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

"You love her so much, why don’t you wear a condom? Why insist on making me take the pill?" I snapped, my voice trembling with anger.

Benjamin’s face darkened, but I didn’t stop. "You love her so much, why don’t you just die?"

He turned to his mother, who sat silently, her expression unreadable. His voice was low, almost cold. "Amelia, calm down. My mother is just old."

"Old?" I scoffed. "You want children and grandchildren so badly, don’t you? Then why can’t you fulfill your filial piety yourself?"

My words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. I was done being polite.

"I want this child," I continued, my voice cracking, "but you call me cheap. If it weren’t for you—" I pointed at him, my finger trembling, "—how could I even have gotten pregnant with this child?"

Benjamin pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience visibly thinning. "Amelia, calm down. Let’s have some food and talk later."

"Food?" I laughed bitterly. "Benjamin, let’s get a divorce. If you don’t agree, I’ll sue. I won’t give birth to this child!"

I grabbed the divorce agreement from the table and threw it at him. The papers fluttered to the ground, landing amidst the mess of dishes and spilled food. His mother sat frozen, her gaze darting between us.

Benjamin sighed deeply, his tone indifferent. "Amelia, I’ll transfer the money to you. Just stop making trouble."

He glanced at his mother, then added, "After all, the child is her wish. Think of this money as compensation for the trouble."

With that, he pulled out his phone and transferred 700,000 dollars to my account.

"Pack these things up," he said, motioning to the mess. "I’ll take my mother and leave. We won’t come back for dinner."

I stared at the notification on my phone—a transfer of 700,000 dollars.

I took the money. After three years of playing nanny for Benjamin, it wasn’t much.

I hadn’t planned to confront Isabelle, but she came to me instead.

She looked just like in the videos—young, coquettish, and full of herself.

"Amy," she began with an expectant smile, "when are you divorcing Benjamin?"

Her eyes darted to the bracelet on my wrist, her expression faltering for just a moment.

Then she added, almost casually, "He still cares about me more, you know."

I met her gaze with a cold smile. "What if I don’t divorce him? Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a mistress who never sees the light of day?"

Her face turned red. "You—you!"

She lunged forward, her bag raised like she wanted to hit me. But her arrogance was her downfall. She thought she had control of everything.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the signed divorce agreement. Calmly, I held it out to her.

"Miss Grant, if you’re so confident, why don’t you have him sign this yourself?"

Her expression crumbled as she snatched the document from my hands.

When I sent the divorce agreement to the hospital, I ignored all of Benjamin’s calls.

Finally, he messaged me:

"Amelia, don’t touch my things! How am I supposed to find them?"