I'll Raise His Mistress's Baby

I came back early from my trip without telling my husband, Herbert Foster—I wanted to surprise him.

Tracking his location, I hurried to a private booth at the pub. But through the glass, I saw him wrapped around another woman, their lips locked in a heated kiss.

His friends were cheering, and one of them laughed, "So much for being a DINK for your wife, huh? You knocked up Stella instead. Face it, your wife's too uptight and boring—she won't even give you a kid."

Herbert's face darkened. "Shut your mouth. Don't talk about my wife like that." He took a drag from his cigarette and added, "Once Stella's baby's born, I'll find a way to get my wife to adopt it. She's too fragile for pregnancy—if anyone lets her find out about this, they're dead."

They all swore to keep it secret. Meanwhile, I stood frozen outside, tears streaming down my face.

The man who'd once sworn he'd never let me suffer through childbirth—who claimed he'd happily live child-free just for me—had gotten another woman pregnant behind my back.

Fine. If that's how he wanted to play it, I'd make sure he never found me again.

I stumbled home in a daze.

I recognized that woman—Stella Edwards, Herbert's new secretary.

The scene from the pub burned into my mind, replaying on loop. Every cruel word echoed in my skull, hammering home the truth: the man I thought loved me completely had betrayed me.

I pulled out my phone and video-called Herbert. He rejected it instantly.

Seconds later, his texts flooded in:

[What's wrong, babe? In a meeting.]

[Can't talk now, sweetheart.]

[Miss me? I miss you too. I'll wrap this up soon and call you. Love you.]

If I hadn't seen him kissing Stella with my own eyes, I might've believed his sugary lies.

I sent a voice message: "I'm home early."

Herbert replied immediately: [Why'd you come back early, honey? I'll be right there.]

I didn't answer. Instead, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring blankly at Rivert's skyline.

Just yesterday, my assistant, Tiffany Reed, had gushed about Herbert while I was at a fashion show overseas. "Mr. Foster adores you, Ms. Brown," she'd said. "He told me to buy every piece you even glanced at—he wants to give you the world."

And she wasn't wrong. Herbert had loved me—so much that even after seeing him cheat, part of me still wondered if I'd imagined it.

My mom died giving birth to me—amniotic fluid embolism. My dad raised me alone until I turned eighteen, then slit his wrists to join her.

He left me hundreds of millions, making me a magnet for gold diggers and opportunists.