My Fiancé Watched as His Mistress Tried to Kill Me

The pain had become a constant, burning companion as I drifted in and out of consciousness. Through the haze of agony, I felt Brittany's presence like a shadow hovering over me. Her fingers gripped my chin, forcing my face upward.

"Look here, Katherine," she commanded, holding my phone in front of my eyes. The screen glowed with the familiar face unlock prompt.

I tried to turn away, but my neck wouldn't cooperate. The glue had spread further, creating a rigid collar around my throat that made even breathing a struggle.

"Don't be difficult," Brittany hissed, pressing the phone closer. "This will all be much easier if you cooperate."

The phone vibrated against my skin as it recognized my face. I heard the soft chime of confirmation, followed by Brittany's satisfied exhale.

"Perfect," she murmured, her fingers dancing across the screen. "Let's see what we're working with today."

Through half-lidded eyes, I watched as she navigated through my banking apps with practiced efficiency. The blue light of the screen illuminated her face in sharp relief, highlighting the concentration in her eyes as she entered passwords and security codes.

"Your father really should have taught you better security habits," she said, glancing down at me with mock disappointment. "Using your birthday for your password? So predictable."

I wanted to scream, to tell her that my father had taught me everything about security—but that I'd grown complacent in what I thought was safety. Instead, I could only manage a weak gurgling sound as another wave of pain crashed through me.

"Oh, don't worry about thanking me," Brittany continued, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she tapped through another authentication screen. "I'll take good care of your money. Much better care than you ever did."

The phone chimed again as she successfully transferred funds to an account I didn't recognize. The transaction confirmation appeared on screen—a six-figure sum moving to an offshore account with a cryptic name.

"That's number seventeen," she said to herself, making a note on a piece of paper. "Still got four more to go."

Hours passed in a blur of pain and semi-consciousness. The bathroom lights seemed to dim and brighten as my body struggled to process the chemical trauma. My breathing had become shallow, each inhale a battle against the fire in my lungs.

"Check her pulse," I heard Xander say from somewhere nearby. His voice sounded distant, underwater.

Brittany's cool fingers pressed against my wrist. I felt her count the weak beats of my heart with clinical detachment.

"She's still with us," she announced, her tone suggesting this was more inconvenience than concern. "But not for much longer."

She leaned closer, studying my face with the intensity of a scientist observing a specimen. "The shock is setting in. Neurogenic shock from the trauma. Her body's shutting down."

"Will she..." Xander began, but couldn't finish the question.

"Die?" Brittany finished for him, her smile returning. "Oh yes. It's just a matter of time now. The question is whether it will be fast enough."

I felt her fingers brush against my forehead, pushing back damp strands of hair. The gesture might have been tender if not for the cold calculation in her eyes.

"I'd say we have another hour, maybe two," she said, checking her watch. "Then we can start phase two."

---

Miles away, in the opulent study of the Foster estate, my father checked his watch for the third time in fifteen minutes. The antique timepiece had been in our family for generations, but tonight it seemed to tick with unusual urgency.

"Mr. Foster," his assistant said from the doorway, "it's 10:15 PM."

I imagined my father's face—the familiar furrow between his brows that deepened when he was concerned. He'd be standing by the window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline as he did every night before bed.

"Katherine hasn't called," he would say, his voice carrying that particular blend of authority and worry that only a father could manage.

"She's probably just caught up in the birthday celebration," his assistant might offer, but even as she spoke, I knew my father wouldn't believe it.

My father knew me too well. He knew I called every night at 9:00 PM sharp—a ritual we'd established after the kidnapping attempt last year. It was our unspoken agreement, our check-in that assured him I was safe.

He would reach for his phone, dialing my number with practiced precision. The call would go straight to voicemail.

"Katherine," he would say into the phone, his voice controlled but tight with concern, "call me immediately."

He would not wait for the police. He would not waste time with protocols or procedures. With the instinct of a father who had built an empire through gut feelings and decisive action, he would bypass conventional channels.

"Marcus," he would bark into his secure line, "activate Code Red. Find my daughter."

And somewhere in the city, the machinery of his private security apparatus would spring into motion—a force designed not just for protection, but for extraction in the most extreme circumstances.

As darkness crept further into my vision, I wondered if they would find me in time.