My Husband Forced Me To Keep His Mistress Alive — Until I Found The Hidden Camera Footage

Part 1

I spent the last three years as a living blood bank for my husband’s true love.

Brian only married me because I possessed the rare blood type required to keep Heather alive.

She had been in a catastrophic car crash on the very night they were supposed to get engaged.

He blamed me for the accident.

He truly believed I had run her off the road out of sheer jealousy.

The cruelest part of the entire situation was that Heather had stolen my life before the crash even happened.

Months earlier, I had slipped an anonymous, handwritten love letter into Brian’s backpack at the campus library.

We began texting constantly.

Late-night messages turned into deep, soul-baring conversations about our futures and our dreams.

He fell in love with the girl behind the screen.

When we finally agreed to meet in person at a local coffee shop, I arrived ten minutes late.

Heather had gotten there first.

She somehow knew about our arrangement and claimed my identity as the anonymous texter.

Brian bought her lie without a second thought.

My heart shattered as I watched them leave the cafe holding hands.

I never got the chance to expose her deceit.

Two weeks later, her sports car flipped over the concrete barrier on the interstate.

Her injuries were massive.

The doctors told Brian she would slip away without immediate and continuous transfusions of an extremely rare blood type.

My blood type.

Brian tracked me down, knowing I was a registered donor on campus.

He fell to his knees in the hospital hallway and begged me to save the woman he loved.

He offered me the only thing he had left.

Marriage.

If I agreed to be his wife and provide the blood Heather needed, he promised to take care of me forever.

My father had recently passed away under mysterious circumstances, leaving me entirely alone in the world.

He had been the CEO of Skyward Corporation, a company that was slowly being absorbed by Heather’s wealthy family.

Brian knew I had no support system left.

He exploited my grief and my isolation to bind me to his terms.

A pathetic part of my soul thought I could win him back.

I convinced myself that if I showed him my true devotion, he would eventually realize I was the one he had been talking to all along.

I said yes.

We had a courthouse wedding with no rings and no celebration.

My honeymoon consisted of sitting in a sterile hospital chair with a needle in my arm.

Over the next three years, Brian treated me like a ghost in my own home.

He slept in the guest room.

He never remembered my birthday or our anniversary.

His entire existence revolved around sitting by Heather’s bedside, holding her motionless hand.

I endured the dizziness, the bone-deep fatigue, and the constant iron deficiency because I loved him.

I watched my own health deteriorate while I pumped life back into the woman who had stolen my fairy tale.

Every single week, I sat in that cold clinic while the nurses drained another pint from my veins.

My arms were covered in tiny, faded bruises.

Brian never once asked if I was feeling okay.

He never bought me a glass of juice or held my hand during the procedure.

He just watched the blood flow into the plastic bag with a hungry, desperate look in his eyes.

Every time I tried to bring up the past, Brian would shut me down with a cold glare.

He told me I was lucky he even allowed me to live under his roof.

He reminded me constantly that I owed Heather my blood to make up for almost killing her.

Then, last week, the impossible happened.

Heather woke up.

Brian called me from the hospital, weeping with joy.

I rushed over, hoping this miracle meant we could finally move on.

I pushed open the door to her recovery room.

Heather looked at me, her eyes narrowing into slits.

She clutched Brian’s arm and began to hyperventilate.

She pointed a trembling finger directly at my chest.

She told him that I was the one who had rammed her car off the highway three years ago.

She cried hysterically, claiming I had stalked them and tried to murder her to get Brian for myself.

Brian refused to hear my side of the story.

Without a second of hesitation, his hands clamped around my shoulders as he shoved me out into the hallway.

“Pack your miserable belongings and get out of my house by nightfall,” he barked, slamming the door in my face.

When I arrived back at the estate, my suitcases were already sitting on the front lawn.

Divorce papers were taped to the front door.

I had given this man my blood, my youth, and my dignity, and he discarded me the moment his fake soulmate opened her eyes.

I spent the next three days sleeping in my cramped car, parked behind a cheap diner.

My phone was filled with hateful text messages from Brian’s family.

They called me a murderer and a parasite.

I had absolutely nothing left to my name.

Then, a sleek black car pulled into the alleyway.

A man I hadn’t seen since college stepped out into the rain and tapped on my driver’s side window.

Tyler had been a freshman I used to tutor.

Now, he wore a tailored suit and an expression of cold fury.

He handed me a thick manila envelope without saying a word.

Inside was the original police report from the night of the crash.

Tucked beneath the papers was a small, silver flash drive.

The label on the drive read “Unedited Traffic Cam Footage.”

I drove to the nearest public library and plugged the drive into a computer.

My breath caught in my throat as I watched the grainy footage.

I saw exactly what had happened on that dark highway.

The screen displayed my own sedan pulling onto the shoulder.

The grainy footage captured a blurry version of me sprinting toward the twisted metal.

It showed me prying the heavy door open and dragging Heather’s unconscious body away just seconds before the engine exploded.

I hadn’t caused the crash.

I had saved her life twice.

Brian and Heather weren’t wasting any time.

They had organized a massive, lavish engagement party at the downtown country club for that very evening.

I drove to a thrift store and bought the sharpest black suit I could find.

I applied dark red lipstick and tied my hair back into a severe knot.

I was done playing the victim.

I marched up the sweeping staircase of the country club.

The security guards tried to stop me, but I shoved past them with cold determination.

I walked straight into the grand ballroom.

Brian and Heather were standing on the stage, raising their champagne flutes for a toast.

Heather wore a sickeningly sweet smile.

I didn’t say a word as I walked over to the AV booth.

I plugged my flash drive directly into the main projector system.

I hit the play button and waited for the lights to dim.