He Made Me Take the Blame for His Mistress's Crime

The night of our engagement party, my fiancé's first love drove drunk and slammed into me. The wheels rolled hard over my belly.

Then the car stopped. The engine roared, and it reversed, and rolled over me again.

My fiancé came running. He spared me a single glance.

A man who couldn't stand a speck of dirt on himself, he crouched down and stripped off his suit jacket to wrap the scraped skin on Flora Pruitt's arm.

I dragged my last strength into one hand and caught the hem of his trousers.

"Jerome Henson. My stomach—"

He took out a bottle of liquor.