Kill the Mistress, Not My Problem!

Seven years into their marriage, Ryan Carter's so-called "Canary" finally snapped. With a sharp turn of her heel, she delivered her final blow: "Ryan Carter, I've got more than enough money. I don't need you anymore."

I watched, detached, wondering how long he'd let this little act play out. After all, we'd seen this same drama unfold a dozen times over the past three years. But this time, he just smirked, cold and dismissive. "Did the pet really think I'd care?"

Then, she lost it.

Not long after, the news broke—she'd died in a car accident. The man who always wore indifference like a second skin suddenly... wasn't so indifferent anymore.

After Emma White's death, Ryan locked himself in his study, refusing food, water, even sunlight. I knocked, only to be met with a sharp, "Go away."

Part of me wanted to apologize—some stupid, reflexive instinct. But then I caught myself. Apologize? We weren't even divorced yet, and he'd been the one cheating. Why the hell should I be sorry?

My eyes flicked to the untouched meal on the table—the soup I'd simmered for hours, now a congealed, faintly fishy mess. Without hesitation, I dumped it all in the trash. Just like our twenty-year relationship—if I didn't throw it out now, it would only fester.

On the eighth day, Ryan finally emerged. Clean-shaven, composed, back to his usual icy self. But his gaze when he looked at me? Dark. Accusing. Like I was the one who'd killed the woman he loved.

I stayed silent, waiting. I knew what was coming. After knowing each other for years—seven of them married, from school uniforms to wedding dresses—I'd always assumed we'd walk the same path forever. But somewhere along the way, he'd chosen to leave. And now? I had no choice but to face what came next.

"Where is she?" His voice was flat, lifeless.

I took a breath. "Buried."

His expression twisted instantly, rage burning in his eyes. "Lila Banks," he hissed, "who gave you the right to bury her?"

His hands clenched like he wanted to strangle me right then. And maybe he would have—if not for the pregnancy.

But I'd overestimated how much that mattered.

The next second, he had me pinned to the sofa, his fingers digging into my throat, cutting off my air. The room spun, darkness creeping in at the edges.