked Victor, her voice carrying across the smoky room.

I shrank against the wall, but Victor's eyes found me instantly. "There she is, Miss Willis. Fresh meat."

Maren's laugh was crystalline and sharp. "Fresh? Hardly. But I'll take her anyway."

She led me to a private room upstairs—all red velvet and mirrors that reflected my hollow-eyed ghost back at me from every angle. I'd lost weight in the club; my collarbones jutted sharply beneath the flimsy fabric they made me wear.

"Kneel," Maren ordered, settling into an armchair like a queen on her throne.

I hesitated.

"Kneel," she repeated, "or I'll have Victor teach you what happens to girls who don't obey."

My knees hit the cold floor.

"Good." She poured tea from a silver pot, the steam rising in delicate curls. "You know, Royal told me all about you. His little pet from the river."

My hands trembled as I held the cup she extended toward me.

"Oh dear," Maren said, her voice dripping false sympathy as the scalding liquid splashed across my skin. "How clumsy of you."

I bit back a cry as the pain bloomed across my arms—angry red welts rising on my pale skin.

"Did you really think he loved you?" she asked, leaning forward to trace a finger along my jawline. "A prince? A river rat?"

The tea burned, but her words cut deeper.

"Royal says you were useful," she continued, refilling the cup. "A convenient distraction while he courted me properly."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

"Poor thing," Maren whispered, forcing the teacup into my burned hands. "Drink up. It's the best china."

---

Royal came the next night.

And the night after.

He brought Maren with him, their hands intertwined as they entered the club like royalty greeting subjects. Victor scrambled to accommodate them, clearing the main floor despite the paying customers.

"Tonight," Royal announced, his voice carrying that familiar authority that once made my heart race, "we celebrate."

Celebrate what? I wondered, standing rigid beside their table as Victor personally served them champagne.

"The future Mrs. Howard," Royal declared, pulling Maren close.

The room spun. Mrs. Howard. The name I'd once dreamed might be mine.

"Pour," Royal ordered, gesturing to me.

My hands shook as I lifted the bottle. Three years ago, I'd poured wine for him by the riverbank, our fingers brushing as we shared simple cups. Now I stood like a statue, forced to watch as he kissed Maren deeply, his hands roaming possessively over her body.

"She's looking rather pathetic," Maren observed between kisses. "Can't you do something about her appearance?"

Royal's eyes found mine—those storm-gray eyes I'd once drowned in. Now they held nothing but contempt.

"Victor," he called. "Make sure our girl here gets some proper rest. I want her looking her best when we come back tomorrow."

Tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

They came every night for a week. Royal would sit in the center of the room, Maren draped across his lap, while I stood nearby pouring wine, water, anything they demanded. He'd kiss her passionately, then look up at me with a smirk.

"Still here, Lina?" he'd ask loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Learning your place yet?"

---

The night of Victor's grand gathering arrived with a flurry of carriages and champagne towers. Every noble in New York seemed to cram into the club's already crowded space.

"The Prince and his future bride will be honored tonight," Victor announced, his voice thick with excitement. "Everyone who's anyone will be here!"

I'd been up since dawn, cleaning glasses and preparing trays. Now I stood at the edge of the chaos, a tower of crystal balanced in my hands.

"Move," Victor hissed, shoving me forward into the crowd.

The nobles parted reluctantly, their expensive fabrics brushing against my bare arms. Someone tripped me—deliberately—and I stumbled, catching myself before the glasses could fall.

"Clumsy bitch," a woman muttered.

"Watch where you're going," a man growled, shoving me sideways.

I righted myself, muscles straining under the weight of the tray. Sweat trickled down my spine as I navigated through the hostile crowd.

Royal stood at the center of it all, Maren clinging to his arm like she belonged there. When he saw me struggling, he smiled.

"Lina!" he called out, his voice carrying over the music. "Come pour for the guests of honor!"

More laughter. More hands reaching out to "accidentally" knock against my tray.

I stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, my arms burning with the effort of holding the heavy crystal steady.

Royal's eyes followed me, waiting for me to break.

I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

Not yet.