Ruthless Husband Poisoned Me & Our Daughter, but Killed by His Mistress’ Son

Every post on Wilma’s social media was about Yulian—his charm, his achievement, his so-called brilliance.

However, the more I looked at his pictures, the more I noticed something else. He looked like Harris. A bitter taste crept into my mouth, but my hands moved on their own. Without thinking, I liked every post, one after another, my face emotionless.

I wasn’t even sure why I did it. Maybe it was habit. Maybe I was trying to feel something. But just as I tapped the last one, a voice cut through the silence. "Why are you liking Yulian’s photos?"

I flinched. Sophie was standing there, staring at my phone with wide, furious eyes. "Is it because of him that you poisoned me? That you made me mute?"

My breath caught. My fingers went numb, and my phone slipped from my hands, hitting the floor with a dull clack. "Sophie, no, that’s not—"

"Don’t lie to me!" she screamed, cutting me off before I could explain. Her voice shook, hoarse with emotion. "You always wanted a son, right? I was a disappointment to you! You were ashamed of me! That’s why you did this! It’s all because of him!"

She was spiraling, her hands shaking, her breathing uneven. Her rage was swallowing her whole. And she wasn’t listening.

No matter what I said, she wasn’t going to believe me. Still, I tried. My voice broke as I asked, "Sophie… have you never doubted your father?"

Her expression twisted into something colder. Harsher. "Don't try to blame him!" she snapped. "Dad is the only person who truly loves me! He’s the only one who cares! He would never hurt me!"

Then, before I could say another word, she grabbed my phone and hurled it to the floor. The screen cracked, so did something inside me.

I just stood there. Frozen. Tears burned in my eyes, but I didn’t move. I had no idea how long I stayed like that, but eventually, I forced myself to breathe.

With heavy steps, I walked into Sophie’s room to clean up the mess she had made when she slammed the door.

That was when I saw it. A pink diary, lying quietly on her desk. The cover had a photo of her at a competition. She was smiling so brightly, her eyes filled with light and confidence.

I hesitated, but my hands moved on their own. Flipping it open, my chest tightened at the words inside.

[Today is the darkest day of my life. I can never sing again. And it’s all her fault. She destroyed my dream with her own hands.]

[If it weren’t for Dad, I don’t know how I’d go on. He’s the only one keeping me together. That woman? She just makes everything worse. I can’t even look at her. I hate her.]

The words blurred as fresh tears welled in my eyes. This wasn’t just anger. This wasn’t just hurt. She truly believed Harris was her savior.

And me? She despised me. Harris had taken everything from me. My family. My daughter. And no matter how hard I tried, I had no idea how to make her see the truth.

That evening, Harris came home from work like nothing had happened. The moment Sophie heard his voice, she rushed out of her room like a wounded bird desperate for safety, throwing herself into his arms.

Her voice was hoarse, but there was a hint of childlike sweetness in it. "Dad, you're finally back. I missed you so much."

Harris smiled, running a hand over her head. For a split second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes—guilt, maybe, but it was gone before I could be sure.

"I missed you too, sweetheart," he said lightly, then glanced at me. "Were you good today? No fights with Mom?"

Sophie tensed. She turned to look at me, her expression sharp with nothing but resentment. "As long as she’s in this house, I feel sick!" she snapped.

I clenched my hands into fists, forcing myself to stay calm. Later that night, when we were in bed, Harris pulled me into his arms like nothing was wrong. His voice softened, full of false warmth.

"Don’t take what Sophie said to heart," he murmured. "She just needs time to process everything. You have to be patient with her."

Then, with that same practiced tenderness, he added, "You and Sophie mean the world to me. No matter what happens, I’ll always be here. I’ll never leave you."

His tone was careful, almost calculated—sweet enough to sound convincing. I forced myself to swallow the disgust rising in my throat and managed a smile. It probably looked worse than crying.

"I failed as a mother," I whispered. And I wasn’t talking about what happened to Sophie. I was talking about him. About the fact that I had chosen this man to be her father.