Accused of Causing My Husband's Mistress Miscarriage

Sure enough, I searched every corner of the room, inside and out — but the amulet my parents left me was gone.

Panic gripped me. I rushed to Clifford, my face pale, my hand trembling as I held it out in accusation.

"Clifford, where did you hide my amulet?"

He looked up lazily, brows furrowing with impatience.

"Denise’s been having dreams about children lately. I heard your amulet was... effective, so I borrowed it for a couple of days."

He leaned back as if this was perfectly reasonable.

"What’s wrong? You owe her a life. Don’t tell me you’re being stingy over a charm now?"

I stood frozen, my chest heaving.

Just then, Denise stepped forward, flustered. She pulled out a crumpled ball of paper from her pocket and pressed it into my palm with a pitiful expression.

"I’m sorry, Faith... I didn’t know it meant that much to you. I’ll give it back..."

I reached out with shaking hands, but before I could take it, she pulled back suddenly — and the amulet slipped from her fingers.

Splash.

It dropped into the steaming chicken soup on the table.

"Denise!"

The soup was still boiling. I lunged forward without thinking, plunging my hand into the pot.

The amulet surfaced — but it was already ruined, its paper soaked and warped beyond recognition.

Red blisters quickly bloomed across the back of my hand. The pain was searing, but Clifford merely clicked his tongue.

"It’s just a talisman," he muttered. "Why hurt yourself over that? And now the soup’s ruined."

I squatted down, trembling, unable to hold back my sobs.

"I'm sorry..." I whispered.

He blinked, surprised by how broken and subdued I sounded. For once, he didn’t scold me.

"If it means that much to you... I’ll go with you to the temple next time."

I didn’t respond. I turned and walked toward the guest room, my heart crumbling inside me.

That "sorry" wasn’t for him. It was for my parents.

I was a disgraceful daughter — I couldn’t even protect the last thing they left me.

Behind me, Clifford stared at my back, a flicker of unease in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but before he could, Denise slumped against his chest, hands on her belly, crying softly.

His attention snapped back to her in an instant.

Seeing her pale face, he panicked. He scooped her into his arms and rushed her into the master bedroom.

I barely heard the sudden commotion at the front door — voices, hurried footsteps. Doctors. Nurses. He must’ve called in half a hospital.

Meanwhile, I lay in the guest room, delirious from a high fever and the burns on my hand. My body throbbed in pain, but worse was the ache in my chest.

I remembered how gentle Clifford had been after we got married — how he once fussed over a small scratch on my ankle.

Everything changed the moment I lost our first child in that fall.

From then on, the women around him came and went. He rarely came home. His gaze when he did… was always cold, always distant.

Suddenly, the door burst open.

I opened my eyes groggily, and Clifford stood beside my bed, fury etched across his face.

"You couldn’t tolerate Denise, so you poisoned her food?"

His voice trembled with rage.

"I told you — you owe her this child. I’ll make it up to you, but you… what more do you want?!"

"Faith, you weren’t like this before. You’re becoming someone I can’t even recognize!"

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me across the floor, all the way into the master bedroom.

The doctor was wiping sweat from his forehead, visibly anxious.

"Mr. Delaney, Denise shows signs of food poisoning. We’ve stabilized her for now, but we need to know what she ingested so we can administer the right medication—"

Clifford glared at me, wild with suspicion.

"What did you do?!"

I stared back, confused and weak. "I didn’t do anything... This has nothing to do with me."

He sneered, then shoved me toward the doctor.

In one swift motion, he snatched a bottle of alcohol from the bedside table and poured it directly onto my burned hand.

The sting was instant and unbearable — I screamed, my body recoiling in agony.

But he wasn’t finished.

He pressed his heel onto the back of my injured hand, grinding it in without mercy.