My Husband Called It a Game, It Killed Our Daughter

Jason Robinson's mistress threw a dramatic tantrum, accusing my daughter, Ayla, of somehow stealing her child's chance at survival.

And just like that, the very next day, my seven-year-old daughter was forced to take Vera Leigh's, my husband's mistress, place in a twisted, stomach-churning game of Russian roulette.

I knelt on the ground, begging and pleading for them to spare my little girl.

But Jason just shrugged.

"Since Ayla's so lucky," he said, all casual, "what's the harm in letting Vera blow off a little steam? Maybe if she gets it out of her system, she'll stop fighting with me."

Hearing that, I stood there paralyzed, helpless, watching as Vera strutted up and coolly laid down a $100 million on the table like it was a damn poker game.

$1 million per shot. 100 shots in total.

And Lady Luck, bless her, stuck with Ayla for 36 rounds.

But on the 37th, her luck finally broke.

The chamber clicked. The bullet fired.

It went straight through her little head.

And Jason? He wasn't even there for it. He'd gotten bored after the seventh round and taken Vera to the bedroom.

I screamed, full-body, soul-ripping anguish. I screamed like something primal had been torn out of me.

Jason's moans from the other room grew louder as if my pain had turned him on.

When he finally came back out, sweaty and disheveled, his shirt half-open, Vera clinging to him like a smug little leech, he crouched beside me.

He reached out and patted my cheek like I was a child who'd just had a nightmare.

Then he smiled.

"You cry so realistically," he said. "That was intense. Don't worry, the gun wasn't even loaded. I just wanted to give Vera some closure."

——

Claire's POV

Back then, both Vera's son and Ayla had been hospitalized at the same time. Both were critically ill.

Ayla survived. Vera's son didn't.

Ever since then, Vera clung to this delusion, this obsessive lie that Ayla had somehow stolen her child's luck.

"If your daughter hadn't sucked up all the luck," she spat, "my son would still be alive!"

Jason never corrected her or defended Ayla.

Then, without any warning, the very next day, Ayla was dragged into another game of Russian roulette.

On a cruise ship, no less.

A child.

By the time I got there, it was already too late. Ayla was strapped to a spinning wheel, her little arms and legs stretched out in an X.

To make sure she couldn't escape, they had locked her wrists, her ankles, and her neck with heavy restraints.

When she saw me, her voice was already raw from crying.

"Mommy, save me! Mommy, Ayla's not a jinx!"

Her whole body was shaking. Ayla, who always cared about her hair and cute clothes, was now sobbing and gasping like the air itself was punishing her.

And her biological father? He was standing off to the side, arms folded across his chest, looking at her like she was a stranger.

Like she wasn't his own flesh and blood.

My heart shattered.

I tried to run to her, but his guards slammed me back, holding me like I was some hysterical criminal.

"Jason! Are you out of your goddamn mind?!" I screamed. "That's your daughter!"

I ripped myself free just long enough to grab his collar, screaming right into his smug, empty face.

But he shoved me off like I was nothing, then reached over and slipped his arm around Vera's waist.

"Claire," Jason said, his voice colder than I'd ever heard, "who told you to take Ayla to that hospital? Who told you to let her steal Vera's child's life? You and your daughter owe them both."

Then he turned to Vera, his voice soft like a lover's whisper.

"Vera, do whatever makes you happy today."

Vera smirked at me with that sick little glint in her eyes like she'd already won.

I just stood there, staring at Jason, the man I thought I'd built a life with.

That moment hit me harder than any slap because that's when I realized I never really knew him at all.

Right then, the cruise staff rolled out a tray casually, like this was just another show.

On it were a revolver and a stack of number cards.

Vera practically skipped over to the table, her eyes shining like she'd been handed her birthday present early.

"Claire probably doesn't know the rules, huh?" she said with a little giggle that made my skin crawl. "It's a twist on the classic Russian roulette. One bullet in the chamber. Each shot earns a million bucks. And there's no limit on how many times you can pull the trigger."

Happily, she giggled, "I wonder how much money Ayla's luck will make for Jason!"

She picked up the card marked '6' and kissed it like it was some kind of lucky charm.

A revolver holds only six bullets.

In a regular game, if the first five chambers are empty, the sixth is guaranteed to fire.

But nobody's luck lasts forever. Not even Ayla's.

I stood frozen, too numb to even cry. My eyes locked on Jason, silently begging him to stop this. To be a father.

But he wouldn't even look at me.

Then Vera leaned in close, purring like a satisfied cat.

"Claire, if you get down on your knees, slap your face, and shout 'I'm the mistress,' maybe I'll think about sparing your daughter."