Mistress

I had no idea he was married-no, really, I didn't.

He lived with me. His clothes hung in our closet, his cologne lingered in the air long after he left the room. My pictures were all over his social media, smiling, oblivious. He met my family, shook my father's hand, kissed my mother's cheek. We were engaged, for God's sake. I wore his ring. We planned a wedding.

And yet, here I was, standing in our living room-our fucking house-with my phone clutched in trembling hands, reading message after message. Threats. Warnings. Words soaked in venom from someone who knew too much.

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust him when he said it was just a random stalker, someone trying to scare me. But the things they were saying-the details, the timeline, the secrets I never spoke aloud-fit together too well.

In just one day, I had gone from a fiancée to a mistress to a fucking target. And if I didn't outmaneuver whoever was pulling the strings, I wouldn't just be another heartbroken fool.

I'd be a name on a list.
A forgotten lover.
Another loose end, tied up in blood.