When My Husband’s Mistress Stole Five Years of My Life

The penthouse was always cold. It was a sterile, museum-grade chill that preserved expensive art and dead marriages. I sat on the edge of the sprawling white sofa, my hands folded in my lap to hide the tremor in my fingers. My left arm throbbed—a phantom ache where the needle had lived for five years.

Wesley didn’t look at me. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, the Manhattan skyline reflecting off his scotch glass. He was a silhouette of sharp lines and ruthless ambition, the man I had bled for, quite literally, since the day I said *I do*.

"The doctors cleared her this morning," Wesley said. His voice was devoid of inflection, a flat line. "Emilia’s numbers are stable. Permanent remission."

He turned then, tossing a thick manila envelope onto the glass coffee table. It slid across the surface with a hiss, stopping inches from my knees. I didn’t need to open it to know what it was. The contract was fulfilled. The livestock was no longer needed.

"I’m happy for her," I whispered. The lie tasted like copper.

"It’s done, Celine. The lawyers have drafted the settlement. It’s generous." He took a sip of his drink, his eyes finally meeting mine. They were empty. "You can keep the jewelry. The apartment in Chelsea. Just sign by Monday."

My breath hitched. I had prepared for this, but the reality was a physical blow. I placed a hand over my stomach, the fabric of my dress stretching tight over skin that felt too sensitive.

"Wesley," I started, my voice trembling. "It’s not just about us anymore. I… I went to the doctor yesterday."

He paused, glass halfway to his mouth. "And? Did the extraction site get infected?"

"No." I stood up, needing to bridge the distance, needing him to see *me*, not the donor. "I’m pregnant."

The silence that followed wasn't peaceful; it was a vacuum, sucking the oxygen from the room. Wesley set his glass down. He didn't smile. He didn't blink. His expression curdled into something worse than indifference: disgust.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a checkbook, and scribbled furiously. He ripped the page out and held it toward me.

"Get rid of it," he said.

I stared at the paper, the numbers blurring. "What?"

"I’m starting a life with Emilia. A clean slate. I won’t have a mistake complicating that." He jammed the check into my hand, his fingers brushing mine—cold, so cold. "It’s a liability, Celine. Handle it."

The room spun. The nausea rose, violent and acidic. I stumbled past him, barely making it to the master bathroom before I retched into the marble sink. I gripped the porcelain until my knuckles turned white, staring at my reflection. The woman in the mirror looked like a ghost already. Pale, hollowed out, used up.

*Handle it.*

I pulled my phone from my pocket. My thumb hovered over the contact I hadn’t used in years, the one saved under ‘AAA Roadside.’

"Code Blue," I whispered when he answered. "Tucker. It’s time."

***

Montauk was screaming. The wind whipped off the Atlantic, tearing at my hair and stinging my eyes with salt spray. The jagged cliffs loomed in the darkness, a maw ready to swallow everything.

Tucker worked quickly, his movements precise and grim. He smelled like rain and old engine grease—a scent so grounding it made my chest ache. We parked my sleek, silver Aston Martin—Wesley’s anniversary gift, a car I hated—perilously close to the edge of the overlook.

"Are you sure?" Tucker asked. He didn't look at the car; he looked at me. His eyes were wide, reflecting the turbulent moonlight. He was terrified, but he was here. He was always here.

"He killed me in that apartment, Tucker," I said, my voice lost to the wind. "This is just the paperwork."

I pulled the platinum band from my finger. It felt heavy, weighted down by five years of needles and silence. I placed it on the dashboard, right next to the empty bottle of scotch we’d staged.

Together, we doused the leather seats in gasoline. The fumes burned my throat, masking the scent of the ocean.

"Now," I commanded.

We pushed. It took every ounce of strength I had left. The car groaned, tires crunching over gravel, then tipped. It plummeted into the dark void. A second later, a sickening crunch echoed up the cliffside, followed by a roar of flame that lit up the churning black water below.

I watched the fire dance on the waves. It was beautiful. It was the pyre of Celine Stone.

I turned to Tucker’s beat-up sedan, shivering violently. Not from the cold, but from the terrifying, electric rush of being erased.

***

Two weeks later, I was dead.

From the safety of a motel room in New Jersey, I watched the news coverage of my own memorial service. Wesley stood at the podium in a black suit that cost more than this entire building. His face was a mask of stoic grief, perfectly calibrated for the cameras. He didn't shed a tear.

But the cameras didn't see what happened after.

In the penthouse, the silence was different now. It wasn't sterile; it was suffocating. Wesley sat in his study, a bottle of whiskey nearly empty on the desk. The room was dark, save for the glow of a tablet.

He wasn't looking at stock prices. He was looking at the police report. *No body recovered due to tidal conditions.*

His hand shook as he reached for the bottom drawer, the one he thought was locked. He pulled out the leather-bound journal I had left behind—calculated bait. He flipped it open to a page dated three years ago.

*"The nurse missed the vein twice today. My arm is purple. Wesley didn't notice the bruising at dinner. He just asked if Emilia’s color looked better. I told him yes. I’d give her all my blood if it made him look at me like that."*

Wesley stopped reading. He touched the ink, his finger trembling. A strangled sound escaped his throat, half-sob, half-growl. He slammed the book shut and grabbed his phone, dialing a number that no longer existed.

*"The number you have reached is not in service."*

"Pick up," he hissed, his voice cracking, the veneer of the billionaire tycoon shattering in the empty room. "Pick up, damn it."

He dialed again. And again. And again.

He didn't know it yet, but he was already haunting himself.