The Price of His Nineteen-Year-Old Mistress
My husband, Christopher Kramer, was Manhattan's most notorious playboy, famous for his seasonal affairs with nineteen-year-old girls. For five years, I believed I was the exception who had finally tamed him.
That illusion shattered when my father needed a bone marrow transplant. The perfect donor was a nineteen-year-old named Iris. On the day of the surgery, my father died because Christopher chose to stay in bed with her instead of taking her to the hospital.
His betrayal didn't stop there. When an elevator plunged, he pulled her out first and left me to fall. When a chandelier crashed, he shielded her body with his and stepped over me as I lay bleeding. He even stole my dead father's last gift to me and gave it to her.
Through it all, he called me selfish and ungrateful, completely oblivious to the fact that my father was already gone.
So I quietly signed the divorce papers and vanished. The day I left, he texted me.
"Good news, I found another donor for your dad. Let's go schedule the surgery."
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Chapter 5
Emily Porter's POV:
The auction was a glittering affair, a sea of diamonds and champagne. From our private box overlooking the main hall, Christopher was in his element, raising his paddle with a casual flick of his wrist, acquiring piece after piece of extravagant jewelry.
They were all styles I had once loved-delicate platinum chains, vintage-inspired sapphires, classic diamond studs. It was a performance, a pantomime of the husband he used to be.
When a waiter brought the velvet-lined boxes to our suite, Iris' s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning.
"Oh, they're beautiful," she breathed, her fingers tracing the facets of a stunning sapphire necklace. "Emily, you're so lucky."
Christopher looked from the necklace to me, then back to Iris. "Emily," he said, his voice smooth and reasonable. "Why don't you let Iris have this one? She doesn't have any nice jewelry. And after all," he added, his voice dropping to a meaningful whisper, "she's doing so much for us. For your father. We owe her."
My heart, which I thought had already turned to stone, somehow found a new way to break. I nodded mutely.
Pleased with my "generosity," Christopher took the necklace and fastened it around Iris's neck. His fingers brushed against her skin, his movements slow and deliberate. It was a gesture so intimate, so possessive, it made my stomach churn.
"Is it... is it pretty on me?" Iris asked, her voice a shy whisper as she looked up at him through her lashes.
"Beautiful," Christopher said, his voice thick with an emotion I knew all too well. "You make it beautiful."
I couldn't watch anymore. I stood up and walked out of the box, mumbling something about needing the restroom.
Iris followed me. She cornered me in the marble-lined hallway, her sweet, innocent mask firmly back in place.
"Thank you, Emily," she said, her hand protectively covering the necklace. "You're so kind."
"Enjoy it," I said, my voice hollow. I tried to walk past her.
"I will," she said, her voice suddenly dropping its sweetness. "He's going to buy me a lot more."
I ignored her and kept walking. In a few days, this would all be over. I would have my father back, and I would be free. I just had to endure a little longer.
But Iris wasn't finished. She trailed me to the grand staircase, her heels clicking ominously behind me.
Just as I reached the top step, she spoke again. "He's mine, you know. He was always going to be mine."
I turned, a retort on my lips, but it was too late.
She pushed me.
It wasn't a hard push, but it was enough. I was already off-balance, my body still weak from my injuries. I tumbled backward, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
My head hit the marble steps with a sickening crack. The world spun as I bounced down the unforgiving staircase, a rag doll in a designer dress. I heard a sharp snap, and a searing pain shot through my arm.
When I finally landed in a heap at the bottom, the world was a blur of pain and crimson. Warm blood was streaming from my head, obscuring my vision.
Through the haze, I saw Iris. She hadn't run. Instead, she had sunk to the floor at the top of the stairs, her face a mask of theatrical horror. In a single, calculated movement, she ripped the sapphire necklace from her own neck, letting it clatter to the ground, and began to scream.
"She tried to take it from me!" she wailed, tears streaming down her perfect face. "She pushed me, and I... I accidentally pushed her back! Oh, my God, what have I done?"
Christopher came running, his face a thundercloud of fury. His eyes took in the scene: me, lying in a pool of my own blood at the bottom of the stairs, and Iris, the weeping victim at the top.