My Husband Chose His Mistress, So I Let Him Lose Everything

Sophia’s Pov

When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t sure if I was alive.

I felt nothing. And yet, I felt everything.

Pain pulsed beneath every inch of my skin—my abdomen throbbed like something had been ripped from it.

My head pounded against the tightness of fresh bandages, and my hand… God, my hand felt like it was still on the stove.

I turned my face slightly, blinking against the white light flooding the hospital room.

I recognized the dull scent of antiseptic, the steady beep of machines, the weight of grief settling into my bones before the words were even spoken.

The doctor was already there, standing by the window, clipboard in hand.

His expression was tight, unreadable at first—until his eyes met mine. And I saw it —Pity.

“Mrs. Moretti… I’m sorry.”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

I already knew.

The baby was gone.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask for details. I didn’t even flinch.

“Can I be discharged?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

He blinked, surprised. “You… just came out of a second trauma. You need time to heal. The burns on your hand still—”

“I said I want to leave.”

He hesitated and looked down at his clipboard. Then finally nodded.

By the time I walked out of that hospital, I was limping slightly, and every step sent another wave of fire through my ribs and legs.

But I didn’t stop. I hailed a cab and gave the address I had memorized on my phone.

The law office was quiet. The kind of place where people walked in broken and walked out free—or at least with a settlement.

I didn’t want money, I didn't want to just erase my identity, I wanted to cut all ties with him and that started from an official divorce.

“I want to file for a divorce,” I told the man behind the polished desk. “I need the documents to sign. Now.”

The lawyer looked at me with faint curiosity, like I was just another woman in a long line of desperate clients. He asked me my name. My husband’s.

I gave them to him.

He typed for a moment. Then frowned.

“Mrs. Moretti…” he began slowly. “According to the civil record… you and Mr. Lorenzo Moretti have been divorced. For two years.”

My heart stilled.

“That’s not possible.”

“It is because Mr. Lorenzo Moretti is currently married to Renata Giordano.”

He turned his screen. The scanned document stared back at me.

There was my signature. My full name and his details.

And the date? Two years ago.

Right around the time he had coaxed me into signing what he said were joint account papers. I had trusted him. I was still his wife. We were still… something.

He had lied to me. Deceived me. Kept me under his control like a prisoner with no idea I was free to run.

He had married Renata. And I… I had been nothing more than a shadow woman in my own life.

My breath hitched.

I stood up, but the floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My legs buckled slightly and the lawyer rushed to help me, but I waved him off.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “I need… I need to leave.”

As I walked out, I was glad to finally be rid of him even though he had done it deceitfully.

—

The sun was already setting when I stepped out of the cab, my mind numb, my body screaming, and my soul hanging on by a single thread.

The mansion was quiet when I stepped in, but not for long.

I walked through the front doors with the divorce certificate in my hand, still warm from the printer. I didn’t hide it. I wanted him to know that I've found out about his deception.

Lorenzo was in the living room, glass of whiskey in hand.

He looked up.

“Where have you been?” he asked me.

“I know everything,” I said, lifting the paper. “You divorced me two years ago. You lied. You’ve tortured me under a marriage that didn’t exist.”

His face darkened.

“So you have the guts to go see a lawyer,” he said coldly. “That’s what today was about?”

“Don’t change the subject!” I snapped.

“You think you can leave me?” he said, standing now. “That’s why you went there? You actually think you’re free?”

I didn’t blink. “Why won’t you just let me go? I have the divorce papers, I can leave whenever I want.”

His voice was calm.

“You can't leave because I’m not done with you yet. You want to leave? It’ll be in a coffin.”

He turned, grabbed something off the couch—a black velvet dress. He threw it at me.

“Put that on. We’re attending the mafia gala tonight. And bring your bastard child. People will ask.”

I stared at him coldly.

“My daughter isn’t obligated to come. She’s not yours, remember?”

He stared at me with a shocked look on his face. I didn't wait for him to reply, I walked away.

In my bedroom, I shut the door and pulled out my phone. My hand still trembled from the pain. But my voice didn’t.

The line rang once before someone answered.

“It’s me,” I said quietly.

“Have you changed your mind?”

I looked in the mirror. I looked like a ghost of the woman I used to be.

“Yes, Grandpa. Make the arrangements.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, that's when I’ll disappear. I can't wait anymore.”