My Husband Forced Me to Serve His Mistress

The fluorescent hospital lights made everything look sickly pale, including my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Three days had passed since the ambulance brought me here, three days of IV drips and concerned nurses checking my vitals every hour. The doctor had explained that my allergic reaction had triggered anaphylactic shock, nearly killing me. But what haunted me more was his other discovery—I had been four weeks pregnant when James forced that bourbon down my throat.

Had been.

The stress and trauma had caused complications. The tiny life that might have been was gone before I even knew it existed.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted my hollow staring contest with the mirror. "Mrs. Smith? You have a visitor."

I opened the door to find a man in an expensive charcoal suit, his silver hair slicked back and his pale eyes cold as winter. Robert Vance, James's assistant, stood with a manila envelope tucked under his arm and an expression that suggested my continued existence was a minor inconvenience.

"Mrs. Smith," he said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Mr. Smith has instructed me to inform you of your immediate discharge and new arrangements."

"New arrangements?" My voice came out as a croak. I was still wearing the hospital gown, my legs shaky from days of bed rest.

"Miss Meyer has experienced significant trauma from the events at the party. She's developed severe anxiety and has had several episodes. Mr. Smith feels responsible, given that you were the catalyst for her distress." Robert's tone was as clinical as a medical report. "You'll be caring for her at the Manhattan penthouse until she recovers."

The words hit me like ice water. "I'm the catalyst? I nearly died—"

"Mr. Smith has also instructed me to inform you that your credit cards have been temporarily suspended." He continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Additionally, the payments for your mother's care facility will be discontinued if you fail to comply with these arrangements."

My mother. The threat hung in the air like a blade at my throat. Eleanor Gordon, wasting away in that expensive facility, dependent on treatments that cost more than most people's annual salaries. James knew exactly where to apply pressure.

"How long?" I whispered.

"Until Miss Meyer has fully recovered from her ordeal." Robert handed me the envelope. "Your discharge papers and transportation voucher. The car will be waiting in thirty minutes."

He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Mrs. Smith? Mr. Smith expects you to show appropriate gratitude for Miss Meyer's forgiveness. She could have pressed charges for your... outburst."

After he left, I sat on the hospital bed and stared at the envelope. Inside were my discharge papers and a single subway token. Not even car fare—a final humiliation to remind me of my place.

The penthouse that had once been my home felt like stepping into someone else's life. Ivy's presence had infected every corner of the space. Designer handbags draped over chairs I'd carefully selected, expensive shoes scattered across floors I'd once walked barefoot on lazy Sunday mornings. The kitchen counters were cluttered with imported skincare products and half-empty champagne bottles.

Our wedding photos had vanished from the mantelpiece, replaced by glamorous shots of Ivy in various exotic locations. The bedroom—our bedroom—now reeked of her cloying perfume, the bed unmade and covered with silk lingerie still bearing price tags.

I found Ivy in the living room, stretched across the white leather sofa like a cat in a sunbeam. She wore champagne-colored silk pajamas that probably cost more than my hospital bill, her blonde hair fanned out artfully against the cushions. When she saw me, her lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Oh, Lia," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You look absolutely terrible. That whole... episode really took it out of you, didn't it?"

I stood in the doorway, still clutching my small overnight bag. "Robert said you needed care."

"I've been having the most dreadful anxiety attacks." Ivy pressed the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. "The sight of you collapsing like that, turning all those ghastly colors... I haven't been able to eat properly for days."

She gestured toward the kitchen. "Speaking of which, I'm absolutely starving. Could you whip up something? Maybe that lobster bisque you used to make for James? I've been craving something rich and comforting."

Lobster bisque. A dish that took hours to prepare properly, requiring ingredients that cost a small fortune. I glanced toward the kitchen, noting the empty refrigerator visible through the open door.

"I'll need to go shopping first," I said quietly.

"Oh, silly me." Ivy's laugh tinkled like broken glass. "I forgot to mention—James thought it best if you didn't handle money right now. You know, given your... instability. But don't worry, I had groceries delivered yesterday. Everything you need should be there."

She waved her hand dismissively, the enormous diamond bracelet on her wrist catching the afternoon light. I recognized it—James had bought it for me on our second anniversary, then taken it back during one of our fights, claiming I didn't deserve such extravagance.

"This is gorgeous, isn't it?" Ivy noticed my stare and held up her wrist, admiring the way the diamonds sparkled. "James said it looked better on someone who could truly appreciate its value. He's so thoughtful that way."

The next two weeks blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and humiliation. Ivy's "anxiety attacks" were remarkably selective—she seemed perfectly capable of hosting champagne brunches with her friends while I scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees, but would suddenly become too fragile to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Every morning brought new demands. Hand-wash her delicate silk blouses. Polish the silver until it gleamed. Prepare elaborate meals that she would pick at disdainfully before declaring herself too upset to eat, leaving me to clean up the waste.

Her friends were the worst part. They would arrive in designer outfits and expensive perfume, settling into the living room like exotic birds while I served them champagne and canapés. They spoke about me as if I weren't there, their voices carrying clearly from the kitchen where I washed their dishes.

"I can't believe James kept her around this long," one would say. "Look at her—she's like a ghost haunting her own life."

"Ivy's being so charitable, letting her stay," another would add. "I would have had her committed after that scene at the party. Did you see how red she turned? Absolutely revolting."

Ivy would laugh, the sound sharp and cruel. "Oh, she's harmless now. Completely broken. It's almost sad, really."

One afternoon, as I knelt scrubbing wine stains from the white carpet—stains Ivy had deliberately created by "accidentally" knocking over her glass—she dangled her phone in front of my face.

"James sent the sweetest message," she purred, scrolling through texts. "He's taking me to the Maldives next month. First-class, naturally. He says I need to recover from all this stress in a proper paradise setting."

I kept scrubbing, my knuckles raw from the harsh cleaning chemicals. The stain wasn't coming out. Nothing was coming clean anymore.

"You know what the best part is?" Ivy's voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for me. "He doesn't even ask about you. Not once. It's like you never existed."

She was right. James hadn't called, hadn't visited, hadn't even sent Robert to check on my compliance. I had become invisible in my own life, a servant in the home where I'd once dreamed of raising children and growing old.

That night, as I lay on the narrow cot Ivy had grudgingly allowed me to set up in the utility room, I stared at the ceiling and wondered how much more I could endure. My body ached from the constant physical labor, my spirit felt crushed under the weight of their casual cruelty.

But somewhere deep inside, in a place they hadn't yet managed to reach, a small flame of anger flickered. It was barely alive, fragile as a candle in a storm, but it was there.

And it was growing.