Drowned by My Husband, Reborn as an Heiress

No other woman. He just didn't want his wife exposed to the spotlight.

Then what about me? What was I, exactly?

The officer sat me down for a lecture.

He told me Reginald and Pat were benefactors to those orphans. They were doing a good thing.

I shouldn't have gone to extremes and smashed the signboard. I should've been learning from them instead.

Something inside my chest died in that moment.

Reginald's words kept echoing in my ears.

"Her mother deserved what she got..."

The day I walked out of the police station after seven days of detention, the first thing I did was contact a divorce lawyer.

Back when Reginald wanted to put my mind at ease, he'd made me the largest shareholder of his company. Every property, every car under his name was registered to me.

I didn't go home. I checked into a hotel as far from Reginald as I could find.

Ten days of radio silence before he finally remembered I existed.

He called. I didn't pick up.

Then came a barrage of voice messages.

"Babe, I've been putting together a surprise for you for ten whole days. Still mad at me?"

"I have to go on a business trip for a couple weeks. Don't worry about me. I'll bring you back something nice."

I opened Pat's social media.

There she was in a skimpy bikini, lounging on a beach, soaking up the sun.

A pair of large, broad hands made a cameo in the frame.

Those same hands had held me tight when I woke screaming from nightmares. Those hands had covered my ears when my father berated me. Those hands had shielded me from the wind and rain the night Pat and her mother threw me out of the house.

Now those hands were gently rubbing oil into Pat's skin.

A bitter smirk twisted my lips. I couldn't breathe.

I wanted to ask Reginald if he felt proud of himself, watching me play the fool while the two of them made a joke of me behind my back.

Tears soaked into the pillow. I sobbed until I couldn't make a sound.

The next day, an email arrived in my inbox. Explicit photos.

Reginald, his gaze tender and adoring, pressing his lips to a woman's pregnant belly.

I deleted the email. Blocked the address.

My heart, already long dead and shattered, gave one faint, needling throb.

On the third day, Reginald called in a panic.

"Honey, you're type O, right? A friend of mine got hurt. Could you draw some blood and send it over? Please?"

Just moments earlier, Pat had posted an update.

She'd nicked her finger picking up seashells.

A scratch so shallow it hadn't even bled.

But the day of my abortion, blood had pooled across the hospital floor beneath my bed.

A sudden, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. I stared at the notification that had just popped up from Reginald's biggest business rival.

"Name your price. I want all of Gilbert's shares and properties."

I agreed.

Reginald took my silence as hesitation and pressed harder.

"It's just a tiny bit of blood. It's nothing."

"Beulah, can you really stand by and watch her die?"

My throat tightened. When I spoke, my voice was raw, heavy with an exhaustion that wouldn't lift.

"Reginald. How long were you planning to hide this from me? Until Pat's baby was born? Or until her child grew up and did exactly what she did, marched up to my face, called me the homewrecker, and shoved me down the stairs?"

Dead silence on the other end.

Reginald's voice shook. He stammered.

"Beulah, what are you talking about?"

I didn't have the energy to keep up the charade. I hit send on the video of my abortion.

"You wanted to know what the surprise was? Here. Let me tell you."