My Husband’s Mistress Poisoned Me at the Charity Gala

The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the torrential rain as I navigated the FDR Drive. October storms in New York were never gentle, but tonight's felt particularly vicious. My knuckles whitened against the steering wheel as another gust of wind shook my car.

"Come on, just a few more blocks," I whispered to myself, squinting through the blur of rain.

That's when it happened. My tires lost traction on the slick asphalt. The car hydroplaned, spinning wildly before slamming into the concrete barrier with a sickening crunch. The impact threw me forward then back, the seatbelt cutting into my chest and shoulder.

Pain exploded through my body. Something warm trickled down my forehead. Blood. I tried to move, but my left shoulder screamed in protest. Broken collarbone, maybe ribs too.

"Hello? Someone help!" I called weakly, my voice barely audible over the rain now seeping through the cracked window. No one came.

With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone on the passenger seat. It was still intact, miraculously. I dialed Lorenzo's number, praying he would answer.

Voicemail.

"Please pick up," I whispered as I dialed again. "Lorenzo, I need you."

Nothing.

The rain was coming in faster now, pooling around my feet. I could hear sirens in the distance but couldn't tell how far away they were. Panic clawed at my throat as I dialed again. And again. And again.

Five calls. Six.

Each time, that same cold, automated voice told me to leave a message.

"Lorenzo," I finally said, my voice breaking as tears mixed with the rain on my face. "I've been in an accident on the FDR Drive. I'm hurt—I think something's broken. I need... I need help. Please call me back."

I hung up and dialed one last time. Seven calls.

The sirens were louder now. Someone would find me soon. But as consciousness began to fade, one thought crystallized with terrible clarity: my husband wasn't coming.

---

"BP's stabilizing. Get an ortho consult for that collarbone."

Dr. Chen's voice pulled me from darkness. I blinked against harsh fluorescent lights, trying to orient myself. Hospital. Emergency room. The antiseptic smell burned my nostrils.

"You're at Mount Sinai," Dr. Chen explained, noticing my confusion. She was a small woman with kind eyes that missed nothing. "You were in a pretty bad car accident. Do you remember?"

I nodded, wincing at the pain that shot through my neck.

"Your collarbone is fractured, and you have some internal bleeding. We've managed to stop it, but you need to stay for observation. Infection risk is high."

Hours passed in a haze of pain medication and tests. Dr. Chen checked on me regularly, her expression growing increasingly troubled each time.

"Has anyone called?" I finally asked when she returned to check my IV.

"No family members have come," she said carefully. "Is there someone I should call for you?"

"My husband," I whispered. "Lorenzo Carter."

She nodded and made a note. "I'll try reaching him again."

When I woke again, the room was dimmer. Dr. Chen sat beside my bed, her face grim.

"I've called Mr. Carter three times," she said without preamble. "No response."

Something cold settled in my stomach that had nothing to do with my injuries.

"Can I see my phone?" I asked.

She hesitated but handed it to me. The screen showed zero missed calls from Lorenzo.

"I need to go home," I said, pushing myself up despite the pain.

"That's not advisable—"

"I need to see him," I insisted. "I need to know why."

Against medical advice, I discharged myself. Dr. Chen argued fiercely but ultimately relented.

"I don't normally do this," she said as she handed me a card with her personal number scrawled on the back. "But if you need anything—anything at all—call me."

---

The penthouse was eerily quiet when I entered. Pain shot through my body with each step, but I forced myself forward. The living room glowed with soft, intimate lighting that seemed wrong for an empty apartment.

Then I heard it—soft laughter from the direction of our sofa.

"Lorenzo?" I called weakly.

He appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting from surprise to irritation. Behind him, Felicity Watson's delicate features came into view, her hand resting possessively on my husband's arm.

"Alaina," Lorenzo said coolly. "Where have you been? You look terrible."

I stood there, blood seeping through the bandages Dr. Chen had applied, my body screaming in pain.

"I was in an accident," I said, my voice barely audible. "I called you seven times."

Felicity's eyes gleamed with something that looked disturbingly like satisfaction.

"Seven times?" Lorenzo's eyebrow arched skeptically. "I didn't receive any calls."

"Lorenzo," Felicity murmured, touching his arm. "Don't be too hard on her. She's obviously had a rough night."

I watched as he turned to her with a tenderness I hadn't seen in years.

"I want a divorce," I said quietly.

Lorenzo's expression didn't change. "We'll discuss your tantrum when you're thinking clearly," he replied dismissively before guiding Felicity back to the sofa and their unfinished bottle of wine.

As he walked away, I realized with startling clarity that the man I had married—the man I had loved—had never existed at all.