My Fiancé Left Me Dying for His Mistress

Lennon stood between me and the door. Her smile was still in place, but something had shifted in her eyes. Something cold.

'I wanted to thank you,' she said.

I turned on the faucet. Splashed water on my face. 'For what?'

'For everything you built.' She leaned against the counter, examining her nails. 'The brand. The followers. The sponsorships. Darius would be nothing without all that.'

I dried my hands slowly. 'I did it for him.'

'I know.' She laughed, soft and cruel. 'That's the best part.'

I moved toward the door. She stepped sideways, blocking my path.

'We're not done,' she said.

My ribs ached. My head throbbed. I just wanted to leave. 'Excuse me.'

'Do you remember two years ago?' Her voice was casual now, conversational. 'When you had that miscarriage?'

The air left my lungs.

'You called Darius over and over that night,' she continued. 'I was there. We were in my apartment. His phone kept buzzing on the nightstand. He got so annoyed he turned it off.' Her fingers trailed to the base of her throat. Two fingers. That gesture. 'He told me later what happened. How you bled all over the sheets. How the neighbor found you.'

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

'He was relieved,' Lennon said, studying my face. 'That's what he told me. Relieved. Because a baby would have tied him to you forever, and he was already planning his exit strategy.' She tilted her head. 'They threw it out, you know. The remains. Medical waste. That's what the hospital calls it.'

Something inside me snapped.

I lunged at her. My hands found her shoulders. She stumbled backward, her eyes wide with surprise. We crashed into the wall. A heavy decorative fixture — wrought iron shaped like a vine — tore loose from its mounting.

It swung downward and struck me across the temple.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. I felt warmth spreading down the side of my face. Blood. My vision blurred.

Lennon screamed. High and theatrical. 'Help! She's attacking me!'

I pressed my hand to my head. It came away red.

The restroom door slammed open. Darius stood there, his face dark with fury. Behind him, I could see other diners crowding the hallway, phones out, cameras pointed at us.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' he hissed.

I opened my mouth, but no words came.

He crossed the space between us in two strides. His hand closed around my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. A warning. He pushed me backward until my spine hit the wall.

'Stop making a scene,' he said, his voice low and venomous.

I couldn't breathe. Not from his hand — it wasn't tight enough for that — but from the weight of everything. The miscarriage. The lies. The seven years. The baby I'd lost while he silenced my calls from another woman's bed.

'Darius, please,' Lennon whimpered behind him. 'She just came at me. I don't know what I did.'

His fingers pressed a little harder against my throat. His face was inches from mine. I could see myself reflected in his eyes — bleeding, broken, pathetic.

'You're embarrassing me,' he said.

Someone in the hallway shouted, 'Hey! Get your hands off her!'

Darius released me. Stepped back. Smoothed his shirt.

Restaurant security pushed through the crowd. Two men in black polo shirts with radios clipped to their belts. 'We need everyone to calm down,' one of them said.

Lennon was crying now, real tears streaming down her face. 'I don't know what happened. We were just talking, and she attacked me.'

The security guard looked at me. At the blood running down my face. At the fixture hanging loose from the wall. 'Ma'am, do you need medical attention?'

I touched my temple. My hand came away slick and red. 'No.'

'She needs to leave,' Darius said. 'She's clearly unstable.'

The crowd in the hallway was growing. I could see the phones. The recording lights. Every second of this captured and uploaded and spreading.

The security guard touched my elbow gently. 'Let's get you cleaned up.'

I let him guide me down the hallway, away from Darius, away from Lennon's theatrical sobs, away from the cameras. Behind me, I heard Darius's voice, smooth and concerned. 'I'm so sorry, everyone. She's been under a lot of stress lately.'

In the restaurant's back office, the security guard handed me a first aid kit. I pressed gauze to my temple and watched my blood soak through the white fabric.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *Outside in the black car. When you're ready.*

Caspian.

I stood up. The room tilted slightly, then steadied.

'Ma'am, you should really see a doctor,' the security guard said.

'I will,' I lied.

I walked out through the kitchen exit. The alley smelled like garbage and rain. At the curb, a black sedan idled, its engine purring softly.

The back door opened.

I got in.

Caspian sat beside me in the darkness. He didn't ask questions. Didn't offer empty comfort. Just handed me a clean towel and waited.

I pressed it to my bleeding temple and finally let myself feel it. All of it. The baby I'd lost. The man I'd loved. The seven years I'd never get back.

'I'm ready,' I whispered.

Caspian pulled out his phone. Opened an app. Handed it to me.

The screen showed a live stream interface. Multiple platforms queued. Camera active.

Two million potential viewers.

I looked at my reflection in the black screen. Blood matting my hair. Bruises shadowing my throat. Eyes that had finally stopped lying to themselves.

I pressed the button.

The red light blinked on.

And I began to speak.