My Husband Risked My Life to Protect His Mistress

The penthouse stretched before me like a mausoleum—all marble and glass, cold despite the summer heat pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I'd set the dining table hours ago, back when the sun still hung over Manhattan's skyline. Now the candles had burned halfway down, wax pooling on the linen like tears.

Three months. Ninety days since I'd become Mrs. Greyson Black.

I touched my wedding ring, the platinum band catching the candlelight. My father's shares—his legacy, his dying wish—now belonged to the man I'd married to save. The man who hadn't touched me since our wedding night.

The elevator chimed. My spine straightened automatically, muscle memory from years of etiquette training kicking in. Greyson stepped into the foyer, his charcoal suit immaculate, his jaw set in that hard line I'd come to recognize over these frozen months.

He didn't look at me. Not at first.

"I made dinner," I said, hating how small my voice sounded in the cavernous space. "For our anniversary."

His eyes finally found mine—gray as winter steel, empty as the space between us. He crossed the room in three strides and kicked the table leg. China shattered. Wine bled across white linen like a wound opening.

I flinched but didn't move.

"Your payment period begins now." His voice was surgical, precise. "One hundred portraits. That was the contract clause your father insisted on before transferring his shares to me."

The locket at my throat—my parents' photo inside—suddenly felt like a noose.

"Greyson, I thought—"

"You thought what? That this was real?" He loosened his tie with sharp movements. "You're not my wife, Iris. You're a debtor. And it's time to settle accounts."

The floor tilted beneath me, or maybe I was the one falling.

---

Morning light cut through the windows like an accusation. I hadn't slept. The shattered dinner still littered the dining room—the staff knew better than to clean without Greyson's permission.

The elevator chimed again.

She walked in beside him, all curves and confidence in a dress that cost more than my art supplies. Her hair caught the light, honey-gold and deliberately tousled. She surveyed the penthouse like she was measuring it for new curtains.

"Iris." Greyson's hand rested on the small of her back, possessive. "This is Gwen. My muse."

Gwen's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "So you're the wife."

Not a question. A dismissal.

"Gwen will be staying here," Greyson continued, his tone flat, businesslike. "Move your supplies out of the master studio. You'll work in the servant's quarters on the third floor."

My studio. The one room in this glass prison where I could breathe. Where I'd painted since our wedding, trying to capture something—anything—that felt real.

"The hundred portraits," he said, finally meeting my eyes. "They'll all be of her."

Gwen touched her lips, reapplying lipstick that didn't need reapplying. The gesture was deliberate, performative. "I hope you can capture my good side. I'm told I'm very photogenic."

I looked at Greyson, searching for some trace of