When My Lover Attacked Me to Protect His Mistress

The fever hit me like a freight train around noon. By evening, I was burning at 103 degrees, my skin slick with sweat, the silk sheets of our king-sized bed clinging to my trembling body. The floor-to-ceiling windows of our Manhattan condo framed the glittering skyline, but all I could focus on was the fire raging through my veins and the ice settling in my chest.

"Lukas, please." My voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Don't go."

He stood by the bedroom door, his phone pressed to his ear, that designer watch I'd given him for our anniversary catching the lamplight. Three years together, and I'd memorized every angle of his face—the sharp jawline, the way his dark hair fell just so across his forehead. Right now, his expression was carved from stone.

"I have to," he said, not even looking at me. His thumb moved across the screen. "The bartender at Flux called. Skylar's drunk and needs a ride."

Skylar. The name landed like a slap. His childhood sweetheart who'd conveniently returned to New York two weeks ago. I'd heard about her in passing—always in that careful, dismissive tone he used when he wanted me to stop asking questions.

"I'm sick." The words scraped out of my throat. "I need you here."

His jaw tightened. "She's alone, Gabriella. What do you want me to do, leave her stranded?"

The door clicked shut before I could answer.

I lay there in the dark, my grandmother's diamond necklace pressing against my collarbone as I curled into myself. The condo felt cavernous without him—all that expensive marble and custom furniture my father had insisted on when he secretly purchased this place. Lukas thought his startup success had paid for it. He had no idea.

Hours crawled by. The fever spiked higher. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my phone screen blurring every time I checked it. No messages. No calls.

The sound of the front door opening jolted me awake. Voices drifted down the hallway—Lukas's low murmur and something else. High-pitched. Giggling.

I forced myself upright, my head spinning. The bedroom door was ajar, and through it, I saw them in the living room. Lukas had his arm around a petite blonde in a tight dress, her heels dangling from one hand. She swayed against him, her face tilted up toward his with practiced helplessness.

Skylar Spencer. Even through my fever haze, I could see she was beautiful in that effortless way that made my carefully maintained elegance feel like trying too hard.

"You brought her here?" My voice cracked as I stumbled to the doorway, gripping the frame for support. "I'm sick, Lukas. I asked you to stay, and you brought your ex into our home?"

Skylar's eyes found mine. For just a second, something sharp and calculating flashed across her face. Then her lower lip trembled, and tears welled up in those wide blue eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed, her voice breaking on a sob. "I