The Price of His Nineteen-Year-Old Mistress

Emily Porter's POV:

The next morning, I walked into the gallery I managed, a place that had been my sanctuary for the past four years, and handed my resignation to my boss, Clara.

"Emily? What is this?" she asked, her eyes wide with shock as she took the crisp envelope from my hand.

She had always been more of a friend than a boss. She knew about my father, about the transplant.

"I'm leaving, Clara," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I'm leaving the city."

"But... your father's surgery? Is everything okay?"

A fresh wave of pain washed over me, but I pushed it down. "He's gone, Clara. He passed away."

Her face fell. "Oh, Emily. I'm so, so sorry." She came around her desk and wrapped me in a hug. "What about Christopher? Does he know you're quitting? He loves how much you love this place."

"We're getting a divorce," I said, pulling away gently. The words felt foreign on my tongue, like a language I was just learning to speak.

The stunned silence that followed was broken by the sympathetic murmurs of my colleagues who had overheard. They gathered around, offering condolences and expressing their disbelief.

"But Christopher adores you," one of them, a young intern named Sarah, said. "He's always sending you flowers, picking you up in that fancy car... He's the perfect husband."

I didn't bother to correct her. What was the point? The illusion was all they had ever seen.

I quietly packed the few personal items from my desk into a small box-a framed photo of me and my dad, a mug he'd given me, a collection of poetry he loved.

As I was about to leave, a commotion near the front window caught my attention.

"Wow, speak of the devil," Sarah whispered, pointing outside. "He's here."

My body went rigid. There, parked at the curb, was the unmistakable gleam of Christopher's black Bentley.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and walked out of the gallery for the last time. I didn't look back.

I walked to the car and pulled open the passenger door.

The sight that greeted me was so grotesquely intimate that it stole the air from my lungs. Iris was curled up in the front seat, her head nestled against Christopher's shoulder, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping. She was like a little kitten, seeking warmth and protection.

The sound of the door opening made them both jump. Iris's eyes fluttered open, and a mask of panicked innocence immediately fell over her features.

"Emily! I... we were just..." she stammered, scrambling to sit up straight.

"It doesn't matter," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. I got into the back seat, the leather feeling cold and alien.

"What's with the box?" Christopher asked, his eyes flicking to the cardboard container on my lap. "Spring cleaning?"

"I quit," I said simply.

He frowned. "Why? We can talk about it later. I've booked a table at Le Bernardin. I ordered all of your father's favorite restorative dishes. Thought we could pack some up for him."

The mention of my father, so casual, so utterly oblivious, was a physical blow. A white-hot rage, followed by an icy wave of grief, crashed through me. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, just to keep from screaming.

I said nothing, just stared out the window as the city blurred past.

At the restaurant, in a private, opulent room, Christopher was the perfect host to the wrong guest. He fussed over Iris, placing a napkin on her lap, making sure her water glass was always full, ordering a special, non-alcoholic cocktail for her.

"You need to build up your strength," he told her, his voice laced with a tenderness that was once reserved only for me. "You're a hero, Iris."

She blushed, lowering her eyes. "It's nothing, Christopher. I'm just happy I can help."

I sat opposite them, an invisible ghost at their feast. I watched them, my heart a dead, heavy thing in my chest. I watched the way his eyes lingered on her, the way he laughed at her silly jokes, the way he brushed a stray crumb from her lips with his thumb.

"Emily, aren't you eating?" Iris asked, her voice laced with a cloying sweetness. She looked at Christopher, then back at me, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. "Are you mad at me? Because Christopher is being so nice?"

I looked at her, then calmly picked up my fork. "No," I said, my voice steady. "I'm not mad. Enjoy your meal."

I ate in silence, the exquisite food tasting like ash in my mouth.

Halfway through the meal, Christopher's phone rang. It was a business call he had to take.

"You two go on ahead to the car," he said, already distracted. "I'll be right down."

I stood up, grateful for the escape. Iris followed me out of the room. We walked in silence to the elevator.

The moment the polished brass doors slid shut, sealing us in the small, mirrored box, Iris' s demeanor changed. The shy, grateful girl vanished, replaced by a woman with a smirk on her face and steel in her eyes.

"He thinks you're boring, you know," she said, her voice dripping with malice. "He told me you're like a beautiful, perfect doll, but a doll is still just a thing. No fire. No passion. He's tired of it."

The words struck me, but I showed nothing.

"He says you're getting old," she continued, her eyes raking over me with contempt. "A flower that's starting to wilt."

Suddenly, the elevator gave a violent jolt, throwing us both off balance. The lights flickered, then went out, plunging us into absolute darkness.

Iris shrieked, a high-pitched, terrified sound, and grabbed onto my arm, her nails digging into my skin.

"It's okay," I said, my voice surprisingly calm as I fumbled for the emergency call button. "The elevator just stalled."

A crackling voice came through the intercom, muffled and indistinct. They were aware of the problem. They were sending someone.

But then, the elevator lurched again, this time with a sickening groan of stressed metal. It dropped a few feet, then stopped with a jarring thud.

Iris started screaming, a raw, primal sound of pure terror. "Help! Somebody help us! We're going to die!"

Another lurch. A longer drop. My own heart hammered against my ribs, but my mind was strangely clear. I braced myself against the wall, gripping the handrail until my knuckles were white.

"Christopher! Christopher, save me!" Iris wailed, collapsing into a sobbing heap on the floor.

Then, we heard it. Frantic footsteps outside. The sound of shouting. And a voice, cutting through the chaos, that made my breath catch.

"Iris! Emily! Are you in there?" It was Christopher.

"Christopher!" Iris screamed, her voice hoarse with tears. "Help me! I'm so scared!"

A maintenance worker's voice, strained and urgent, came through the broken door. "Sir, the main cable is frayed! It could snap at any second! We can only pry the door open enough to pull one person out at a time. You have to choose!"

The air in the elevator became thick, heavy, unbreathable.

Silence.

I could hear Christopher's ragged breathing just outside the door. I could hear Iris's desperate, hiccuping sobs. I could hear my own heart, a frantic drumbeat counting down the seconds of my life.

In the suffocating darkness, I waited for his answer.

And then it came. His voice, stripped of all emotion, was cold, clear, and utterly final.

"Save Iris."

My blood turned to ice.

The doors were wrenched open just enough for a person to squeeze through. I saw Christopher' s hands reach in, bypassing me completely, and pull Iris out of the darkness and into his arms. She clung to him, sobbing hysterically.

"It's okay, baby, it's okay," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I've got you."

He turned to the maintenance crew. "Now get my wife."

But as they moved to help me, a deafening screech of tearing metal filled the air.

The elevator plunged.

The world became a nauseating blur of motion. My stomach shot into my throat. The last thing I saw before everything went black was Christopher' s face, his eyes wide with a flicker of something I couldn't name. The last thing I heard was my own name, shouted in a voice I no longer recognized.

It was too late. It was always too late.