Queen Of His Twisted Betrayal
My husband, Cameron, cheated on me with his intern, Cara. After months of begging, I gave my childhood sweetheart a second chance, but the trust was gone.
One night, after a fight, he stormed out. I watched on a hidden dashcam as he drove straight to her apartment, the sounds of their passion echoing through the car's speakers, a soundtrack to my despair.
The next day, I found them kissing in our foyer. In a blind rage, I attacked Cara. Cameron shoved me to protect her, and my head slammed against the wall, splitting open. As blood streamed down my face, he cradled Cara, murmuring, "Are you okay?"
At the hospital, his mother arrived, horrified. "She's pregnant with another man's child, and she's trying to trap you!" she screamed at Cameron.
But he only had eyes for his mistress. He pushed past me, sending me sprawling to the floor, and rushed to Cara's side after she faked a medical emergency. He didn't even look back.
Later, he returned, his eyes cold. "I can't let Cara go," he said. "You'll still be my wife. My queen. Just... allow me this one small indulgence."
The audacity was breathtaking. He wanted me, his wife, to accept his mistress. But his arrogance didn't stop there. When Cara went missing, he accused me of harming her. He dragged me from my hospital bed, held a knife to my arm, and sliced my skin. "Tell me where she is," he hissed, his face twisted with madness, "or I'll make you."
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Chapter 5
Audrey POV:
Cameron' s face, usually so open, now held a carefully constructed blankness. He averted his gaze, as if trying to shield himself from my unspoken accusation. He picked up a small pastry bag from the counter, holding it out to me. "I bought you your favorite croissant," he said, his voice unusually bright, a transparent attempt to change the subject.
A bitter taste filled my mouth, far worse than the lingering taste of bile. My favorite croissant. The one he used to bring me every Sunday morning, a sweet ritual that now felt tainted. I remembered seeing him just days ago, through the dashcam footage, buying a similar pastry, but for Cara. He' d even picked up a coffee for her, a specific order I recognized from their shared studio days. This one, for me, was just an afterthought, probably a forgotten freebie from the coffee shop.
Our life had become a carefully choreographed play, a façade of normalcy we maintained for the outside world, and perhaps, for ourselves. But I was tired of playing my part.
"No, thank you," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I don't like the taste anymore." The sweetness had turned to ash in my mouth. My heart was no longer fooled by his hollow gestures.
I turned to walk upstairs, needing to escape the suffocating pretense. But his hand shot out, grabbing my arm, his grip surprisingly tight.
"Audrey, don't be difficult," he snapped, his facade cracking. The annoyance was back in his voice, raw and undisguised. "Why do you always have to be so stubborn?"
Before I could reply, a wave of dizziness washed over me, the world tilting precariously. My legs gave out, and darkness swallowed me whole.
When I woke, I was in our bed, the familiar scent of lavender and him filling the air. His arm was wrapped tightly around me, a possessive weight. The moment I stirred, his eyes fluttered open.
They were bloodshot, heavy-lidded, a testament to a sleepless night. He reached out, his fingers gently touching my forehead.
"You're burning up," he murmured, a genuine concern in his voice. He sighed, a profound sound of relief mixed with exhaustion. "You had a fever all last night. You scared me, Audrey."
A fever. That explained the sudden collapse. My body, like my heart, was too tired to fight back. My throat was raw, my voice raspy. "Water," I croaked.
He sprang up, fetching a glass from the bedside table. He supported my head as I drank, the cool liquid a balm to my parched throat. I leaned against him, weak and weary, my head resting on his shoulder.
He stroked my hair, his touch tender. "You feel a little better now?" he asked, his voice soft, laced with a familiar concern that almost, almost made me forget everything.
I managed a weak, bitter smile. "Is this what it takes, Cameron?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "For you to pretend to care? For me to almost die?"
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He just held me, his embrace a strange mix of comfort and confinement. I closed my eyes, drifting back into a fitful slumber, the lingering scent of his betrayal still clinging to him, even in this moment of feigned care.