That’s Your 100th Mistress, Time to Leave You

In five years of our marriage, my husband, Vincent Blackthorne had taken ninety-nine mistresses home.

At our anniversary party, he allowed the hundredth one to get me drunk.

I’m allergic to alcohol. I ended up in the hospital with anaphylactic shock. And still, he said to me, “Stop playing weak, Andrea. Sable’s craving barbecue ribs. Drag your pathetic weak self home and make them.”

Then came the warehouse fire. He didn’t hesitate for a second—he carried his mistress out, leaving me behind.

The flames swallowed my cries for help. My right leg was permanently damaged in the fire.