The Mistress's Name On His Heart

Lana POV

The dining room was bathed in the cold brilliance of a crystal chandelier that likely cost more than most people's houses. The table was set with gleaming silver and bone china.

My father sat at the head of the table, presiding like a king. Jameson's father sat opposite him. The tension was always there, a low hum of violence vibrating beneath the polite conversation, but tonight it felt heavier.

Jameson sat next to me, his hand resting with a heavy, possessive weight on the back of my chair.

"To family," Jameson's father toasted, raising his wine glass. "And to the future."

"To the future," everyone echoed.

I took a sip of water.

Then, the double doors opened.

Caren walked in.

The room plunged into silence. She wasn't invited. She wasn't family.

She was holding a white box. She wore a modest dress, acting the part of the humble servant's daughter to perfection.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt," she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound sincere. "I just... I made a cake. For Lana. It's her favorite. I wanted to apologize for missing the wedding."

My mother looked confused. "Caren? What are you doing here?"

Jameson stiffened beside me. He looked from me to Caren, naked panic rising in his eyes.

"I just wanted to make peace," Caren said, placing the box on the table. She opened it. It was a cannoli cake.

"How sweet," my mother said.

I knew Caren. I knew she didn't bake. And I knew she hated me.

"Go on, Lana," Caren said, smiling. "Try it."

I looked at her. Her eyes were hard, daring me.

I cut a small piece. I knew what she was doing. She was testing her power. She wanted to see if I would submit and eat from her hand.

I took a bite.

The taste was sweet, creamy.

And then, the fire ignited.

My throat tightened violently. My tongue swelled.

Peanuts.

I was deathly allergic. Caren knew this. We had grown up together. She knew even a trace amount could kill me.

I dropped the fork. It clattered loudly against the china.

"Lana?" my father asked, his voice sharp.

I grabbed my throat. I couldn't breathe. My windpipe was a thin straw that was collapsing in on itself.

"She's choking!" my mother screamed.

I looked at Jameson. I clawed at his arm.

"Epi..." I wheezed. "Pen..."

I pointed a shaking finger to my purse on the side table.

Jameson stood up. He looked at me, gasping for air, turning blue. Then he looked at Caren.

Caren stood there, eyes wide, feigning shock. But her mouth was curved in a tiny, imperceptible smirk.

If Jameson saved me, he would have to admit Caren had poisoned me. He would have to expose her.

He hesitated.

For three seconds-three eternities-he did nothing. He just watched me die.

He was weighing the life of his mistress against the life of his wife.

My vision started to tunnel. The edges of the room dissolved into black.

"Jameson! Do something!" his father roared.

That snapped him out of it. He lunged for the purse.

But it was too late. The darkness had already swallowed me.

The last thing I saw was Caren's face, triumphant. And the last thing I felt was the crushing realization that my husband had wanted me to die.