On our anniversary, I learned that I am his mistress

I spent the entire night preparing everything I needed for the next few days, refusing to let my hands stop even for a moment. If I stopped, I would think—about the pain in my body, the pounding emptiness in my womb, the betrayal that replayed like a curse whenever I closed my eyes.

So I busied myself, making sure every detail was in place.

The documents came first. The miscarriage report, stamped and authenticated, still smelled faintly of hospital disinfectant. I placed it inside a folder with trembling fingers.

Then another folder—thicker, heavier—containing evidence of Jaxon’s embezzlement, financial anomalies, ghost transactions, money redirected to accounts he thought no one would ever find. I had spent years loving him, and only days learning how deeply he had betrayed me.

Next came the statement of charges, detailed and precise. Levi handled much of that part—quietly, carefully—while I lay unconscious in the hospital. The moment I woke, he simply handed it to me and said, “Use it when you’re ready.”

I was ready now. But the final gift… that one I prepared with my own hands.

I took out the small black memory card and rolled it between my fingers. It contained the video I recorded using the hidden camera I had installed in our house since I learned the truth.

The footage showed everything—Jaxon and Candice in my bed, in my room, under the blanket embroidered with my initials, while they're on top of each other, whispering each other's names.

I plugged the card into my laptop and replayed it for a few seconds—not because I needed confirmation, but because I wanted to make sure the timestamp was clear. It was. Anyone watching would know exactly when and where it happened.

Satisfied, I forwarded the video file to the staff member I assigned for tonight’s event—the man in charge of the livestream.

The party would be broadcast across multiple platforms, boosted with ads so it would trend almost instantly. The world would see exactly what Jaxon was behind his perfect image.

Before leaving, I texted him: I’ll arrive later. Start the party without me.

He replied within seconds: Of course. I’ll make it unforgettable.

I ignored the way my stomach twisted. It wasn’t dread. Not anymore. It was anticipation mingled with a rage I could finally let breathe.

The car was quiet as it sped along the road toward my father’s estate. Outside, the evening lights of the city blurred together, streaks of gold and white rushing past like ghosts. I leaned back, opened my phone, and watched the livestream.

The party was already in full swing.

There he was.

Jaxon, smiling as if his face had never twisted in cruelty. He greeted officials, businessmen, and their wives with warm confidence. Every gesture looked practiced yet effortless—the perfect husband hosting an event for his beloved wife.

My beloved self. A lie he wore like a second skin.

Then, as I expected, he began his speech. The camera panned to him standing on the stage, holding a microphone with that soft, regretful expression he perfected so well.

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” Jaxon began, his voice trembling just enough to tug at the audience’s heartstrings.

He pressed a hand to his chest, as though steadying a cracked-open heart. “I… I don’t always say this publicly, but my wife—Ysobel—she is the greatest blessing life has ever given me.”

Some guests murmured softly, already moved.

He took a shaky breath, lowering his gaze as if struggling to compose himself. “I wasn’t born lucky. Everything I have, everything I’ve built… none of it would mean anything without her by my side.” His voice cracked, perfectly timed.

“Ysobel has been my home. My anchor. The one person who believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

Someone near the front whispered, “She’s such a good woman…”

Jaxon nodded toward the murmurs as if agreeing with them. “She is. And because she is… I want tonight to be special. I want her to feel celebrated, cherished, seen." His lips trembled in a way that would look painfully sincere on any camera. “She deserves a birthday worthy of the light she brings into my life.”

The audience applauded—slow at first, then swelling into warmth.

I almost laughed.

The guests murmured sympathetically. Some even clapped. The livestream chat skyrocketed with comments praising him—What a loving husband, So devoted, A real man—their words sharp as needles against my skin.

He continued speaking about our past, reliving selective memories, twisting them into a love story. He thanked me, honored me, called me his strength. He even said he wouldn’t know who he’d be without me.

Lies. All of it.

He was putting on a show for one reason: He wanted me to sign the documents, so he could legally transfer my company to him and leave all the debts to me. He thought that I won't even notice in case he hid those terms in the documents.

And he thought this performance would soften me.

I watched him cry under the lights, the crowd moved to tears, and a cold, vicious satisfaction filled my chest. Good. Let them believe him. Let them adore him. It would make the fall so much harder.

The atmosphere in the hall was reaching its peak, the applause growing louder.

Perfect timing.

I dialed my staff member—the one waiting beside the audiovisual controls.

When he answered, I said only four words: “You can start now.”

The car turned a corner as the screen at the party suddenly flickered. The livestream audience went silent. Even through the small screen of my phone, I could feel the tension in the room.

The big LED wall glowed with static. Then an image appeared—blurry, unfocused at first. The camera seemed to be moving toward a bed. People whispered in confusion.

“Is that… a room?”

“Whose bedroom is that?”

“What’s happening?”

Jaxon stopped speaking mid-sentence, staring at the screen. He squinted, confused. His lips parted slightly. I knew exactly what he was thinking.

That looks familiar… Why does it look familiar?

Because it was our bedroom. Our bed. Our sheets.

Before he could fully react, a man approached him on stage and handed him a sealed package.

“Sir,” the man said loudly, ensuring the microphone picked it up, “we have a delivery for you from your wife.”