My Groom’s Mistress Tried to Kill Me in a Parking Garage

The silence of the penthouse was shattered not by a scream, but by the buzz of the intercom. It was a harsh, electronic sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. Mathias stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, looking down at the city like a king surveying a conquered kingdom.

"He's here," Mathias said, his voice devoid of surprise. "Drunk. Demanding his property."

My stomach twisted. "River?"

"He's making a scene in the lobby. I told security to send him up." Mathias turned, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "He needs to see that the door is closed, Sophia. And you need to be the one to lock it."

Minutes later, the elevator doors slid open. River Edwards stumbled out, the stench of scotch preceding him. His tie was undone, his hair a chaotic mess that no longer resembled the golden boy of Seattle. He looked wild, his eyes bloodshot and frantic.

"Sophia!" He lunged toward me, but stopped short when Mathias stepped seamlessly into his path. River sneered, swaying on his feet. "Get out of my way, Fox. You stole her. She's mine. We have a history you can't just buy."

"She is my wife," Mathias said. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "And you are trespassing."

River ignored him, trying to look around Mathias's broad shoulder. "Soph, come on. This is insane. You're hurt, I get it. But you don't belong here in this... ice box. You belong with me. You've always belonged to me."

The entitlement in his voice—the assumption that I was an object to be reclaimed—snapped something inside my chest. It wasn't the asthma this time; it was rage.

I stepped out from behind Mathias. My hands were shaking, but I balled them into fists at my sides. "I don't belong to anyone, River. Especially not a man who calls me a placeholder."

River flinched, the color draining from his face. "You... you heard that?"

"I heard everything," I said, my voice trembling but gaining strength. "And I saw her. I saw Mya wearing your mother's necklace. The one she promised to me on her deathbed. The one you let that woman wear while you plotted to humiliate me."

River reached out, his hand trembling. "Sophia, please—"

"Get out," I whispered. Then louder. "Get out!"

Mathias moved then, a blur of motion. He didn't touch River, but the sheer menace radiating from him was enough to make River stumble back into the elevator. As the doors closed on River’s shattered expression, the adrenaline crashed out of me.

The room spun. The familiar iron band tightened around my ribs. My breath hitched, turning into a wheeze. Panic flared—bright and blinding.

"Sophia." Mathias was there instantly. He didn't ask what was wrong; he knew. He guided me to the sofa, his movements precise. "Sit. Lean forward."

His hand vanished into his jacket pocket and reappeared with a spare inhaler—brand new, still in the box. He tore it open and pressed it into my hand. "Breathe. Deep and slow. Match my count."

I took the puff, the medicine burning its way into my lungs. As I gasped, my vision clearing, I saw Mathias crouching in front of me. In his haste to help, his dress shirt had pulled up slightly at the waist.

There, against the tan skin of his torso, was a landscape of jagged, silvery lines. Scars. Deep, old, and violent. They wrapped around his ribs, disappearing toward his back.

"Mathias," I rasped, pointing a trembling finger. "Your side..."

He looked down, his jaw tightening. He stood abruptly, buttoning his jacket and smoothing the fabric, effectively shielding the damage from my view.

"Old history," he said, his tone closing the subject like a steel vault. "Focus on your breathing, Sophia. The past can't hurt us unless we let it."

***

Two days later, London decided that hiding in a penthouse was "bad for the complexion" and dragged me to the Emerald Heights Country Club.

"We are reclaiming the narrative," London announced, marching us toward the terrace where the Seattle elite were pretending not to stare. "Head up, shoulders back. You're Mrs. Fox now. Act like you own the place."

We hadn't even reached our table when a shadow fell over us.

"Well, if it isn't the bride of the century." Mya Johnston stood there, a champagne flute in hand, looking like a venomous orchid in silk. River was behind her, looking miserable and nursing a dark drink, refusing to meet my eyes.

Mya stepped closer, her gaze raking over my simple dress. "I must say, Sophia, you move on quickly. Though I suppose when you're bought and paid for by the Fox empire, you do what you're told."

London surged forward, her hand tightening around her glass of iced tea. "Listen here, you discount Barbie—"

I put a hand on London's arm, stopping her. The anger that had consumed me days ago had cooled into something sharper. Something lethal.

I looked Mya dead in the eye. My gaze dropped to her neck. The vintage Tiffany necklace was there, glinting in the sunlight.

"That's a beautiful piece," I said softly. The table went quiet. Even the nearby diners stopped chewing.

Mya smirked, fingering the silver charm. "River thinks it suits me. It's a family heirloom, you know. For the woman he truly loves."

"I know," I said, my voice steady and clear. "His mother told me the story. She said the silver tarnishes instantly if worn by someone with a deceitful heart. She believed it carried the weight of the wearer's sins."

Mya’s hand froze on the metal.

"It looks heavy on you, Mya," I said, offering a small, pitying smile. "I'd be careful. Necklaces like that have a way of becoming nooses when you least expect it."

Mya’s face turned a blotchy red. She opened her mouth to snap back, but the whispers around the terrace had already started. She grabbed River’s arm, her nails digging in, and dragged him away, the victory she sought turning to ash in her mouth.

London let out a long, low whistle. "Remind me never to piss you off, Mrs. Fox."