Divorced the CEO After His Mistress Killed My Father

"What's this—finished pouring your heart out and now you can't wait to take her home to bed?"

Ryan's eyes went wide, disbelief written across his face.

"You—you saw that?"

"Noreen, let me explain—"

I didn't move. Just stood there, waiting for his explanation.

He fumbled for words, then his head dropped in defeat.

"I'm sorry!"

Sorry. Again with the apologies. Five years of hearing those two words had worn them hollow.

Every time he said them, it was just another reminder that he'd actually betrayed what we had.

I used to be naive enough to believe that if Sandra Henson just disappeared, we could go back to how things were.

And what happened?

Sandra merely stood there, and our fragile bond crumbled to dust.

Because of the two of them, my father paid with his life.

Because of the two of them, I'd wasted ten years of mine.

It was like the other shoe had finally dropped. My heart had never felt this calm.

"Ryan, let's get a divorce."

His head snapped up.

Then came the irritated pinch of his brow. He flicked on the lights and tossed his jacket carelessly onto the sofa.

"Noreen, you know I promised your father I'd never divorce you."

"What happened just now—that was my fault. I shouldn't have gone to see Sandra."

"But she went from being on top of the world to selling flowers on the street. She's suffered enough."

"I just felt guilty, wanted to give her some compensation. I won't see her again!"

I slowly lifted my gaze to the man in front of me.

We'd spent twenty years side by side, yet he felt like a complete stranger.

"What about me? Haven't I suffered enough? How do you plan to compensate me?"

After my mother passed, my father took me to teach in a remote mountain village.

That's where I met Ryan Stephens.

His mother had gotten pregnant out of wedlock, then been abandoned. She gave birth to him and left him with his elderly grandmother.

My father took a liking to this quiet, hardworking boy.

Then one night, in the pouring rain, Ryan knocked on our door.

His grandmother, Evelyn Stephens, had died. His Aunt Caroline Stephens wanted the old house back and was throwing him out.

Covered in mud, utterly wretched, he knelt on the ground and begged my father to take him in. Said he'd work like a dog to repay the kindness.

My father was still hesitating when I stepped forward and took Ryan's hand.

"Daddy, let him stay."

From that day on, Ryan became part of our family.

He was sensible and never idle.

When my father was busy with work, Ryan looked after me—cooking, doing laundry, even learning to braid my hair in different styles.

I became his little shadow.

When he was in class, I'd play outside the door, glancing up whenever I wanted to see him.

When he did homework, I'd sit quietly beside him, dozing off or folding paper.

Once, when my father was away on a trip, I spiked a high fever in the middle of the night.

Still just a kid himself, Ryan carried me on his back, stumbling through the dark all the way to town to find a doctor.

I came through fine. He ended up with a deep gash on his foot that kept him off his feet for three whole months.

I was too young to understand things. The first time I got my period, I thought I was dying.

I sobbed like the world was ending. It was Ryan, face burning red, who bought pads and awkwardly taught me how to use them.

Growing up, we were inseparable. Two halves of a whole.

At twenty, he confessed his feelings. Being together felt like the most natural thing in the world.

At our graduation ceremony, he proposed.

He asked me to wait three years—just until he'd saved enough for a proper wedding.

I told him I didn't care about material things. He said whatever other girls had, I deserved too.

I waited three years. What I got was him falling in love with someone else.

After graduation, Ryan chose to start his own business. My father gave him every penny of his life savings.

Sandra Henson was an intern at Ryan's company.

She'd clawed her way out of the mountains through sheer grit. Ryan said looking at her was like looking at his younger self.