Interviewed to Be His Mistress

At the joint bachelor-bachelorette party, the room grew loud, sweaty, and reckless. Someone called for a round of the King’s Game, and my best friend, Bianca, drew the crown card. She twirled the plastic card between two manicured fingers, eyes glittering. "Now hiring: one side piece. Number four, step up for the interview. The groom and I will decide if you make the cut." I turned my card over. The bold black number staring back at me was a four. Instantly, phones shot into the air. "Look at that—the bride interviewing to be the mistress!" someone whooped from the velvet couch. "Get this on video! We're putting it on the giant projector tomorrow at the reception!" "Tough job market out there, Phoebe," another groomsman yelled, sloshing beer onto the carpet. "Better bring your A-game!" I swallowed against a sandpaper throat and took half a step backward. "I'm not doing this." Bianca’s pout was instantaneous, exaggerated and sweet. "Oh, come on, Phoebe! Don't be such a buzzkill. I set this up specially for you." Before I could turn toward the exit, Griffin’s arm blocked my path. My fiancé didn’t look angry—just faintly amused, wearing that casual, immovable authority he always wore in front of his friends. "House rules," he murmured, his hand resting heavy on my shoulder. "You lose the draw, you play the round. Finish it, then we can go." Bianca rested her chin in her hands, smiling up at me like a curious cat. "Rule number one," she chirped. "You only get the presents I don't want." The air in the room felt suddenly thin. "Rule number two: you only get his time when I’m too busy to be bothered." Her smile broadened, revealing perfect white teeth. "And rule number three: if I get pregnant with his baby, you tell everyone you were the homewrecker who threw yourself at him, just to protect my good name. Think you can handle that, applicant?" With every condition, the blood drained further from my face until my lips felt numb. "No," I whispered. "None of it." Griffin clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Too possessive. Emotionally unstable. Application denied." Bianca collapsed against his shoulder in a fit of giggles. "Well, that settles it, Phoebe! You're too demanding to be the wife, and you're too rigid to be the side piece. Honestly, you're only suited for being single." The room erupted into laughter. My spine prickled with a ghost burn. Last winter, at another dinner, Bianca had made me crouch beneath the dining table as part of another 'joke' about being the secret lover. When a server accidentally knocked a bowl of scalding soup down my shoulder blades, Griffin had pinned my knee to the floor with his boot, whispering, "Quiet. The real wife is still in the room. Stay in character." And during our engagement trip, she had hung a cardboard placard around my neck in the hotel lobby that read "I wreck happy homes," while they sat in the mezzanine lounge placing twenty-dollar bets on how long I would stand there before I hyperventilated. I was done playing. "I'm dropping out of the game," I said, my voice steadying. "And I'm dropping out of the wedding." … The laughter evaporated. The smug curve on Griffin’s mouth set into a hard, rigid line. "Phoebe. There’s a time and a place for dramatic fits, and this isn't it." "I’m not joking," I said, the words falling flat between us. Bianca slammed her plastic King card onto the glass table with a sharp crack. "Hey, the game isn't over! Tomorrow’s wedding belongs to the winner—which means it's mine. Phoebe, you're just an applicant who failed the interview. Who gave you permission to call off my wedding?" She said it with absolute conviction, refusing to drop the bit, weaponizing her playful tone like an iron fist inside a velvet glove. Griffin watched her for a beat, his shoulders noticeably dropping their tension. He gave an easy, dismissive snort. "See? You can't even take a harmless joke. If we get married tomorrow, am I supposed to walk on eggshells around you for the next forty years?" "Exactly, Phoebe, don't kill the vibe!" one of his buddies chimed in with a low whistle. "Griffin's just trying to teach you how to lighten up. Nobody wants a bitter nag for a bride." Bianca poured a glass of neat bourbon to the brim and shoved it toward my chest. "Since you're the mistress, standard etiquette applies: pour a drink for the lady of the house and apologize. On your knees, of course. Come on, Phoebe—you survived under the table last year, didn't you? Don't tell me you're a sore loser now." "It’s just a game." Those four words echoed in my ears, and the scar across my shoulder blades flared with phantom heat. Griffin leaned forward, visibly irritated, taking the tumbler from Bianca and trying to force my fingers around the heavy glass. "Take it. Don't make everybody sit here waiting on your temper." I yanked my hand back. The glass tilted, amber liquor splashing in a wide, dark arc across the pale silk of my skirt. Griffin’s hand paused in midair. Slowly, he set the empty glass down, plucked a linen napkin from the table, and began dabbing at my hem with exaggerated patience. "Look at what you do. You ruin everything you touch. If you're going to act like this every time we go out in public, I'm going to spend my entire life managing your moods. It's exhausting." I turned, shoved open the heavy soundproof door, and walked down the hallway toward the restroom. I cranked the brass faucet all the way to cold, letting the freezing water rush over my trembling knuckles. But the roar of the plumbing couldn't drown out the voices drifting around the corner. "Hey, Griff," the best man was saying, the flick of a lighter audible between words. "You really not worried she’s gonna walk? Tomorrow's the big day." Griffin’s footsteps paused just outside the alcove. I heard the long, lazy hiss of exhaled smoke. "A woman’s pride has to be broken in early," he said smoothly. "If you don't tame them before the vows, how do you expect to run a household? Relax. She’s completely dependent on me. She’s not going anywhere." I turned the tap off. In the mirror, the woman looking back had reddened eyelids, but there were no tears. When I stepped out, the party was finally dispersing, spilling loudly toward the elevators. Bianca was at the front of the pack, still twirling the King card in her fingers. The moment she spotted me, she flashed an affectionate, breezy wave. "Phoebe, hurry up! Griffin brought the car around front!" His black sedan was idling by the curb under the sodium streetlights. Before I could reach the door, Bianca slid seamlessly into the front passenger seat. She rolled down the window, resting her chin on her arm, looking out at me with wide, innocent eyes. "The real wife gets shotgun, sweetie. The side piece sits in the back. Come on, game’s still active—no breaking protocol!" I froze on the asphalt, shifting my gaze to Griffin behind the wheel. He didn't even look at me directly; he just glanced into the side mirror. "You heard her. Game’s not over. Get in the back." My fingers curled into fists inside my coat pockets. "Griffin. I told you inside. I'm done." "Here we go again." He rapped his knuckles against the steering wheel, his jaw clenching. "Bianca won the card. Those are the rules. Stop making a scene in the street and embarrassing both of us." Two of his friends lingering near the valet laughed. "Listen to the man, Phoebe! Know your place in the pecking order!" "Get in," Griffin ordered, his tone clipping short. "Bianca’s wearing four-inch heels. There isn't enough legroom for her in the back." It felt as though I had swallowed a throatful of broken glass. Silently, mechanically, I pulled open the rear door and sat down on the leather seat. Griffin caught my eyes in the rearview mirror as he pulled into traffic. "Still sulking?" His voice softened by a fraction, adopting that patronizing cadence he used whenever he thought he was being generous. "You're too rigid, Phoebe. You never bend. Bianca dragged you into this tonight because she wanted to teach you how to yield. When we're married, do you think you can just throw your weight around and pick fights over every little thing?" Bianca twisted around in her seat, beaming back at me. "He’s right, you know. You really don't appreciate what you have. Griffin is doing this for your own good—to prep you for marriage. If you can't even handle a tiny bit of teasing, how are you going to be a proper wife? Besides... if you don't cherish him, there are plenty of girls who would." She threw a pointed, lingering glance toward the driver's seat. Griffin didn't brush it off. Instead, a faint, self-satisfied smirk played at the corner of his lips. "Hear that? Bianca has more sense in her little finger than you do." I clutched the fabric of my skirt until my knuckles went white. "So humiliating me in front of everyone was an act of charity? Griffin, your logic makes me sick." The temperature in the cabin dropped to zero. Griffin slammed his foot on the brake. The sudden deceleration threw me forward; the seatbelt dug viciously into my collarbone, knocking the breath from my lungs. "Don't push your luck, Phoebe," he snapped, turning his head halfway around. "I took the time to explain myself to give you an out. Do you really need to humiliate everyone until there's no ground left to stand on?" Bianca reached over, her hand gently smoothing over Griffin’s forearm. "Griffin, don't be mad. She’s just stressed about the wedding." She shifted in her seat, her gaze dropping to my hands clasped tightly against my knees. More specifically, her eyes locked onto the vintage band on my right ring finger. A spark of greed lit up her eyes. "Oh! We forgot rule number four!" Bianca clapped her hands together softly. "The side piece has to surrender her most precious possession to the wife as a sign of submission." She pointed directly at my hand. "Phoebe, give me that ring. Consider it your toll fee to clear the level." I jerked my hand back, hiding it deep in my coat pocket. "No. Absolutely not." That ring was the only thing my mother had left from my father. It was the ring he had proposed with thirty years ago, an antique sapphire set in worn gold. She had placed it in my palm from her hospital bed, praying that my marriage would carry the same quiet devotion hers once had. Bianca’s lower lip jutted out as she turned back to Griffin, dripping with exaggerated grievance. "Look at her, Griff. She won't even play along with a single thing." Griffin’s brow furrowed into deep, ugly ridges. "Give it to her." "Griffin—" "Just let her wear it for a couple of days! It’s not like she’s going to keep it. Stop being so dramatic." Tremors racked my limbs. My nails cut crescent moons into the meat of my palm. "Griffin, you know what this ring is. It’s my mother’s heirloom!" He had held that exact ring six months ago, looking me in the eye, promising it would bless our altar. And now he was ordering me to toss it to another woman like a plastic carnival token. Griffin let out a sharp, dismissive scoff. "It’s an old piece of metal, Phoebe. Is it worth screaming over? She just wants to try it on. Are you going to lose an arm if she wears it? Take it off. Don't make me tell you a third time." I clenched my jaw so hard my molars ached, tears scalding the rims of my eyes, but I refused to let them spill. "No. Over my dead body." The last shred of Griffin’s patience snapped. "Phoebe," he said, his voice dropping into a low, vicious purr. "Have you forgotten who’s paying for your mother’s dialysis treatments?" The air died in my chest. Seeing the color flee from my skin, Griffin’s expression relaxed into a chilling smile. "If you can't even stomach a party game," he continued softly, "maybe I need to reconsider whether I can afford to keep funding her clinic bills." He knew exactly where the blade would hurt most. He was using my mother’s fading pulse to force me to strip away her dignity. Bianca stifled a giggle behind her manicured hand. "Hurry up, Phoebe. Don't make him upset. It would be awful if your mom’s treatments suddenly got interrupted over a piece of jewelry." My fingers moved like rusted hinges. Slowly, agonizingly, I worked the band over my knuckle. The gold was still warm with the heat of my skin as it fell into Bianca’s waiting, outstretched palm. "Ooh, it’s actually gorgeous," Bianca purred, sliding it effortlessly onto her own ring finger. She held her hand up against the dashboard lights, admiring the angle. "Griffin, look. Doesn't it look way better on my hand than hers?" Griffin glanced over, his eyes softening. "Your skin is paler. Everything looks good on you." I leaned my head back against the cold leather of the headrest and closed my eyes. Somewhere deep in the dark, quiet chambers of my chest, something vital finally died. ... We arrived at our apartment building just as Griffin’s phone chimed with an incoming video call. The nurse’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Mr. Abbott? Your mother-in-law has been waiting up to see the bride. Is Phoebe with you?" Griffin accepted the feed and turned the screen toward me. My mother lay propped up against thin hospital pillows, an oxygen cannula looped over her ears, her skin pale and waxy. On the bedside table sat our framed engagement portrait. "Phoebe, sweetheart..." Her voice was faint, a thread of breath. "Griffin texted me earlier saying you two were doing wedding-eve games. It’s good for young people to have fun..." I opened my mouth, but before a sound could come out, Bianca slipped her arm through Griffin’s and leaned into the frame. The clinic light reflected sharply off the sapphire ring on Bianca’s finger. My mother’s eyes widened, locking onto her hand. "Bianca... why are you wearing my daughter’s heirloom?" Bianca flashed a bright, sunny grin into the camera. "Oh, Mrs. Dalton, it's part of the game! Tonight I’m playing the real wife, and Phoebe’s the mistress. The wife has to wear the family jewels, obviously!" The bedside monitor behind my mother gave a frantic, rhythmic beep. The pulse line spiked. I lunged forward, snatching the phone from Griffin’s grip. "Mom! She’s just messing around. The wedding is on track, I swear. Please, go to sleep. Don't worry about anything." My mother took three ragged, shallow breaths before she managed a frail nod. "Don't... don't be stubborn, Phoebe. Griffin found the specialists. He covered the clinic deposit. He’s done so much for us... I see how good he is to you. You have to treat him well. You have to make this work..." The screen went dark. The last image burned into my retina was her trembling hand resting on the glass of our engagement portrait. Griffin casually plucked the phone back from my fingers. "See?" he said, pocketing it. "Even your mother knows you need to learn some humility." ... The next morning, when I arrived at the chapel, Bianca was already wearing my custom bridal gown. A massive welcome easel stood at the entrance of the foyer. In shimmering gold calligraphy, the sign read: "Groom: Griffin Abbott. Bride: Bianca Landry." And tucked into the bottom right corner, in mocking red print: "Mistress Phoebe Dalton: Strictly No Admittance." I reached out to rip the board down, but Griffin’s heavy hand clamped over the wooden frame. "It’s an interactive bit for the guests," he said, tone completely even. "A game needs an ending, Phoebe. We didn't finish the scene last night. Bianca is stepping in to help with the dry run." My voice shook, stripped bare. "Who the hell uses a bachelorette prank for an actual wedding rehearsal?" "Are you really going to start this again?" Griffin’s brows knit together in familiar disgust. "If you can't even stomach this, are you going to be tracking my phone every time I grab a drink after work?" Bianca strutted over, holding her phone aloft. With her other hand, she slapped an adhesive sticker over the front of my sweater. "WANTED: HOMEWRECKER." "The mistress has to tearfully confess that she threw herself at Griffin, and that he only took pity on her," Bianca instructed, tilting the camera lens directly into my face. "Just one line, Phoebe. Keep it simple. Deliver it well." I reached up to tear the sticker off. "I am not reading that. I told you both last night—I'm out." "You sure about that?" Griffin’s voice turned dangerously quiet. "Have you stopped caring whether your mother lives to see next week?" The blood rushed to my ears in a deafening roar. "You're threatening my mother’s life to make me perform in your sick little circus?!" "I’m teaching you how to be a compliant wife," he corrected, utterly unfazed. "Be a good girl. It’s one line." I bit my lower lip until I tasted the sharp, metallic tang of iron. Bianca tapped the screen. "Hurry up, the red light is blinking!" I looked into the lens, each syllable scraping against my vocal cords like gravel. "I threw myself at him. Griffin only took pity on me." Bianca scrunched her nose. "Ugh, no tears? We need to do another—" "That’s enough," Griffin interrupted, stepping in front of the lens. "The guests are going to start arriving. Wrap it up." Bianca lowered the phone with a satisfied smirk, then reached up, pulling the cathedral veil down so that it cascaded over both her and Griffin. "Well, since the mistress confessed, the wife needs to demonstrate how to mark her territory." Without warning, Bianca rose onto her tiptoes, looped her arms around Griffin’s neck, and pressed her lips flush against his. A chorus of raucous cheers erupted from the groomsmen standing by the double doors. I stood there, frozen on the parquet floor, watching their mouths move together beneath my tulle veil. "My breath belongs only to you," he had whispered to me on the night he proposed. Griffin stiffened for a second, but he didn't pull away. It took three agonizing beats before he turned his face aside. "All right, that’s enough," he said, his voice husky. "Stage kiss only. Don't overdo it." Bianca swiped a thumb over her smudged lipstick and shot me a triumphant wink. "See, Phoebe? He still cares about your feelings. He wouldn't even let me use tongue." Right then, my phone began to vibrate violently in my pocket. I answered it. The nurse’s voice was breathless, shredded with panic. "Ms. Dalton?! Your mother went into acute heart failure—they're doing chest compressions right now! You need to get here immediately!" I shoved Bianca out of my way with all the strength left in my body and bolted for the exit. "Phoebe! What kind of stunt are you pulling now?!" Griffin lunged forward, grabbing my bicep with bruising force. "Let go of me! My mother is dying!" Bianca let out a loud, mocking snort. "Oh, please! Phoebe, you're really making up a dying mother just to get out of a joke? We saw her on video last night! She was totally stable!" The groomsmen laughed along. "Man, she really commits to the bit!" "Curling your own mom’s toes to dodge a prank? That’s cold, Phoebe!" A raw, feral scream tore from my throat. "Griffin! Let me go! Let me go to the hospital!" "Fine," he snarled, releasing his grip in pure disgust. "You want to throw a tantrum? Go throw it outside. But hear me clearly: the guests sit down in one hour. You better be back here in that gown on time." He glanced at Bianca, offering a cold, vicious smirk. "Otherwise, I’ll let Bianca say the vows in your place." I didn't look back. I stumbled blindly down the chapel steps and flagged the first yellow cab that pulled toward the curb. ... By the time I reached the ICU, the red emergency light above the double doors had already gone dark. The floor nurse stood beside the gurney, her eyes red-rimmed. Without a word, she handed me my mother’s phone. On the screen was a video forwarded into the dialysis patient support group. In the frame, I stood with a "Homewrecker" badge pasted to my chest, while Griffin and Bianca kissed passionately beneath my bridal veil. Bianca had joined that chat months ago under the guise of helping me organize care schedules; she had never left. "She saw it," the nurse whispered, wiping a tear. "She kept asking if the wedding had been called off... if you had been thrown away. Her oxygen saturation plummeted to sixty-two within minutes. We tried to resuscitate for thirty minutes." On the bedside table, the framed portrait lay shattered on the linoleum. The crack in the glass ran straight down the center, cleanly severing my face from Griffin’s. ... The incinerator at the mortuary ran for a long, quiet time. I sat in the passenger seat of an old suburban shuttle, holding the cold ceramic urn against my ribs, heading toward my hometown cemetery. At that exact moment, back at the chapel, the scheduled ceremony time had passed by more than three hours. Griffin stood beneath the floral arch, checking his watch for the twentieth time, his face dark with fury. "Griffin... she’s still not back," Bianca murmured, her voice dripping with delicate concern. "Do you think she’s really angry? Should I call her and apologize?" "Don't bother," Griffin spat, tossing his phone onto the altar table. "She’s pulling this stunt to force me to crawl to her. She honestly thinks I can't live without her." Bianca sighed, leaning gently against his arm. "She’s so childish. How could she play games with an event like this?" "Because she thinks she’s indispensable," Griffin said coldly. "When she finally comes crawling back, I'm not letting her off the hook easily." Minutes dragged into an hour. The chapel double doors suddenly flew open, and the hotel event manager sprinted down the center aisle, pale and sweating. "Mr. Abbott! We just received a call from Ms. Dalton’s legal representative. The wedding... it’s officially canceled." Griffin froze on the altar steps, the color draining from his face in an instant.