Locked Inside His Mistress: A Wife's Cold Revenge

They found my husband locked inside his mistress.

Not metaphorically. Literally locked—a medical phenomenon called vaginal spasm, triggered when their sports car crashed mid-affair on a mountain road. The doctors said separating them required a high-risk spinal injection. Without it, he'd lose everything below the waist. Possibly his life.

They needed my signature. The wife's consent.

I looked at the consent form. Then at my phone—47 missed calls from three nights ago, when our four-year-old son stopped breathing.

Adrian never picked up. He was too busy.

Now he was begging me to sign.

I wiped away my tears, picked up the pen.

Now it was his turn to die.

Celeste's POV

I'd been holding Leo's body for three days and three nights without sleep when my husband threatened to divorce me for the hundredth time.

He was only four. When he died, his body felt light as a feather, his face purple-blue. I remembered the way he looked at me at the end—those gray-blue eyes, identical to Adrian's, filled with pure terror. He didn't understand why Mommy couldn't save him. Why Daddy wasn't there.

That daddy had been busy in his sports car on a mountain road, playing dangerous games with his mistress Bianca.

"Mrs. Westwood? Ms. Celeste Westwood?"

A middle-aged doctor hurried toward me. His badge read Harrison.

He glanced at the small body in my arms and swallowed. Leo's limbs had gone stiff, but I still held him tight.

"What is it?"

"Look, I'm really sorry to bother you right now, but your husband—Adrian Westwood—he's been in a car accident. They just brought him in, and, uh..."

"Is he dead?"

I lifted my head.

Dr. Harrison froze.

He wiped his forehead. "No. No, he's not dead. But there's been a pretty unusual situation. You really need to see this for yourself."

I stood up. Three days without sleep—I felt like I was floating.

Following the doctor down the corridor, bodyguards sealed off the entire area. That was Adrian. Even at his worst, he threw money around like it could build walls.

I pushed open the isolation room door. Disinfectant mixed with expensive perfume.

In the center sat a hospital bed covered by an enormous white sheet. Beneath it, two bodies formed a grotesque bulge.

"Celeste! GODDAMMIT, you finally showed up!"

Adrian's voice exploded from under the sheet. The voice I used to love. Now it turned my stomach.

Then came a soft whimper. "Adrian... God, it HURTS. Please, baby, make them give me something stronger..."

Bianca. The Broadway starlet. The bitch saved in Adrian's phone as "B."

"The pain meds are maxed out," a young female doctor said flatly. "Any more and we can't do the procedure."

"Then give her MORE anyway!" Adrian roared. The sheet shook. Bianca screamed.

"Mr. Westwood, listen to me—you NEED to stop moving." The doctor's voice went ice-cold. "Every time you thrash around, you make this ten times worse."

I stared at that white sheet. Like some two-headed beast trapped underneath.

"Dr. Harrison," I said quietly. "Can you explain what's going on here?"

The doctor pulled out a thick report. "Right. Okay. So, Mrs. Westwood, this condition is called vaginismus. It's extremely rare. What happened was—Jesus, how do I put this—Mr. Westwood and this young woman were engaged in sexual activity when their vehicle crashed on the mountain road. The impact caused severe muscle spasms in her pelvic floor."

He cleared his throat. "Bottom line? They're stuck together. Locked. It took the rescue crew three hours just to cut them out of the car. And now Mr. Westwood's member has been without proper blood flow for too long. It's swelling. If we don't act soon, there's a real risk of tissue death."

I stared at the two feet poking out from under the sheet. One in Italian leather. The other bare, toenails painted blood-red.

"Then separate them," I said.

"That's the PROBLEM, Celeste!" Adrian bellowed. Metal clanged. Every time he struggled, Bianca shrieked. "These incompetent QUACKS say they can't just yank us apart! They want to inject some nerve blocker bullshit into my SPINE!"

Dr. Harrison jumped in. "Yes, ma'am, that's correct. Standard muscle relaxants aren't working. We need to inject directly into Mr. Westwood's spinal column to force temporary paralysis of his lower body. It's the only way. But I have to be straight with you—it's high-risk. There's about a thirty percent chance of permanent paralysis. Or permanent erectile dysfunction."

Silence dropped over the room.

I finally understood why they'd dragged me here.

"According to Mr. Westwood's prenup and medical power of attorney," Dr. Harrison continued, pulling out a black Montblanc pen and a stack of papers, "this kind of high-risk surgery requires written consent from his primary medical proxy. That's you. His legal wife."

"Without your signature, we can't touch him. We'd have to wait for an emergency court order. At least forty-eight hours."

Forty-eight hours. By then, the thing Adrian was so proud of would rot clean off.

I looked down at the pen. Cold metal.

"Celeste, sign it. RIGHT NOW." Even in this position, Adrian's voice dripped with authority. "My lawyer's already on his way. I'll compensate you, alright? Just sign the damn thing and let them stick the needle in! I can't take another SECOND of this!"

Bianca's voice cracked. "Mrs. Westwood, please, I'm begging you... It hurts so bad... Please, just... have a heart. Help us..."

I stared at the white sheet.

Three days ago, Leo was in the ER, gasping for air during an asthma attack. His little face turned that same purple-blue. The doctor said they had to do an emergency tracheotomy. They needed a parent to sign. My hands shook, but I signed. And then, right there during the procedure, Leo's heart stopped.

I was out in that hallway. Calling Adrian over and over.

Forty-seven times.

Every single call went straight to voicemail.

Now here he was—stuck inside his mistress after screwing around in a moving car—and he had the AUDACITY to demand I save him.

"Compensation?" I repeated softly. "Adrian, what exactly are you planning to compensate me with this time?"

"Whatever the HELL you want! The penthouse downtown? A yacht? Name it, Celeste! But don't you DARE throw some tantrum right now! I'm running out of patience!"

Adrian was one second away from exploding.

My fingers tightened around the pen.