My Husband Forced Me to Save His Mistress

Cole's study smells like leather and old money. Mahogany desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. I've been in here a thousand times. Tonight it feels like a tomb.

He doesn't look up when I walk in. Just slides a manila folder across the desk toward me.

"Sit," he says.

I don't sit. I stay standing by the door. My scrubs are still damp from the surgery I finished an hour ago. I got his text in the middle of closing. *Come home. Now.*

"What is this?" I ask.

He leans back in his chair. His tie is loosened. His jaw is tight. He looks tired. Good.

"Open it," he says.

I pick up the folder. Inside are medical files. Patient intake forms. A surgical consent waiver. The name at the top makes my stomach drop.

*Tallulah Ross.*

I look up. "No."

Cole's eyes are flat. "You'll perform the IVF implantation. Manhattan Presbyterian. You'll schedule it within the week."

The folder slips from my hands. Papers scatter across the Persian rug. I stare at him. My husband. The man who once knelt in the rain outside Tallulah's apartment, begging her not to release the photos that would destroy my father's career. I thought he did it for me. For us.

Now I'm not sure he ever did anything for me.

"Cole," I say slowly. "She stabbed me. Eighteen times. I couldn't have children because of her."

He doesn't blink. "That was years ago."

"Years ago," I repeat. My voice sounds strange. Hollow. "She put a knife in my stomach and you want me to put a baby in hers."

"I want you to do your job."

I laugh. It comes out sharp and ugly. "My job. Jesus Christ, Cole—"

"Your father's treatment costs forty thousand dollars a week," he cuts in. His voice is cold. Businesslike. "The facility called yesterday. They need confirmation that payment will continue."

The room tilts. I grab the edge of the desk.

"What?"

"You do the procedure," Cole says. "I keep paying. You refuse, and the treatment stops. Tonight."

I can't breathe. The air in this room is too thick. Too heavy. I look at Cole's face and search for something. Anything. A flicker of guilt. A shadow of the man I married.

Nothing.

"Do you understand what you're asking me to do?" I whisper.

He stands. Walks around the desk. Stops in front of me. He's taller than I am. Broader. He smells like expensive cologne and something else. Something that makes my skin crawl.

"I'm not asking," he says.

I stare up at him. My hands are shaking. I curl them into fists so he won't see.

"He's my father," I say.

"Then you know what you need to do."

He walks past me. Out of the study. Down the hall. I hear his footsteps fade. Hear a door close somewhere in the penthouse.

I stand there for a long time. Staring at the papers on the floor. At Tallulah's name printed in neat black letters.

Then I bend down. Pick them up. One by one.

---

The OR is freezing. It's always freezing. I used to like that. The cold kept me sharp. Focused.

Tonight it just makes me numb.

Tallulah is on the table. She's draped in surgical blue. Her eyes are half-closed from the sedative. But she's smiling.

"Dr. Lawrence," she murmurs. Her voice is soft. Sweet. "Thank you for this."

I don't answer. I pull on my gloves. Check the instruments. The embryos are already prepared. Two of them. Viable. Healthy.

I want to vomit.

"Your hands are so steady," Tallulah says. Her words are slurring now. The anesthesia is kicking in. "I remember what they felt like. When they were trying to stop the bleeding."

I freeze. The nurse beside me glances over. I force my hands to keep moving.

Tallulah's smile widens. Then her eyes close.

I perform the procedure. Every step perfect. Every movement precise. I've done this a hundred times. For couples who wanted children. For women who deserved hope.

Now I'm doing it for the woman who destroyed me.

When it's over, I strip off my gloves. Walk out of the OR. Down the hall. Into the locker room.

I pull out my phone. Dial the number for my father's facility.

A man answers. Dr. Brennan. I know his voice.

"Dr. Lawrence," he says. He sounds surprised. "I wasn't expecting—"

"Is my father okay?" I ask. "Did the payment go through?"

Silence.

"Dr. Lawrence," he says carefully. "I'm very sorry. Your father passed away three days ago."

The phone slips. I catch it. Press it back to my ear.

"What?"

"There were complications," Dr. Brennan says. "Medication irregularities. We tried to reach you, but—"

"Three days ago," I repeat.

My father died three days ago. Before Cole made his demand. Before I performed the procedure.

The leverage was a corpse.

I slide down the locker. Sit on the cold tile floor. The surgical mask is still around my neck. I pull it off. Crumple it in my fist.

Then I scream.

---

I don't remember driving home. But I'm standing in the penthouse. In the living room. Cole is on the couch. Tallulah is beside him. She's wearing a silk robe. Her hand is on his arm.

They both look up when I walk in.

"My father is dead," I say.

Cole's expression doesn't change. "I know."

"You knew. Before you made me—" I can't finish. My throat is closing.

"He was dying anyway, Reese," Cole says. "This way, something good came out of it."

I stare at him. At the man I married. The man I loved.

Tallulah shifts. Her eyes are soft. Concerned. She looks at Cole. "Maybe I should go," she says quietly.

"No," Cole says. He covers her hand with his. "Stay."

He chooses her. Right in front of me. Again.

I turn. Walk to the bedroom. Close the door.

I sit on the edge of the bed. My hands are still steady. Surgeon's hands.

I wonder how much more they can take before they break.