My Husband Tried to Kill Me for His Mistress

“Jackie, the priority now is to find my son. Why are you still hung up on these things?”

Megan snapped at me with irritation, her voice sharp.

I let out a cold laugh. Even if they did find Brad, his dream of becoming the top scorer was already crushed. As for the real relationship between these two—Megan and my husband—I would uncover the truth soon enough.

“You’re right,” I said calmly, looking straight at Jordan. “Jordan, help her look for Brad.”

Relief visibly washed over both their faces. They thought I had dropped my suspicions. Fools.

That afternoon, I took the torn gown fabric to Regina, a trusted friend of mine with a PhD in chemistry. I needed to know what really caused the dress to fall apart in public.

“The lab results will take three days,” Regina said. “Go home and wait. I’ll contact you as soon as they’re ready.”

I nodded, though I could hardly calm my nerves. Something told me that this wasn’t just about a college entrance exam. Megan’s motives ran deeper than a title.

Later, after the exams ended, Megan finally tracked Brad down—holed up in an internet café. Enraged, she slapped him across the face.

“We’ve been looking for you all day! Do you even have a conscience?!”

Brad shouted back, “If you hadn’t embarrassed me like that, I wouldn’t have skipped the exam!”

I watched their pathetic scene unfold from a distance, expressionless. Megan bit her lower lip and shot me a venomous glare. But there was nothing she could do. She had already lost.

What I didn’t expect was how fast the video would spread online.

Someone had recorded her humiliation—her torn dress, her public disgrace—and posted it. It went viral. All over the country, people were talking about the mother who ruined her child’s future by being the laughingstock at the school gates.

I hugged my daughter tightly. She had protected me that day, shielding me from that very shame. Yet even now, the scars of the past hadn’t fully healed.

Then came the moment I knew was inevitable.

Megan barged into my home, eyes blazing with fury. “Jackie, did you tamper with my clothes? Otherwise, how is it that only mine tore when we were wearing the same thing?”

I stared at her. The audacity. After everything she’d done, she still dared to play the victim.

She wasn’t wrong—I had switched the dresses. But compared to what she had planned, mine was an act of self-defense.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Regina.

“Jackie,” she said, “the test results are in. You should come over.”

I rushed to her office after settling my daughter.

She handed me the report.