My husband asked me to take the blame for his mistress,he regretted it

Upon seeing me, wrapped in bandages like a broken porcelain doll in my wheelchair, clutching a meager bundle in my arms, the usual composure and elegance on Madam Foster's face finally shattered. The bone china teacup in her hand clattered onto the glass coffee table, the scalding tea splashing onto her expensive dress, but she seemed oblivious.

" Clara ?!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet and rushing towards me. Her eyes initially showed pure shock, then a surge of intense heartache welled up within her; the expression was so genuine that even my cold heart trembled. She reached me, her hand trembling as she reached out, seemingly wanting to embrace me, but froze as if electrocuted just before her fingertips touched the blood-soaked gauze on my shoulder, afraid of aggravating my pain.

"Oh my God... Clara , my child, how... how could you be hurt like this?" Her voice choked with sobs, her well-maintained fingers hanging in mid-air, unsure of what to do. "Was it... was it that bastard Liam who did this? Did he hit you again? Or... or that woman?"

I lowered my eyes and didn't answer. Silence itself was the sharpest accusation. My taut lips and slightly trembling eyelashes betrayed my silent pain and humiliation.

As Mrs. Foster watched my lifeless reaction, her face grew paler and paler. She wasn't stupid; the mess in the living room, the lingering ambiguity in the air, my injuries, and my current disheveled state—all clues pointed to that cruel answer. Yet, she seemed to still cling to the last straw, to find a plausible excuse for her son, and for herself, for all these years of "matchmaking."

“ Clara , don’t be afraid, Auntie is here.” She took a deep breath, trying to make her voice sound firm and strong, as if that could dispel the pervasive despair. “I’ll get revenge for you! That little brat, he’s getting more and more outrageous as he grows up, he’s become so arrogant, he doesn’t even listen to me anymore! I’ll make him pay for this today!”

As she spoke, she seemed to regain the dignity of the Foster family matriarch, quickly took out her phone from her handbag, found Liam 's number, and dialed it.

"Beep—beep—beep—"

The busy signal sounded particularly jarring in the quiet living room. Once, no one answered. She frowned, hung up, and dialed again.

The second time, there was still only the sound of a long wait.

The third time... the fourth time...

Her dialing became increasingly frantic, her fingertips turning white from the force, and the forced composure on her face gradually gave way to anxiety and a hint of embarrassment. Each missed call notification was like a silent slap in the face, resounding against the face of this mother, this head of the household who believed she could control everything.

Finally, after what seemed like the umpteenth attempt, she dejectedly lowered her arm, and the phone screen went dark. She turned to me, a forced, almost pathetic smile on her lips, trying to explain, " Clara , you...you shouldn't overthink it. I guess, I guess Liam is busy with important company business, or driving, he didn't...he didn't hear me...you see, maybe we should wait for him..."

"aunt."

I calmly interrupted her feeble explanation. I looked up and, with my bandaged fingers, slowly and laboriously operated my old phone with its cracked screen, then handed it to Mrs. Foster .

On the screen was Vanessa's latest "trophy," sent just two minutes earlier. It was a candid photo taken from a tricky angle—in a dimly lit luxury suite, Liam , his back to the camera, had just finished showering, with only a towel loosely wrapped around his waist. At the edge of the photo, a woman's foot, painted with bright red nail polish, was suggestively hooked around his calf. The caption was incredibly arrogant: [Substitute sister, thank you for 'taking care' of Liam so well~ Now, he's back to his rightful owner! He couldn't wait to come back and keep me company even after showering~ Guess if we won't sleep a wink tonight?]

Next to the text, there was a provocative emoji sticking out its tongue.

Mrs. Foster 's gaze froze on the screen, as if the image had burned her eyes. The last vestige of her forced smile crumbled completely, her lips drooped weakly, and her hand holding the phone trembled violently, the veins on the back of her hand bulging. She seemed to age ten years in an instant, her straight back hunching over.

After a long silence, she managed to squeeze out a voice through gritted teeth, filled with disbelief, sorrow, and despair: "...He, he really is... 'quite busy'."

When she looked up at me, her eyes were filled with complex emotions—heartache, guilt, but deeper still, a sense of powerlessness and embarrassment at the complete loss of control over her plans and the utter exposure of her true colors.

“ Clara …I’m sorry.” Her voice was dry as she repeated those three pale words, “It’s all my fault, Auntie misjudged you, it’s me…it’s me who hurt you.”

She seemed to want to take my hand seeking some comfort or forgiveness, but I slightly withdrew my hand. Her fingers hung awkwardly in the air.

“If I had known Liam would turn out like this, I… I shouldn’t have forced you two together.” She began to recount her mistakes, trying to attribute them to “misjudging him” and “my son changing,” her voice filled with regret. “During those five years you were in prison, I felt so guilty. I kept urging him, every week, to go see you! Every time he came back, he told me he had, and even showed me photos of you looking ‘good’… I… I actually believed him! If I had known he was lying to me, if I had known you were suffering in there, I…”

“Auntie,” I spoke again, my voice calm and even, yet like a dull knife, slowly cutting through the facade of peace and tranquility, “did you really just ‘misjudge’?”