When His Mistress Lied About Her Baby, I Ruined Them

The wipers on my Tesla slashed back and forth, fighting a losing battle against the deluge drowning the I-5. Seattle at night usually looked like a circuit board of gold and red, but tonight it was just a blur of smeared neon and aggressive headlights. My phone, mounted on the dash, buzzed, lighting up the dark cabin with a single notification.

*Peter: Don't do anything stupid. We need to talk.*

I gripped the steering wheel until the leather creaked. Talk. As if words could suture the wound he’d ripped open in the cafeteria today. Ahead, a sea of brake lights bloomed—a glowing red wall as traffic ground to a sudden halt near the convention center.

I moved my foot from the accelerator to the brake. I pressed down.

Nothing happened.

There was no resistance, no hydraulic bite. The pedal hit the floorboards with a hollow *thud*, as if I had stepped into a void. My stomach dropped, a physical plummet that matched the car’s unhindered momentum. I pumped the pedal once, twice. Useless. The speedometer read sixty, and the distance to the stalled semi-truck ahead was closing in seconds.

Panic flared, hot and white, but instinct kicked it down. I yanked the wheel hard to the right, aiming for the shoulder. The tires lost traction on the slick asphalt, the car hydroplaning, turning into a two-ton sled on ice. The world spun—rain, lights, concrete.

I wrestled the wheel, forcing the nose of the car toward the galvanized steel guardrail. I didn't brace; I drove into it.

*Screech.*

The sound was a banshee wail of metal on metal, vibrating through my teeth. Sparks showered the windshield, bright as magnesium flares against the rain. The passenger side of the Tesla crumpled and ground against the barrier, the friction acting as the brake Peter had stolen from me. The car shuddered violently, slowing, slowing, until it lurched to a halt inches from where the guardrail ended and the ravine began.

Silence rushed back in, broken only by the rhythmic *thwack-hiss* of the wipers and my own ragged breathing. I stared at the rain-streaked darkness, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn't a mechanical failure. Teslas screamed warnings for everything from low tire pressure to open doors. They didn't just lose hydraulic pressure.

I wasn't just a wife he wanted to leave. I was a loose end he needed to cut.

***

"Clean cut. Surgical, almost."

The mechanic, a man named Miller whom Spencer trusted with his life and his vintage Porsche, wiped grease from his hands with a rag. The Tesla was hoisted on the lift in his private garage, water still dripping from its undercarriage.

I stood under the fluorescent lights, my coat soaked, staring up at the severed brake line Miller was pointing to. The rubber hose hadn't burst. It had been sliced.

"You're sure?" I asked, though the nausea roiling in my gut was confirmation enough.

"Ms. Turner, I've seen wear and tear. I've seen rats chew through lines. This?" He traced the edge of the cut with a calloused finger. "This was a pair of shears. Someone wanted you dead, or at least in the hospital."

I nodded, the movement stiff. "Keep the line, Miller. Document everything. And don't release the car to anyone but my brother."

Thirty minutes later, I was in a room at the Fairmont under the name 'Jane S.', staring at the city skyline. I hadn't gone home. Home was where Peter was. Home was a crime scene waiting to happen.

I dialed Spencer. He picked up on the first ring.

"Josie? I've been calling you for an hour."

"He tried to kill me, Spence."

The line went dead silent. "Where are you?"

"Safe. Miller confirmed it. The brake lines were cut."

"I'm calling the police."

"No," I said, my voice cold, surprising even myself. "Not yet. If we go to the police now, it's just an investigation. He’ll lawyer up. He’ll spin it. I need to bury him first."

"Josie—"

"I'm done playing by the rules, Spencer. I'm going to burn his world down, and I'm going to use my own matches."

***

The service entrance of Turner Private Medical Center opened with a quiet beep as I scanned my master keycard. It was 2:00 AM. The hospital hummed with the low-frequency vibration of HVAC systems and distant machinery. I pulled my hood up, keeping my face obscured from the cameras I knew were there, though I technically owned them.

I didn't go to my office. I went to the server room in the basement.

The air was frigid, kept chilled for the banks of processors that held the lives of thousands of patients in binary code. I sat at the administrative terminal, my fingers flying across the keyboard.

*Access granted.*

I pulled up Angela Gomez’s personnel file first. Peter had been sloppy, arrogant. He assumed I would never look this deep. The logs showed manual overrides on the surgery schedule—dozens of them. He had been slotting Angela into complex procedures she was woefully underqualified for, bypassing the department head’s approval.

And there it was. Three previous incident reports. Minor errors—nicked arteries, improper suturing. All of them deleted from the official record. Recovering them took two keystrokes. He had erased the logs, but he hadn't scrubbed the backup server.

But I needed the nail in the coffin.

I navigated to the OR video archives. Peter had told me the footage of the castration was gone, a 'glitch' in the system. I searched for OR 3, two days ago.

*File: OR3_CAM_01. Deleted.*

I opened the recovery tool. My heart rate didn't spike this time. I felt a strange, icy calm.

*Restoring...*

The video file popped onto the screen. I hit play.

There it was in high definition. Angela’s shaking hands. The moment she severed the wrong anatomy. And then, crucially, Peter. The video had audio.

*"Just cut it, Angela! Stop hesitating!"* Peter’s voice, impatient and bullying, seconds before the mistake. He hadn't just covered it up; he had pressured her into the error.

I inserted a flash drive and initiated the download. The progress bar crawled across the screen—green, steady, inevitable.

I watched the percentage climb. 98%... 99%... 100%.

I pulled the drive out and closed my fist around it. It was small, cold, and heavy. It was the end of Peter Allen.