He Destroyed My Child—Then Discovered My True Identity

When he'd finally worn himself out, Maggie's friends swarmed in.

Coffee splashed over my head, dripping down my face. Garbage landed on me—napkins, food scraps, whatever they could grab.

They formed a circle and the screaming started: "You actually think you can latch onto Ernest Sanchez? You? Marry him?"

"Ernest Sanchez is high society. He's Mr. Swanson's guest. What the hell are you?"

"Exactly. Do you even know where you are? This is Phoenix Terrace. A broke nobody like you has no business setting foot in here."

Everything blurred, and I was small again—back in every hallway, every schoolyard corner where they'd closed in on me just like this.

The only difference was that Ernest, the one who used to protect me, was now the one leading the attack.

Then one of Maggie's friends pulled out her phone and announced: "I've got a video right here."

"Her getting an abortion. Go on, everyone—take a good look."

They all crowded around.

In the video, I was screaming for help, writhing in pain.

But not a single face showed sympathy. Only disgust.

One of them finished watching and kicked me hard: "A filthy woman like you thinks she can seduce Ernest Sanchez?"

Someone else said: "Put it online. Let everyone see exactly who she is so they know to stay away."

I panicked.

I lunged for the phone, but a kick caught me out of nowhere and I hit the floor.

Fingers clawed at my clothes, ripping fabric, while more phones rose around me, filming. And then the chant started, ugly and rhythmic: "Beat the mistress! Beat the mistress!"

I threw my whole body into the crowd, tore free, and ran.

I made it to the hallway before they closed around me again—fists landing, cameras shoved inches from my face.

Through a gap in the crowd, I saw Ernest.

He watched me with no expression. Not a flicker of anything.

I was done. My legs had nothing left, my arms couldn't even shield my head anymore—and then someone cut through the mob like a blade, scattering them.

The mob turned on him, cursing: "Mind your own damn business! You wanna be the hero?"

"What, you sleeping with this mistress too?"

"Want us to beat you next?"

Ernest's face changed instantly.

He hurried over, bowing and scraping: "Mr. Swanson, hello, I'm Ernest Sanchez."

Mr. Swanson didn't spare him a glance. His eyes were locked on me, and the pain in them nearly broke into tears.

I tried to smile. It barely held. "Dad," I whispered. "You came."