My Husband Risked My Life to Protect His Mistress

The park bench was cold through my thin coat. October had stripped the trees bare, leaving skeletal branches against a sky the color of old bruises. Mr. Henderson sat beside me, his briefcase balanced on his knees, looking older than I remembered from Dad's funeral.

"Your father was thorough," he said, pulling out a leather folder. "The contract is airtight. If you leave before the hundredth portrait is completed and approved by Greyson Black, the shares transfer to him permanently."

I touched the locket at my throat. The metal was warm from my skin. "There has to be something."

"There is." He opened the folder, revealing pages dense with legal text. His finger traced a clause buried in the middle. "Section 7, subsection C. If the contract holder—Greyson—physically endangers your life, the agreement is voided. The shares revert to you immediately."

My pulse kicked up. "Endangers how?"

"Provable physical harm that could result in serious injury or death." His eyes met mine, rheumy but sharp. "Your father insisted on it. He didn't trust the Blacks, even when he was dying."

I stared at the words until they blurred. A way out. But the price—

"Don't do anything foolish, Iris." Mr. Henderson closed the folder. "Document everything. If it comes to that, you'll need evidence."

He left me there with the folder and a phone number for his private line. The wind picked up, scattering dead leaves across the path like scattered thoughts.

---

I was halfway back to the penthouse when Owen's car pulled up beside me. He got out, his face tight with something between anger and fear.

"You missed our check-in." His voice was controlled, but his hands weren't—they shook as he reached for me. "Iris, I've been calling for two days."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." He caught my wrist. I flinched. His grip loosened immediately, but not before he saw the bruises—purple-black fingerprints where Greyson had grabbed me yesterday, dragging me away from a canvas I'd "ruined" with the wrong shade of lipstick on Gwen's painted mouth.

Owen's jaw clenched. "That's it. You're leaving. Now."

"I can't."

"Look at yourself—"

"I said I can't." I pulled the locket from beneath my collar, opened it. My parents smiled up at us, frozen in a moment before everything fell apart. "This is all I have left of them. Of what they built. If I leave now, the Blacks take everything."

Owen stared at the photo, then at me. Something shifted in his expression—resignation, maybe, or understanding.

"Fifty more paintings," I whispered. "That's all."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm getting you a go-bag. Cash, documents, burner phone. And I'm securing a safe house—somewhere they can't find you when this is over."

"Owen—"

"I won't watch you die for this, Iris. So if you won't leave now, at least let me make sure you can run when the time comes."

I nodded. He pulled me into a hug, careful of the bruises, and I let myself lean into him for just a moment. Let myself remember what it felt like to be held without cruelty.

---

The penthouse was full of strangers. Greyson had invited Marcus Bellamy, the art critic whose reviews could make or break careers. I stood in the corner with my sketchpad, invisible again, while Greyson led Bellamy through the gallery of portraits.

"Remarkable work," Bellamy murmured, studying portrait sixty-three. "The technique is flawless, but it's the emotion that captivates. There's a sorrow in every brushstroke. A kind of... suffering."

Greyson's hand rested on the frame, possessive. "I've always believed art should reflect truth."

"You painted these yourself?" Bellamy turned, his eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.

Gwen laughed from the sofa—that wind-chime sound that made my teeth ache. "Oh, Marcus. Greyson's far too busy running an empire. Iris is our little ghost painter." She gestured at me with her wine glass. "The wife. She's quite talented, really. For hired help."

Bellamy's gaze found me. I watched recognition dawn—not of my face, but of what I was. What I'd become. His expression shifted to something worse than contempt.

Pity.

Greyson's jaw clenched. He crossed the room in three strides, his hand closing around my upper arm—right over yesterday's bruises. I bit back a gasp.

"Excuse us," he said, his voice pleasant, his grip crushing. He pulled me toward the hallway.

Bellamy watched us go, his face carefully blank.

In the corridor, Greyson released me. I stumbled back, cradling my arm.

"You embarrassed me," he said softly.

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to." He straightened his cuffs. "Fifty more portraits, Iris. Try not to bleed your pathetic soul into them quite so obviously."

He walked away. I stood there, my arm throbbing, Mr. Henderson's words echoing in my head.

Physical endangerment. Provable harm.

Fifty more portraits. And then I'd be free.

Or dead.

Either way, this would end.