His Second Family

Austin Sullivan loved bringing his friends over for dinner. He said it made the house feel alive—like a real family.

I tightened my apron and kept myself busy in the kitchen. The dining table was covered with beautiful dishes. His buddies dug in, grease shining on their lips.

One of them lifted his glass with a smirk. "Your wife is amazing, Austin. Truly first-wife material."

I wiped my hands dry and shot back playfully, "What, is there some second wife I should know about?"

The room went quiet. His friends suddenly found the tablecloth fascinating. Austin laughed it off and pulled me close. "Don't listen to them, babe. There's no one but you."

His tone was smooth. His face, perfectly calm. I smiled, turned around, and walked into the kitchen. Then I made a call.

"Brother—Austin's cheating. I want him behind bars."

Three seconds of silence. "Isabella… are you sure? Austin, he's—"

I slipped off my wedding ring. The diamond bit into my palm—sharp, painful. Ten years of marriage. Every cufflink he ever wore, I had custom-made in Italy.

Today, he was wearing cheap plastic ones.

"Do you think I'd make a mistake?"

"You know how I get. Dig up everything. And get me the best lawyer. I want a divorce."

I could hear the anger simmering in my brother's voice. "Alright."

Half an hour later, an encrypted file popped up on my phone.

The first photo: a girl in a white shirt, smiling, arm locked with a man's. A wolf head tattoo on her wrist—just like Austin's.

I drove straight to his office.

Minutes later, a girl with long black hair and a white dress rushed out. Her badge said Lydia.

She went pale when she saw me. She tried to hide her hand, but I'd already seen it—a Swiss custom watch.

Last year on my birthday, I got a purchase record from Switzerland. A $300,000 watch. A $50,000 necklace.

The necklace was tucked safely in my jewelry box. The watch was on her wrist.

I smirked. "Mr. Lydia's husband has great taste. Just like mine. Even the custom watches match."

She trembled. Her lips quivered. "Y-yes… I guess men have similar tastes."

Her knuckles were clenched white.

"Cut the act. You're the little wife they were talking about."

Lydia shook even harder. "You've got it all wrong. Mr. Sullivan fainted once from low blood sugar—I just helped him. His friends were joking, I swear. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding."

She bowed deeply, playing the victim.

If I hadn't seen her video, I might have believed her.

Two weeks ago, she posted a clip: a man swiping his card at a dealership. A Porsche parked beside him.

Caption: "Where a man spends his money, that's where his heart is."

That same day, I was burning up with fever, barely conscious. I called Austin to take me to the hospital.

His voice was rough. He said he couldn't leave. Sent the maid instead.

An hour later, I had pneumonia and was rushed to the ER.