The Mistress Came to Kill Me on Our Anniversary Night

I was five months pregnant when my husband, James Fletcher, allowed his mistress to invade our lives—on the very night of our wedding anniversary. But she didn’t just come to flaunt her presence. She came to take my life.

Pregnant and vulnerable, I confronted her, desperately clinging to my dignity. But the fight ended with me tumbling down the staircase, my swollen belly crashing against the cold, hard ground. Blood seeped across the floor, vivid and unrelenting.

James only arrived after hearing about his precious mistress’ ordeal. He stood there, staring at the pool of blood, at my broken body. But instead of helping me, he rushed to her side. She had nothing but a few superficial scratches, yet he swept her off to the hospital like she was the one dying.

By the time he returned, my child was gone. The doctors barely managed to save me. And what did James do? He struck me in front of everyone, his words sharper than the sting of his hand.

"Lisa only wanted to bring you a Christmas gift, and you attacked her out of nowhere! You shameless witch!"

“She didn’t force her way in! What nonsense! I gave her the house key ages ago. You just can’t stand that she’s prettier and kinder than you!"

“You didn’t just hurt her. You killed my child! You vile, despicable woman. Why couldn’t it have been you instead?”

Lisa stood beside him, pretending to comfort him while flashing me a smug, victorious smirk.

James’s vicious tirade didn’t stop there. He dragged my name onto the internet, painting me as a monster.

I sat at the dining table, staring at the elaborate anniversary dinner I had prepared for James Fletcher.

Since I became pregnant, he hadn’t come home much, always saying work kept him busy, often requiring him to travel.

This time, he told me in advance that he would celebrate our anniversary with me. Overjoyed, I pushed through the discomfort of being five months pregnant to cook him a feast.

When I heard the doorbell, I thought James had returned. I rushed to open the door, only to find Lisa Smith standing there, holding a kitchen knife.

She lunged at me with the knife.

Panicked, I ran down the hallway, banging on neighbors’ doors for help. I tried to escape through the emergency stairwell, but Lisa pushed me down the stairs.

The neighbors, hearing the commotion, rushed out to see what had happened. I lay on the staircase landing, wracked with pain, blood pooling beneath me.

Meanwhile, Lisa had already slashed her own arm with the knife, pretending I had attacked her. Tears streamed down her face as she feigned innocence.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I only came to deliver your anniversary cake. Why did you attack me with a knife?”

She had tossed the knife into my blood, and the neighbors, seeing it, immediately assumed I was the aggressor. They began whispering and pointing at me.

“How could she be so cruel? Attacking someone