My Husband’s Pregnant Mistress Caused Our Son’s Death

He had caused our son’s death and felt nothing. He even stayed out playing house with his pregnant mistress, yet now he expected my understanding?

Staring at the arrogant pride on his face, I genuinely couldn’t understand how I had loved a man like this for twenty years.

I set the divorce agreement I had prepared on the table.

“Sign it. From now on, you can take care of your little pregnant one without any distractions.”

When I took the initiative to bring up divorce, a flicker of disdain crossed Soren’s face.

“Looks like I’ve spoiled you too much. You’ve forgotten your place. Without me, your whole family would’ve starved.”

Watching his inflated self-importance, I almost burst out laughing.

He truly believed the rise of the Hendricks family had been his doing; I had clung to him like a lifeline.

I didn’t even bother explaining. I simply said with quiet finality, “This marriage is over.”

Seeing how firm I was, Soren grew furious. “What kind of nonsense is this? You know damn well our son would never agree to us getting a divorce.”

“You want to leave? Fine. Let our son come and say it to my face.”

With that, he stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

In the past, whenever Soren lost his temper, I would always soften and try to calm him down.

But not this time. I signed my name on the divorce agreement without hesitation and walked away with a sense of resolve.

The next morning, I collected my son’s ashes from the funeral home, preparing to return to the Lowell family in Vermont and lay him to rest.

Suddenly, Soren called.

“You can throw your tantrum all you want, but don’t drag my son into it by staying out all night. Today is the 30th anniversary celebration of Hendricks Group. I’m announcing him as my successor. Bring him here. Now.”

I glanced at the urn in my arms and replied quietly, “Alright. I’ll bring him right over.”

I had met Soren back in college.

Back then, he was getting beaten on the rooftop by a pack of arrogant princelings from Vermont’s elite.

Even with blood streaming down his face and his body bruised all over, he gritted his teeth and refused to beg for mercy.

I admired that kind of grit.

So I stepped forward and shot a cold glare at those entitled brats.

The moment our eyes met, their arrogance vanished. They scattered like scared rats as if they’d seen a ghost.

Soren instinctively looked my way.

Through the pain, he struggled to his feet and warned me, “Those guys aren’t people you mess with. You’re a girl. Don’t come back up here. Don’t let them target you.”

Even in that state, he still cared about someone else. I couldn’t help but smile.

“They wouldn’t dare mess with me.”

He gave my plain clothes a once-over and scoffed, “Don’t joke. They’re princelings of the Vermont circle, connected, powerful. You think they’d be scared of a girl like you?”

“I don’t look down on ordinary people. But you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not.”

He was so serious that it amused me, so I never bothered to explain further.

Later, I learned he came from a struggling third-rate family, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. His father had been crushed by debts and driven to suicide.

He had earned his place at Vermont University purely on his merit, determined to restore his family’s shattered name.

Maybe because I’d witnessed too many reckless rich heirs wasting their lives, I was genuinely moved by the quiet strength and fierce resilience he carried within.

We began talking more and more.

As I got to know him better, I discovered how thoughtful and considerate he truly was.

During my period, when pain made me sweat and tremble, he quietly brought me warm cups of brown sugar ginger tea.

When I was down, he worried himself sick, trying every way to lift my spirits.

On days when sudden downpours soaked the streets, he’d drape his jacket over me and carry me safely across the floods.