My Husband's Mistress Blames Me for Her Sister's Death

He pushed the door open and left without a second glance.

“This tattoo doesn’t mean anything. If you like roses so much, you can get one yourself—after you’ve had the baby.”

The pain in my stomach was unbearable. I couldn’t even stand upright, no matter how much I screamed for him. Benjamin didn’t turn back.

I clung to consciousness, fighting against the waves of agony threatening to pull me under. Summoning every ounce of strength, I managed to call for an ambulance.

When I woke up, the pain jolted me again, sharp and unrelenting. The sterile scent of the hospital filled my senses. I was alone in the ward.

Disappointment settled deep in my chest.

A nurse murmured nearby, her voice dripping with sympathy.

“She’s so pitiful. That man should rot for his domestic violence.”

But another voice interrupted, colder, judgmental.

“Maybe she chased after the old man’s money and got beaten for being a homewrecker. A woman like that doesn’t deserve sympathy.”

“Or maybe she wanted to get rid of the child and used this as an excuse.”

Their words pierced me, but I refused to show weakness. I turned my cold gaze toward them, silencing the room. The nurse scoffed and left.

Lying there, I made my decision.

I didn’t want Benjamin anymore.

And I didn’t want the child either.

I called for a doctor to discuss terminating the pregnancy.

The doctor hesitated, her tone gentle but firm.

“The baby is healthy. If there’s any chance of keeping it, please reconsider. The child is innocent.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled up my hospital gown, exposing the fresh bruises on my stomach.

My voice cracked as I sobbed, “I can’t keep this child. I can’t forgive the pain he’s caused me.”

The doctor sighed, shaking her head.

“Think carefully. A decision like this is final. With your past injuries, you might not be able to conceive again.”

Her words hung in the air like a heavy weight.

Later, staring at the ultrasound image on the screen, my resolve wavered. The baby’s delicate features had begun to take shape. His eyes and nose mirrored mine—and Benjamin’s.

This was the child I had carried for seven months.

I stumbled out of the clinic, disheveled and drained, and sank onto a cold bench.

Alone, I scrolled through my phone.

Benjamin’s text messages flashed on the screen, sharp and accusing:

[Spend less money. Money is hard to make.]

Right below were messages from his mother:

[My son works so hard every day. You can’t just spend all his hard-earned money.]

[You don’t work. How could you possibly understand the value of hard work?]

Not a single word of concern. No one asked if I was okay, if I was unwell, or why I was at the hospital.

Every cent I spent, if not on Benjamin, was met with scrutiny and suspicion.

My mind drifted back to the name I glimpsed on Benjamin’s phone. My fingers trembled as I searched it on the platform.

The latest video loaded instantly.

[Even when he’s drunk, he still comes to me.]

The man in the video had most of his face obscured, but his smile—faint and familiar—was unmistakable. The watch on his wrist confirmed it.

Benjamin.

The girl nestled against him, her posture intimate.

I scrolled through video after video, each one a snapshot of their happiness, each one a betrayal etched across the past three years of my life.

When I opened the comments, a glint on my wrist caught my eye.

[Wow, such an expensive necklace—and the bracelet is gorgeous! My sister gave it to me!]

My heart sank. The gift I had once cherished, the one I had so eagerly awaited, was nothing more than a cast-off, something his sweetheart had rejected.

The comments buzzed with admiration:

[The blogger is rich and stunning, and her boyfriend is so handsome!]

Isabelle’s reply was simple but deliberate:

"Benjamin is the best to me~"

She didn’t even bother denying their relationship.

I clicked on an older, dormant account by accident. A video played. The girl in it looked eerily like Isabelle but wasn’t her.

Her soft voice echoed:

"Benjamin, would you give everything for me?"

The camera shifted, revealing a younger Benjamin. The love in his eyes was impossible to miss as he responded:

"Maxine, I would."

He took the girl’s hand and kissed it, his devotion written in every gesture.

The screen flipped again, now showing a scene in the snow. Benjamin, his youthful self, picking up a girl with tender care—only to throw her to the ground.

My chest tightened.

The girl on the screen trembled in the snow, her face etched with pain.

It was me.