My Fiancée Is Other Man's Mistress

Been hitched to my first love for three years, yet there she goes claiming on Facebook she's the mistress.

She broke down when I called her out, insisting it was just a prank.

I was clueless at the time.

Barely a fortnight later, she'd lace my coffee with a dangerous dose of poison.

The next thing I knew, it was the day I popped the question.

There she was, blushing, eagerly waiting for me to slip the ring on.

***

Under a clear sky, I knelt before Sarah McWilliams.

Today was my big proposal day.

I spent the entire night laying out white roses, and half a year's savings on that ring.

Sarah stood there, cheeks pink, her hand over her mouth, teary-eyed.

"Go on, say yes!"

"You gotta say yes!"

Friends around us were all in on the excitement.

It was all set to be a blissful, picture-perfect moment.

But in a heartbeat, I was on my feet.

I fished out the ring I had gotten for Sarah from the box.

The diamond caught the sunlight, dazzling onlookers.

In full view, I chucked it right into the nearby sewer.

The crowd gasped, Sarah too stunned to react at first.

"Playing games with me?" Her tone turned icy fast.

I leaned in, whispering with a smirk, "You think you're worth it?"

Flashback to a bit earlier, I was in a hospital bed, fighting for life.

The doctor's relentless words echoed in my ears.

"The strychnine you swallowed... too much, too late for a pump or transfusion. We missed the golden hour to save you."

So this is it—I'm dying?

Strychnine, what the hell is that?

As I faced death, Sarah's face invaded my thoughts.

She's been my wife for three years.

She was into herbal remedies back in college.

Recently, she'd been brewing my daily coffee.

I recalled those odd button-like herbs in my cup—Sarah claimed they were just special herbs for me.

But they were strychnine...

After just four days, I ended up like this.

I felt my body cool down, and my eyelids grew heavy.

It felt like my consciousness was floating away, my body light as a feather, my soul nearly escaping.

"What are you doing? Sarah's almost here!"

Someone shook me hard, snapping me back to reality.

My eyes fluttered open on a park bench, clutching white roses and a small box.

The ring for the proposal, which I picked out myself three years ago.

I frowned at the ring.

It was tiny, just one carat.

Sarah had cried with joy then, and I vowed to hustle harder to upgrade her diamond by next year.

Over those three years, I not only upgraded the diamond but also bought gold bars, all handed to her.

Except for that house she wanted—I hadn't managed the down payment yet. Whatever she wished for, I delivered.

Yet now...

"What's got you spaced out? Rough morning?"

Paul, my lifelong pal, was waving his hand in my face, trying to snap me out of it.

"I don't wanna propose anymore."

I eyed Paul, suited up just for my big moment.

"What? Cut the crap, she's right here." He didn't take me seriously.

Paul wasn't just any friend; he was slated to be my boss.

I trusted him as much as I trusted myself.

Sarah approached, flanked by her bridesmaids.

As Paul pushed me forward, the crowd started cheering.

I locked my eyes on this woman I'd loved for ages.

I knew every detail of her face, every little mark, like the mole at her waist.

Instinctively, I began to kneel, but as my knee touched the ground, the doctor's words flashed back.

"Too much strychnine in your system."

Proposing? Not a chance.

No way I was tying the knot with someone who had tried to kill me.

I left the ring behind and walked out, leaving behind the scene where I felt like a total fool.

My phone wouldn't stop buzzing, each time I silenced another call.

No need to check—I was sure Sarah and her squad were trashing me, calling me the scum of the earth.

But I didn't give a damn.

Being a scumbag beats being a corpse any day.

I hit the gas, zooming down the coastal highway.

The chill ocean breeze was a slap of relief for my fried brain.

I parked myself on the guardrail, lighting up a cigarette.

Sarah's attempt on my life was a hard pill to swallow.

Yet, why would she even want me dead?

Wasn't I good enough to her?

I watched a couple of seagulls playing tag by the waves, my cig burning down to the nub.

"Shit—"

The sting from the cigarette sparked a flashback to a night, about two weeks before I died in my last life.

That evening, I spotted Sarah's comment under a post blasting mistresses.

"Yep, I'm the mistress, LOL."

I woke her up, phone in hand, demanding an explanation.

Under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, she kneeled on the bed, her face ghostly pale, tears quickly spilling over.

"Honey, I was just kidding."

I said nothing, just gave her the cold shoulder, waiting for her next move.

She edged closer, lifting her eyes to mine, all doe-eyed.

"Babe, you know you'd never let me be the other woman."

"Excuse me?" My laugh was bitter.

I couldn't believe how slick her excuses were.

"Babe~" She tried to sweet-talk her way out again.

I shoved her back, asking sharply, "Sarah, you think this is something to joke about?"

"No, absolutely not." She shook her head, swearing with three fingers raised that she'd never slip up like that again.

I let it slide.

Back then, I figured everyone slips up now and then.

But now, sitting on that guardrail, that night didn't sit right with me.

Her reaction was too intense for a simple slip-up.

First tears, then coyness.

Sarah knew how to play me; she knew just what to do to soften me up.

Her comment wasn't a slip—it was the truth.

She really was having an affair!