My Fiancée is A Mistress1
My Fiancée Is Other Man's Mistress
Been hitched to my first love for three years, yet there she goes claiming on Facebook she's the mistress.
She broke down when I called her out, insisting it was just a prank.
I was clueless at the time.
Barely a fortnight later, she'd lace my coffee with a dangerous dose of poison.
The next thing I knew, it was the day I popped the question.
There she was, blushing, eagerly waiting for me to slip the ring on.
***
Under a clear sky, I knelt before Sarah McWilliams.
Today was my big proposal day.
I spent the entire night laying out white roses, and half a year's savings on that ring.
Sarah stood there, cheeks pink, her hand over her mouth, teary-eyed.
"Go on, say yes!"
"You gotta say yes!"
Friends around us were all in on the excitement.
It was all set to be a blissful, picture-perfect moment.
But in a heartbeat, I was on my feet.
I fished out the ring I had gotten for Sarah from the box.
The diamond caught the sunlight, dazzling onlookers.
In full view, I chucked it right into the nearby sewer.
The crowd gasped, Sarah too stunned to react at first.
"Playing games with me?" Her tone turned icy fast.
I leaned in, whispering with a smirk, "You think you're worth it?"
Flashback to a bit earlier, I was in a hospital bed, fighting for life.
The doctor's relentless words echoed in my ears.
"The strychnine you swallowed... too much, too late for a pump or transfusion. We missed the golden hour to save you."
So this is it—I'm dying?
Strychnine, what the hell is that?
As I faced death, Sarah's face invaded my thoughts.
She's been my wife for three years.
She was into herbal remedies back in college.
Recently, she'd been brewing my daily coffee.
I recalled those odd button-like herbs in my cup—Sarah claimed they were just special herbs for me.
But they were strychnine...
After just four days, I ended up like this.
I felt my body cool down, and my eyelids grew heavy.
It felt like my consciousness was floating away, my body light as a feather, my soul nearly escaping.
"What are you doing? Sarah's almost here!"
Someone shook me hard, snapping me back to reality.
My eyes fluttered open on a park bench, clutching white roses and a small box.
The ring for the proposal, which I picked out myself three years ago.
I frowned at the ring.
It was tiny, just one carat.
Sarah had cried with joy then, and I vowed to hustle harder to upgrade her diamond by next year.