He Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

I smoothed the wrinkles from my beige dress—the one Kian had once said made me look "appropriately modest"—and surveyed our dining table with critical eyes. The candles were perfectly aligned, the wine breathing in crystal glasses, and the anniversary dinner I'd spent all day preparing steamed invitingly. One year of marriage. One year of transforming myself into the wife I thought Kian wanted.

"Perfect timing," I whispered to myself, checking my watch. Kian would be home any minute.

When the door clicked open, I arranged my features into a welcoming smile. "Happy anniversary," I said, rising to kiss him.

"Ah, yes. One year." He kissed my forehead absently, his mind already elsewhere. "You've gone to some trouble."

"It's important to mark milestones," I replied, serving him the wine. "I thought we could celebrate properly tonight."

Something flickered in his eyes—was it appreciation? For months I'd been trying to read those expressions, to understand what went on behind those intelligent eyes that seemed to look through me more often than at me.

Dinner progressed with careful conversation. Kian spoke about his latest research, and I nodded attentively, asking questions I hoped would please him. Later, when he suggested moving to the bedroom, I felt a flutter of hope. Perhaps tonight would be different.

In our bedroom, I tried to lose myself in the moment. Kian's hands were clinical but not unkind as they moved across my body. I closed my eyes, focusing on the sensation of his skin against mine.

"Eleanor," he murmured, his voice thickening as he positioned himself above me.

I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze. For once, he was looking directly at me, and I felt a surge of connection. This was what I'd been waiting for—this moment of genuine intimacy.

But then his eyes fluttered closed. His breathing quickened, and his movements became more urgent. "Yes... yes..." he whispered.

I closed my eyes again, surrendering to the rhythm of our bodies. Then I heard it—a name breathed against my ear.

"Ariana."

The world stopped.

I froze, every muscle locking in place. The name hung in the air between us like poison.

Ariana. My aunt. My mother's perfect sister. The woman I'd spent my entire life being compared to and found wanting.

Kian continued moving against me, oblivious to my sudden stillness. His face contorted in pleasure, and then he shuddered and collapsed beside me.

"Goodnight," he mumbled, already drifting toward sleep.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body numb. The intimacy we'd just shared now felt like a violation. I slid out of bed and rushed to the bathroom, barely making it before my stomach heaved.

I knelt on the cold tile floor, vomiting until there was nothing left. In the mirror, I caught sight of my reflection—mascara streaking down my cheeks, hair disheveled. I looked like a stranger. Or perhaps, for the first time, I looked like myself.

* * *

Morning light filtered through the blinds when I finally emerged from the bathroom. Kian had already left for the lab, as he always did. The apartment felt suffocating.

I paced our living room, replaying the night before. Had I misheard? Was I overreacting?

No. I knew what I'd heard.

I found myself standing outside Kian's home office—the one room in our shared penthouse that remained entirely his domain. "Eleanor doesn't need to bother herself with my work," he'd said when we moved in. The door was usually locked, but today it was slightly ajar.

I hesitated only briefly before pushing it open.

The room smelled of his cologne and paper. Everything was meticulously organized—his research papers stacked neatly, his awards displayed precisely. I ran my fingers along the spines of his books, wondering what secrets they held.

A medical textbook caught my eye—slightly out of alignment. I pulled it out, curious.

Inside, hollowed out, was a Tiffany's receipt dated two weeks earlier. Forty-five thousand dollars for a diamond pendant.

My heart skipped. An anniversary surprise? But why hide it?

I checked the delivery address: Hotel Plaza Ath�née, Paris.

Paris. Where Ariana lived.

A folder on his desk caught my attention—emails printed out and carefully preserved. I shouldn't look. But my hands moved of their own accord.

"Your intellectual loneliness resonates with me," Kian had written to Ariana. "Eleanor's simple domesticity provides comfort but not stimulation. How I long for someone who understands the complexities of my work..."

The words blurred as tears filled my eyes.

* * *

"What is this?"

I placed the receipt on the kitchen counter when Kian returned that evening. My voice sounded strange to my own ears—calm, almost detached.

Kian glanced at it, then adjusted his glasses with practiced precision. "You were going through my things?"

"And last night, during..." I swallowed hard. "You called me by her name."

"Ariana?" He frowned slightly. "That was a slip. A dream, perhaps. You're being hysterical."

"Hysterical," I repeated.

"The necklace was a charitable gesture," he continued, dismissing my pain with a wave of his hand. "Ariana is struggling financially in Paris. It was a family matter."

"Family," I echoed hollowly.

"Eleanor," he sighed, already turning away, "I have research to review. We can discuss your irrational concerns another time."

As he walked away, something inside me hardened. The woman who had spent a year dimming her light for this man died in that moment.