When My Lover Attacked Me to Protect His Mistress

The shift in the digital atmosphere was almost palpable, like the drop in pressure before a hurricane. From my hospital bed, I watched the comments on Skylar’s latest TikTok video scroll by faster than I could read them, but the tone had curdled. What had been a stream of vitriol and laughing emojis was now a deluge of confusion and sudden, terrifying clarity.

*Wait. Bennett? Like the tower on 57th Street Bennett?*

*I just checked Forbes. That is literally Gabriella Bennett. Why is she dating a broke startup bro?*

*This girl isn’t a stalker. She’s the heir to the throne.*

Victoria sat in the armchair, her legs crossed, a shark-like grin spreading across her face as she tapped furiously on her tablet. "The narrative is fracturing," she murmured, not looking up. "They can't reconcile the 'desperate ex' trope with the 'billionaire heiress' reality. Skylar’s engagement is spiking, but the sentiment analysis just tanked. They’re eating her alive."

My phone, resting on the bedside table, began to buzz. It wasn't a text. It was a call.

*Lukas.*

Then it stopped. Then it buzzed again. And again. The device rattled against the glass top of the table, a frantic, mechanical heartbeat.

Riggs reached over and picked it up. He didn't answer. He just looked at the screen, his expression bored, before silencing the ringer and tossing it onto the sofa.

"He knows," Riggs said, his voice devoid of sympathy. "He just connected the dots."

I sat up, wincing as the movement pulled at the IV line in my hand. "He knows about the family money? He always knew we were comfortable, but—"

"No, Ella." Riggs walked to the window, staring out at the manicured hospital grounds. "He knows who signs his checks. Dad’s angel investment firm operates under a shell name, 'Vanguard Ventures.' But the wire transfers? The bank routing numbers? They all trace back to the Bennett trust. He never bothered to look before because he was too busy spending the money. Now that the internet is screaming your last name at him, he’s finally done his due diligence."

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Lukas wasn't calling to apologize. He wasn't calling because he realized he’d hurt me. He was calling because his golden goose had just been cooked.

"He’s trying to save his company," I whispered, the realization tasting like ash. "He doesn't care about me. He cares about the seed funding."

"He should be worried about more than funding," Victoria said, spinning her tablet around to face me.

The screen displayed a grid of email notifications. *Delivery Failure. Access Denied. User Blocked.*

"He’s spent the last twenty minutes trying to email every Bennett Industries address he can find," Victoria explained, her tone clinical. "He’s trying to reach your father, the board, even me. But the firewall is absolute. He’s locked out of the kingdom, Gabriella. And he’s starting to realize just how high the walls are."

Riggs turned back from the window. He was holding a small, silver flash drive. He tossed it gently in the air and caught it—a rhythmic, hypnotic motion.

"Skylar thinks she’s clever with her editing software," he said quietly. "Chopping up audio, splicing context. It’s cute. But amateur."

He plugged the drive into the room’s large television monitor. The screen flickered to life, showing a high-definition, wide-angle view of the hallway outside the condo. The timestamp in the corner read *02:14 AM*—two nights ago.

"How?" I asked, my throat dry. "The building management wouldn't release that without a warrant."

"The building management works for us," Riggs said, a dark amusement dancing in his eyes. "Dad bought the management company three months ago to ensure your security detail could operate unnoticed. We own the cameras, Ella. We own the servers."

He pressed play.

There was no choppy editing. No ominous music. Just the stark, silent reality of a woman burning with fever, leaning against a wall for support. The video showed Lukas storming out of the elevator, dragging a stumbling Skylar. It showed me stepping forward, my hand reaching out—not to attack, but to plead.

And then, it happened. On the massive screen, the violence was undeniable. Lukas’s hand lashed out. My head snapped back. I crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll.

I looked away, unable to watch myself fall again. But Riggs didn't turn it off. He let it play—the moment Lukas pointed to the door, the moment he shoved me toward the elevator, the moment he slammed the apartment door on a sick, shivering woman.

"This isn't just a breakup video," Riggs said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly low register. "This is assault. This is endangerment. And unlike Skylar’s little TikTok project, this is admissible in court."

Victoria stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Skylar wanted a viral moment. We’re going to give her a federal case."

My phone lit up again. Another call from Lukas. Then a text notification popped up on the lock screen, visible from across the room.

*Ella, please. Skylar is lying. I love you. Let me explain. We can fix this.*

I looked at the message, then at the frozen image of him striking me on the screen. The fear in his text was palpable. He wasn't afraid of losing me. He was afraid of the avalanche he heard rumbling above his head.

I reached for the phone. Riggs tensed, ready to stop me, but I didn't answer. I pressed the side button, silencing the call, and then powered the device off completely.

"Burn him," I said.