My Husband Wanted Me to Raise His Mistress’s Baby

By noon the next day, the house felt like a trap.

The air smelled of stale grease and burnt coffee. I walked down the stairs into the living room, my boots quiet on the worn carpet.

Destiny was sitting on the floral couch. She had an audience.

Three of Fabian’s cousins—Sarah, Kevin, and Mark—were leaned in close around her. Destiny held a mug with both hands. Her shoulders slumped, frail and delicate. Her voice wasn't a whisper. It was carefully pitched to carry across the room.

"It’s just heartbreaking to see him like this," Destiny said, her lower lip quivering. "Fabian doesn't have anyone at home. He confides in me because he’s so lonely."

Sarah frowned. "She really treats him that bad?"

"Worse," Destiny sighed. She shook her head, staring down into her mug. "She’s so controlling. She bought him like property with that fancy New York money. He walks on eggshells every single day. She isolates him. He told me she didn't even want him visiting his own mother for Thanksgiving."

Kevin scoffed, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. Rich people think they own the world."

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. My hands went flat against my sides.

Through the archway to the dining room, I saw Fabian.

He was standing by the sideboard, setting out paper napkins. He was less than ten feet away. He heard every single word coming out of her mouth.

I waited. I gave him five seconds to turn around. I gave him five seconds to tell his cousins that Destiny was lying. I gave him five seconds to defend his wife.

Fabian didn't move.

His eyes stayed glued to the paper napkins. His hand rose slowly to the back of his neck, rubbing that familiar, guilty circle of skin. He kept his head down, silent as a coward.

He was letting her paint me as a monster. Because as long as they hated me, nobody would look at him.

By late afternoon, the poison had seeped into the walls.

When I walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, Fabian’s aunt immediately went quiet and turned her back to me. Uncle Bob wouldn't meet my eyes. Regina walked past me with a bowl of mashed potatoes, muttering under her breath about "cold women who don't know how to love a man."

The whispers followed me down every hallway.

*She's abusive.*

*She doesn't let him see his family.*

*Poor Fabian.*

Fabian floated through the rooms like a ghost, smiling gently at everyone, playing the tragic victim to perfection.

A sharp, icy calm settled over my chest. The pain was gone. The hurt was gone. In its place was something hard and clear.

I turned around, walked up the stairs, and stepped into the guest bathroom.

I locked the brass bolt into place.

I walked over to the porcelain sink and turned on the hot water tap. The pipes clanked in the wall, and water gushed out, filling the small room with steam and white noise.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Sylvia Park.

She answered on the first ring.

"Margot," Sylvia said, her voice crisp and fast. "I was waiting for your call."

"Tell me," I said quietly.

I heard the rustle of heavy paper on the other end of the line. Sylvia was in her Manhattan office, sitting behind her massive mahogany desk, doing what she did best.

"The financial audit is done," Sylvia said. Her tone was flat, completely professional. "It’s bad, Margot. Fabian has been using phantom consulting firms to siphon cash from your marketing budget for eighteen months. Fake invoices. Shell companies. We’ve traced over four hundred thousand dollars."

I gripped the edge of the sink. The porcelain was cold beneath my fingers. "Where did the money go?"

"Three places," Sylvia said. "A private account in his mother’s name, cash withdrawals, and direct wire transfers to an LLC registered in Nevada."

"Destiny Nguyen," I said.

"Destiny Nguyen," Sylvia confirmed. She paused, and I heard a dry chuckle over the line. "And speaking of Ms. Nguyen, my private investigator hit a goldmine. She’s not just a small-town sweetheart, Margot. She’s a professional predator."

"Give it to me."

"Ten marriages," Sylvia said smoothly. "Across three states. Nevada, Texas, and Florida. Every single marriage lasted less than eighteen months. Every single one ended in a settlement. And in three of them, she claimed a pregnancy right before demanding a lump-sum payout."

My jaw tightened. "A serial scammer."

"A decorated veteran of the craft," Sylvia said. "She targets men with money, hits them with an emotional crisis, and bleeds them dry. The full file is sitting in an encrypted folder on your tablet. Bank records, court filings, marriage certificates, and mugshots. It’s ironclad."

"Good," I whispered.

"What do you want me to do?" Sylvia asked. "I can file the embezzlement charges with the district attorney tomorrow morning."

I looked up. The mirror above the sink was clouded with steam from the tap.

I reached out and wiped the glass with the palm of my hand.

My reflection stared back at me. My eyes weren't red. There were no tears on my cheeks. The soft, forgiving wife who had ignored the signs for five years was dead. Standing in front of me was the CEO who had built a hundred-million-dollar empire from the dirt.

"Hold the filing for now, Sylvia," I said. My voice was low, steady, and razor-sharp. "Keep the paperwork ready."

"Are you going to confront him?"

"Not yet," I said. I reached down and shut off the faucet. The sudden silence in the bathroom was deafening. "I'm going to let them set their own trap."

"Call me the second you need me," Sylvia said.

"I will."

I hung up the phone. I slid it back into my pocket.

I smoothed down the front of my sweater, unlocked the door, and walked back downstairs.