Chapter 1Raising My Husbands Mistresss Son

Five years later, on a Tuesday that felt like any other, I accidentally opened the "Recently Deleted" folder on Benedict’s phone.

There they were. One thousand, three hundred and sixty unread messages. Every single one of them from Callie.

“Benedict, I miss you so much. Can I come back? Can I just see you once?”

The words were like slivers of glass pressing against my retinas. He had never replied—at least not there—but he had meticulously saved every single one, tucked away by date in the digital graveyard of his trash bin.

A cold shiver raced down my spine, settling in my marrow. I slammed the phone down on the marble countertop in front of him. When I spoke, my voice was a raspy ghost of itself.

“Do I need to step aside? Should I just pack my bags and let the star-crossed lovers have their tragic reunion?”

My mind spiraled back five years. I could still see it: the flickering fluorescent lights of my university office, the scent of rain and cheap perfume, and my husband—my rock, my partner—pressed against my star student, Callie, their mouths fused in a desperate, frantic hunger.

I hadn’t screamed then. I had simply taken out my phone, snapped the photos, and posted them online for the whole world to see.

When I demanded a divorce, Benedict had dropped to his knees, his face wet with tears.

“Michelle, please. It’s not what you think. The lights were out... I thought she was you...” he’d stammered, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t leave me. I’ll do anything.”

To prove his devotion, he bought Callie a one-way ticket out of the country and swore he had severed every tie. Since then, he had been the model husband. In the boardroom, he was the ruthless CEO; at home, he was a man who seemed to live only to make me happy.

I was naive enough to believe that the cracks in our foundation had actually healed.

* * *

Benedict looked away from the screen, rubbing his temples with a weary sigh. His voice was heavy with a practiced sort of exhaustion.

“Michelle, what are we doing? Are we really doing this again?”

“I did everything you asked,” he continued, his tone shifting toward accusation. “I’m here every night. I haven’t spoken to Callie in years. What more do you want from me?”

He spoke as if I were the one who had committed the crime, as if my trauma was a burden he was tired of carrying.

I forced a brittle smile. “I’m being serious, Benedict. If she’s still in your heart, let’s just end this. Right now.”

I tried to keep my voice steady, but the cracks were showing. As soon as the word divorce left my lips, Benedict lunged. He snatched the phone and hurled it against the floor.

The sound of shattering glass exploded in the quiet room. Benedict’s eyes were rimmed with red.

“You want to throw away five years over some ghosted messages? I never answered her, Michelle! Not once!”

“Do you have any idea how exhausting it is? Trying to fill your bottomless pit of insecurity every single day? It’s been five years. When is it enough? What do I have to do to make you move on?”

He was using rage to mask his guilt, a classic defensive maneuver. To him, his silence was a virtue. To me, his preservation of her words was a shrine.

Suddenly, the bedroom door creaked open. Our five-year-old son, Toby, stood there in his pajamas, his feet bare. Before I could speak, he picked up a heavy metal toy car from the floor and flung it at me with terrifying precision.

“Don’t hurt Daddy! You’re a mean lady!”

The toy caught me right on the forehead. I felt the sharp sting of the impact, followed by the warm, metallic trickle of blood running down my temple.

I wiped my brow, staring at the child who, since the day he was born, had never once called me ‘Mom.’ A profound, soul-crushing fatigue washed over me.

“Toby, go back to your room,” I said softly. “This is between Daddy and me.”

But he didn't move. He stood like a tiny sentry in front of Benedict, glaring at me with a gaze full of pure, unadulterated hatred.

I was struggling to swallow the lump of grief and fury in my throat when the doorbell rang. Benedict’s body went rigid. His movements were hurried, almost frantic, as he crossed the room to open the door.

It was Callie.

I hadn’t seen her in five years, but the sight of her still made my stomach turn. She looked at me, then quickly dropped her gaze, looking like a kicked puppy.

“Professor,” she whispered.

Looking at her, the memories of that night in the office surged back—the betrayal of a mentor, the betrayal of a wife. I felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to grip the counter. But when I looked at Benedict, I saw it. The way he looked at her. He wasn’t angry. He was mesmerized.

My heart didn't just break; it withered.

Then, the boy who hated being touched—the son who stayed locked in his own world, diagnosed with severe sensory issues and a total lack of social bonding—did something that paralyzed me. He reached out and grabbed Callie’s sleeve.

“Are you here for Daddy?” Toby asked, his voice clear and sweet.

Since he was a toddler, the doctors told us he had severe developmental delays, a form of autism that made him cold to everyone but Benedict. I had spent five years blaming myself, crying into my pillow, telling myself he just didn't know how to show love.

But now, I watched as Callie smiled and pulled a handful of candies from her pocket, pressing them into his hand.

I instinctively moved to stop her. “His teeth are sensitive. He’s not allowed to have those,” I said, my voice sharp.

I tried to pull Toby toward me, but he ducked behind Callie, sticking his tongue out at me.

“One or two won't hurt,” Benedict said, stepping in front of me to block my path. He picked Toby up, cradling him with a look of complicated longing.

“Michelle, it’s been five years. Don’t you think you’ve punished her enough? Look at yourself. I’ve been the perfect husband for five years. Callie suffered so much abroad. She deserves to come home.”

I let out a jagged, hollow laugh, my fists clenching so hard my nails drew blood.

“Benedict, you were on your knees. You swore on your life you’d never see her again. Now you’re telling me you’re ‘heartbroken’ for her? You want her back?”

I looked at Callie, her presence a literal poison in my home. I pointed to the door.

“Get out. Get out before you stain the floor with your presence.”