Divorced the CEO After His Mistress Killed My Father

That was why he'd taken such special care of her.

Right up until the day before the wedding—when I caught them in bed together at our new apartment.

I couldn't believe it. The man who'd sworn he loved me for over a decade had so easily fallen for another woman.

I lost control completely. Screaming. Sobbing. Hysterical.

I wanted to destroy them. Ruin their reputations. Make them pay for what they'd done.

But all that rage collapsed into despair the moment I saw my father's cancer diagnosis.

I begged Ryan. I reminded him of everything my family had done for him—the tuition, the support, the years of generosity. All I asked was that he go through with the wedding as planned.

Just long enough for my father to leave for treatment overseas with peace of mind.

Ryan agreed. But he kept it from Sandra.

At the reception, she drove her car straight at me.

My father threw himself in front of the vehicle.

In his final moments, bleeding and broken, he placed my hand in Ryan's. Take care of her, he whispered. Promise me.

With the world watching—with everyone pointing fingers—Ryan finally stayed by my side.

For a long time after, I drowned in guilt. I had killed my father. That was the only thought I could hold.

I woke screaming in the middle of countless nights. If I hadn't begged Ryan to stay, would my father have been spared the stress that made him sick? If I had never loved Ryan at all, would my father have lived to see me marry? To hold his grandchildren?

Day after day. Year after year. I sank deeper into depression, hurting myself again and again.

Ryan would hold me while I broke apart, sobbing apologies into my hair. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Eventually, time dulled the sharpest edges. Life settled into something quiet. Something bearable.

But it was all a lie I told myself.

He had never forgotten Sandra. Not for a single day.

All he saw was her—her misery, her helplessness. He bent over backward to make it up to her.

He never once saw what he'd cost me. What he'd cost my father.

In the darkness, I heard the soft click of the front door closing. My eyes opened.

Dad... I want to divorce Ryan. You won't blame me, will you?

Sleep wasn't coming. I got up and walked to the corner where my father's portrait sat.

My fingers traced his smiling face. The grief swelled until I couldn't contain it.

Through blurred tears, I accidentally knocked the frame. It clattered to the floor.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" I dropped to my knees, reaching for it.

That's when I saw it.

Behind the shattered frame, tucked against the backing, was a photograph. Color. Glossy.

I pulled it free with trembling hands.

Ryan and Sandra. Together. Smiling.

The edges were worn soft—handled often, touched again and again.

Suddenly I understood.

For five years, Ryan had stood before this portrait. I'd thought he was paying his respects. Begging my father's forgiveness.

Now I knew the truth.

He was never looking at my father.

He was looking at her. At that radiant smile. At stolen moments that should never have existed.

I turned the photo over. A single line in familiar handwriting:

Ryan & Sandra. Forever.

His handwriting.

How pathetic I must have looked. A fool clinging to a marriage my father had paid for with his life.

And Ryan?

He played the devoted husband to perfection—while hiding a lover's photo behind my dead father's face.

My stomach heaved. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was retching, gripping the sink until my knuckles went white.

I couldn't wait another second. I needed to sever this completely.

The next morning, I met my lawyer at a café.

While I waited, a server approached with a steaming cup of coffee—then dumped it directly over my head.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry." The voice dripped with mock sweetness. "Clumsy me."

I looked up into Sandra's smirking face.

"Miss Perez." She tilted her head, eyes glittering with malice. "How was your night? Lonely, I imagine. That big bed all to yourself."

She leaned closer.

"Ryan was with me. We were up very late." Her smile sharpened. "He says you're like a block of wood in bed. Five years, and you still can't keep his interest."

I met her gaze. Ice cold.