Divorced the CEO After His Mistress Killed My Mom

"Otis!"

I raised my hand, ready to slap her again.

But my wrist was suddenly seized from behind. Otis's voice came from over my shoulder, laced with cold amusement.

"Mrs. Sanchez, that's rather undignified, don't you think?"

His tone stayed light, almost playful.

I heard the warning underneath.

"She's at that age where girls care about their looks," Otis continued. "If you actually damage her face, you'll be the one dealing with the fallout. Why put yourself through that?"

His voice remained mild, indifferent even—but his grip on my wrist tightened, twisting until I had no choice but to release her. Only then did he speak again.

"Let's chalk today up to youthful impulsiveness. She overstepped. It happens."

"But if there's a next time—" His gaze dropped to me, turning glacial. "Mrs. Sanchez, my tolerance has limits."

I watched him cradle her like she was made of glass, murmuring soft reassurances.

"It doesn't hurt anymore, does it?"

"There's a good girl."

She melted into his arms, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. He scooped her up effortlessly, ready to leave—but I called out before he could.

"Otis."

He didn't stop. I didn't care. I chased after him and blocked his path.

"If you really love her—" My eyes locked onto her tear-streaked face. "Give her a proper title."

I leaned close to her ear, my voice dropping to a whisper edged with laughter.

"It's not that I won't step aside."

"Your precious Otis won't let me vacate my position so you can take my place. If you're really as capable as you think—" I let the words land, light but lethal. "Make him agree. Make him fight for you the way he once fought to bring me into the Sanchez family."

Her body went rigid. The smugness drained from her face.

She looked up at Otis, suddenly fragile. Uncertain.

Otis exhaled slowly. He set her down and walked toward me.

"Debbie."

His voice was flat. Empty.

"Don't regret this."

He signed his name on the line—and then turned back to comfort her.

"Happy now?"

She burst into tears of joy, throwing her arms around him. But her eyes found mine over his shoulder, holding my gaze in silent challenge.

I win.

That's what her look said.

I didn't spare Otis another glance. I didn't acknowledge her triumphant stare. I only felt the boulder that had been crushing my chest finally roll away.

I couldn't name what I felt.

I just sat in the empty villa, watching the movers methodically erase every trace of my existence, when my phone buzzed.

A video. From Otis's little girl.

On the screen:

Otis, down on one knee, pressing his lips to the back of her hand with the reverence of a man worshipping something sacred. His voice, soft and fervent:

"Jemima."

"My feelings for you aren't just words."

"The ceremony you want, the commitment you need—I'll give you all of it. So—" He produced a ring, the diamond obscenely large, and slid it onto her finger. "Are you happy now?"

Jemima laughed and cried at once, nodding frantically. Then she sent me a message.

[Everyone says Otis loved you so much back then that he defied his entire family to marry you. That he knelt in the Sanchez ancestral hall for seven days straight—no food, no water—and took the family's punishment just to make them accept you.]

[And your mother, clinging to life by a thread? She's only alive because Otis brought in the best medical team money could buy.]

[But you don't know the truth, do you?]

Another video arrived.

[It was never what you thought.]

The lighting was dim. A private club—Otis's usual haunt. I recognized every face in the room.

Someone's voice, teasing:

"Otis, what's the deal with you and Debbie? This whole mess—what's the point?"

Otis sat in the center, rolling our wedding ring between his fingers. The man pressed on.

"Debbie's been running wild out there. Five boy toys, at least. Aren't you worried she'll catch something? Doesn't it disgust you?"