The Price of His Nineteen-Year-Old Mistress

Emily Porter's POV:

I woke up to the familiar, stinging scent of antiseptic. For the second time in as many days, I was in a hospital bed.

Christopher was there, slumped in a chair beside me. He looked exhausted, his usually impeccable suit was rumpled, and a dark stubble shadowed his jaw. When he saw my eyes open, a wave of relief washed over his face.

"Emily," he breathed, reaching for my hand. "You're awake. How do you feel?"

I flinched, pulling my hand away as if his touch were fire.

He recoiled, his expression wounded. "Emily, I... I had to save Iris first," he began, his voice low and earnest. "She's so young, so fragile. The thought of the transplant was already terrifying her. And she's... she's the key to saving your father."

The lie, so practiced, so smooth, hung in the air between us. He was still using my dead father as a shield.

"If you had to choose again," I asked, my voice a raw whisper, "in that elevator, with no other factors... who would you have saved?"

He froze. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. It was a simple question, but in his hesitation, in the flicker of conflict in his eyes, I saw the truth.

The truth was that he had to think about it.

A bitter smile twisted my lips. That single second of hesitation was my answer.

Just then, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He glanced at the screen, and a slight frown creased his brow. It was Iris.

He answered, his voice instantly softening. "Hey, what's wrong?"

I could hear her faint, crying voice through the receiver. "I had a nightmare... about the elevator. I'm so scared, Christopher. Can you... can you come over?"

He looked at me, a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

"Go," I said, my voice flat. "She needs you."

"But you just woke up..."

"I don't need you, Christopher," I said, turning my face to the wall.

He didn't need any more convincing. He stood up, relief palpable in his posture. "Okay. I'll be back later. Get some rest." He rushed out of the room, so quickly that he left his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair.

A week later, I was discharged. I came home to our sprawling penthouse, a place that now felt as cold and empty as a mausoleum. Christopher was in the living room, holding a thick, cream-colored invitation.

"There you are," he said, his tone casual, as if the past week of horror had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "The annual charity auction is tonight. I need you to come with me."

"I'm not going," I said.

"Don't be difficult, Emily," he said, his voice hardening. "Iris will be there. She feels terrible about what happened. She wants to apologize, to make things right between you two."

He was trying to smooth things over, to sweep the wreckage of our lives under the rug and pretend everything was fine.

"No," I said again.

He strode over to me, his patience clearly gone. He grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. "You're coming. We need to present a united front. For your father's sake."

I winced as his fingers pressed against the bruised flesh of my arm, a lingering souvenir from the elevator crash. I said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

So I went.