The Price of His Nineteen-Year-Old Mistress

Emily Porter's POV:

"She's jealous!" Iris sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She didn't want you to give me the necklace, so she tried to snatch it! She pushed me, Christopher, I swear! I just... I lost my balance and she fell." Her performance was flawless, a masterclass in manipulative vulnerability.

Christopher's gaze, which had for a fleeting second held a flicker of shock as he saw my bloody form, hardened into cold fury as he looked at Iris.

"Emily, what the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled, striding past me without a second glance. "How could you be so petty? She's a guest! She's our savior!"

I tried to speak, to tell him the truth, but the words were caught in my throat, drowned out by the roaring in my ears.

"I didn't... she..."

"I'm so sorry, Christopher," Iris wailed, cutting me off. "It's all my fault. I shouldn't have accepted such a beautiful gift. Please, don't be mad at Emily."

That was all it took. Her feigned self-blame was the final, perfect stroke.

Christopher immediately knelt beside her, his entire focus shifting. "Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?" he asked, his voice drenched in a tenderness that was a physical blow to my heart.

He gently took her arm, inspecting a tiny, superficial scratch where the necklace clasp had scraped her. To him, in that moment, that faint red line was a more grievous wound than the gash on my head or my clearly broken arm.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," he declared, his decision absolute. He scooped her up into his arms, cradling her as if she were made of spun glass.

"But... what about Emily?" Iris whispered, peering over his shoulder at me, a flicker of triumph in her tear-filled eyes.

Christopher glanced back at me, his expression one of pure disgust. I was a mess, a problem, an embarrassment lying in a pool of blood at his feet.

"She can get up herself," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "She's always been tougher than she looks."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me there.

I lay on the cold marble, the world fading in and out of focus. I watched his back, broad and uncompromising, as he carried another woman away from me. He didn't look back. Not once.

The blood continued to flow, pooling around me, a stark, crimson indictment of his choice. The pain in my arm was excruciating, a sharp counterpoint to the dull, throbbing ache in my head. But it was nothing compared to the void that had opened up in my soul.

I tried to call for help, but only a faint, breathy whisper escaped my lips. The grand, empty hallway offered no response.

My consciousness began to fray at the edges. In the flickering moments before I passed out, a single, clear thought cut through the fog of pain.

At our wedding, he had vowed to love me, in sickness and in health, to cherish and protect me, forsaking all others.

That vow, I realized with a chilling certainty, had a five-year expiration date.