His Mistress’ Birthday, His Last Warning

When he confessed to me, I told him clearly:

If he ever crossed my line, I would kill him without mercy.

He hadn’t flinched. “Maris, if I ever wrong you, punish me. I won’t complain.”

For me—waking to a son and a husband—he said this just yesterday.

But for Alaric, six years had passed.

Six years since that promise.

The words had faded, leaving only emptiness.

“Maris, you’ve gone insane! Someone! Get this crazy woman out of here!”

I chuckled softly. “Alaric… do you want to see this?”

“What does a truly crazy woman look like?”

Tahlia, perched arrogantly beside him, sneered. “Maris! Since you can’t threaten Alaric with the child anymore, you’re trying some other trick?”

“Stop dreaming! Alaric has long been done with you, crazy woman. He loves me!”

Her smirk faltered as I advanced. Gripping her hair, I slammed her face-first into the cake.

Her voice turned into a strangled sob, muffled by frosting and layers of cream.

Alaric’s anger erupted. “Maris! Let Tahlia go! Or I swear—”

He lunged, trying to pull her free.

A sharp sneer crossed my lips. At the perfect moment, I drew the knife from my pocket and stabbed his hand.

A scream—half fear, half disbelief—ripped from him. I pressed the attack, laughing darkly. “Hahaha, Alaric… don’t you like to laugh? Why so serious? Were you born without a smile?”

Across the banquet hall, I saw it—Tahlia blowing out her birthday candles.

He was there. Standing beside her.

His eyes, black and soft, brimming with love. The same kind of love he had always shown me.

And the gaze he now gave me… genuine.

“Crazy! Let go!”

Alaric trembled, eyes wide with disbelief and resentment.

“Mom…”

My son, Soren, whispered from a distance, small and trembling.

I clicked my tongue, yanked the knife from Alaric’s hand, and threw Tahlia aside like a rag.

She fell face-first into the cake—eyes, nose, mouth—smeared with sticky frosting. Like a dying fish, she gasped for air on the floor.

Alaric’s body shook, sweat pouring down his temples, veins bulging. Hands trembling, his handsome face twisted in pain.

I ignored him.

I raised an eyebrow at my eldest son. “Soren… did you enjoy the show? Remember to write a 500-word review when you get home.”

Alaric’s voice rang out, sharp with outrage. “The boy is five! You brought him here to—have you considered the psychological damage?”

I scoffed, calm and deliberate. “Only the strong deserve to be my son. If he’s a coward, that’s on you, Alaric’s son.”

Soren’s small figure trembled. Confusion flickered in his eyes.

But the fear he had felt… was gone.