Housewife’s Revenge: After the Mistress Called My Husband Daddy

I stumbled upon something that shattered my world: the salesgirl at Lois Vitone, a high-end luxury goods store, had secretly taken to calling my husband “Daddy.”

Not only that, but she had brazenly messaged me the location of their rendezvous spot at a hotel.

My heart raced with fury. I headed straight for the mall, determined to confront this woman face-to-face.

Once I arrived, I didn’t hold back. I confronted her, venting every ounce of rage that had built up inside me. But instead of supporting me, the mall manager intervened to shield her, protecting this so-called "mistress."

To make matters worse, my husband, rather than siding with me, scolded me for "airing our dirty laundry" in public.

Now that he's wealthy, he thought he could dictate my life, as if his money gave him control over me. He even dared to threaten me with divorce, as if that would scare me into silence.

Enough was enough.

I refused to be his quiet, obedient housewife any longer.

I was the daughter of the richest man in the country!

***

The discovery came from the most unexpected of sources. My husband had logged into WeTalk on the computer and neglected to log out.

Glancing at the screen without much thought, I noticed a string of flirtatious messages that made my stomach twist.

“Daddy, will you come tonight?”

“I’ve already showered.”

“I’m in my safe period today. You can do whatever you want.”

Then came the address, “Utopia Hotel, room 1028.”

The audacity of it all set my blood boiling.

This salesgirl, employed at the luxury Lois Vitone store in town, was openly pursuing my husband. Her messages were practically dripping with suggestiveness.

His responses only deepened the pain in my heart.

“Good girl,” he praised. “No wonder I can’t get my mind off of you. I wish my wife could learn a few tricks from you. She’s just too boring. She doesn’t excite me like you do.”

She kept pushing, her words designed to sting.

“Daddy, you don’t need her anymore now that you have me.”

“She’s nowhere near as bold as I am.”

“She can’t swallow you as deep or spread her legs as wide as me.”

This was more than I could bear.

The shamelessness!

I felt my anger reach a boiling point, yet my husband still ignored my calls.

Without hesitation, I snapped a photo of their disgusting conversation and hailed a taxi, heading straight for the mall. I stormed toward the Lois Vitone store, standing tall amid its glamorous decor.

This store, set in the center of the first floor, was known for catering to only the wealthiest clients and the salesgirls there had an air of entitlement to match, with their polished appearances, perfectly applied makeup and aloof attitudes.

I was far from their typical clientele and they didn’t hesitate to let me know. I was dressed simply, in an apron and slippers, my hair messily twisted with a pencil from cleaning around the house.

The minute I stepped in, one petite salesgirl sneered at me, her voice loud and piercing. “Get out! This isn’t a place you can afford! Why don’t you look at yourself in the mirror?”

The other salesgirls chimed in, snickering and casting judgmental glances my way. “Yes! This is a top-tier luxury store! We don’t let just anyone walk in,” one scoffed.

Another added, “A single bag here costs tens of thousands. You’d be better off just dreaming about it!”

I brushed off their petty taunts. They meant nothing to me. After all, I had only one target in mind.

At last, I saw her.

She was the one, the woman behind those disgraceful messages, her smug face confirming everything.

I locked eyes with her, my glare filled with the hatred she had ignited. Before she could even open her mouth, I raised my hand and struck her, the slap echoing through the room.

Slap!

A bright red print formed on her pale cheek.

“How dare you hit me?” she shrieked, shocked and scrambling to keep her composure.

Her colleagues gasped, some threatening to call the police, their voices high with indignation.

But I was unfazed, every ounce of my frustration fueling my response.

“Why did I hit you?” I asked, my voice steady and unwavering. “Because I’m your mother, of course! Since you insist on calling my husband ‘Daddy,’ it only makes sense for me to be your mother!”