My Husband Asked Me to Give His Mistress My Skin

The Thanksgiving table glittered like a photograph in a magazine. Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandelier. The turkey sat perfect and golden in the center, surrounded by dishes that had taken the kitchen staff three days to prepare. I sat at my usual place, between Lian's second cousin and his brother-in-law. No one had spoken to me in twenty minutes. I'd stopped trying to start conversations after the third person looked through me as if I were made of glass.

The wine in my glass was untouched. I'd learned not to drink anything I hadn't poured myself, even though the paranoia felt crazy. But I'd seen Paislee in the kitchen earlier, her back to me, bent over the service tray. She'd straightened when I entered, her smile so practiced it barely moved her cheeks.

She was seated directly across from me. Lian had put her there himself, pulling out her chair with a gallantry that made the older guests exchange glances. She wore a red dress that clung to her ribs and made her skin look very pale. She'd been playing the perfect guest all evening, laughing at the right moments, asking the right questions. Her left arm was bandaged under the table. The graft I'd refused to give had come from a donor bank instead.

The first course was just being cleared when she struck.

It began with a small gasp. Everyone looked up. Paislee's hand flew to her mouth, then dropped to her stomach. Her eyes went wide and wet.

"I don't feel well," she whispered. Her voice carried in the sudden silence. "I feel... oh God..."

She stood up. The chair scraped against the floor. She pressed both hands to her abdomen, swaying slightly. Then she bent forward and vomited across the white tablecloth.

The sound was terrible. Wet and raw. When she straightened, there were flecks of red on her lips. Blood in the wine she'd brought up. The table erupted. Women gasped. Men stood. Someone called for a doctor.

I sat frozen. I knew. Even as the horror of it unfolded, I knew what was happening. The timing. The performance. The blood that couldn't be real, not like that, not from wine.

But Paislee was already pointing at me. Her hand shook. Her voice shook. Her whole body shook like a leaf.

"She put something in my drink," she choked out. "She's been trying to get rid of me. She... she's been leaving notes. Threats. Please, I'm scared..."

The room went quiet again. Every eye turned to me. I opened my mouth to deny it, to demand they test whatever was in her glass, to scream that she was lying—

But Lian was already moving.

He was out of his chair. Around the table. He lifted Paislee in his arms like she weighed nothing. She curled against his chest, her face tucked into his neck. He turned toward the door, and as he passed my chair, he stopped.

"James," he said to his head of security, who materialized from the corner of the room. "Lock Mrs. Ward in the formal sitting room. No phone. No visitors. She stays there until I return."

James nodded. He didn't look at me.

"Lian," I whispered. "You know I didn't—"

He was already walking away, carrying her toward the elevator. Toward the car. Toward the hospital.

"This is insane," I said to the room at large. "She's faking. Can't you see she's faking?"

But the guests were already gathering their things. Murmuring excuses. Backing toward the door. The hostess was apologizing, the host was calling for coats, and I stood there like a monument to something no one wanted to remember.

Reese Hoffman was the last to leave the dining room. She paused in the doorway. For one moment, her eyes met mine across the wreckage of the table. There was no surprise there. No shock. Just a deep, quiet sorrow that made my throat tight.

She knew. She'd seen it coming.

Then she was gone too, and James gestured toward the hall. "This way, ma'am."

I walked to the formal sitting room on my own two feet. I didn't fight. I didn't scream. I sat down in one of the antique chairs, and James locked the door with a soft click that sounded like the end of something.

The sitting room was cold. The heat didn't reach this part of the penthouse very well. I sat in the growing silence and listened to the sounds of the household going quiet around me. Voices faded. Doors closed. Cars pulled away from the curb outside.

No one brought me food. No one brought me water. No one checked to see if I was all right. I sat in the dark, watching the city lights blur through the tears I refused to let fall, and I thought about the sweater I'd knitted. The wedding album. The three months of my life I'd spent at his bedside.

When James finally unlocked the door near midnight, I didn't thank him. I walked through the empty penthouse on unsteady legs. Past the dining room, where the Thanksgiving table still stood with its crystal and its turkey and the place setting that had been mine—untouched, perfect, abandoned.

I understood something then, with a clarity so sharp it felt like glass in my veins. I wasn't a wife in this house. I wasn't even a person.

I was a problem being managed. Until I could be eliminated.