The Seven-Year Scam: My Daughter is My Husband's Mistress's Child

Mariah’s POV

My words caught Viggo off guard.

He clearly hadn’t expected that response. His expression froze for a couple of seconds before his brows knit together again, his tone slipping back into that familiar “I’m doing this for your own good” voice.

“You can’t put it that way,” he said.

“The tutoring can slow down, sure. But how can you just cut everything off completely? Do you know how hard it was to get Cruella into that private school? You spent so much effort back then. Have you really forgotten?”

I didn’t respond. I just lowered my head and kept tending to the wound.

Standing beside me, Viggo watched my indifference. A flicker of irritation flashed in his eyes, quickly smothered.

“If you don’t agree,” I said flatly, “then you can explain it to your daughter yourself.”

“This was a decision you and she made together.”

He clearly froze.

He had never seen me this cold before.

In the past, no matter what he said, I’d instinctively smoothed things over for him, cleaned up his messes, never once pushed responsibility back onto him.

The displeasure crossed his face again, gone just as quickly.

As if remembering something, he suddenly reached into his briefcase, pulled out a document, and handed it to me.

“Alright, let’s drop the Cruella issue for now.”

“Oh, right. Sign this.”

He spoke casually. “A deal I just closed today. The process is a bit rushed.”

Cruella’s issue wasn’t urgent. He didn’t really believe I’d stop caring about her anyway. He just assumed I was saying things out of anger.

This so-called deal, on the other hand, mattered.

If this were before, I wouldn’t even have opened the contract.

I never interfered in his career. I just signed, transferred money, and took responsibility when things went wrong.

This time, I didn’t bother reading it either.

Because I already knew that this wasn’t a goddamn business contract at all.

It was a fucking divorce agreement dressed up as one.

Judging by his reaction, he probably hadn’t realized yet that the contents of that agreement had already been revised.

When he saw me sign, his shoulders visibly relaxed. His voice softened immediately, compliments spilling out.

“If this goes through, we’ll make a lot of money.”

“Honey, when it’s done, I’ll make it up to you. A proper wedding this time—big, formal, invite everyone.”

“You’ve always regretted not having one, haven’t you? I’ll make it up to you.”

Seven years ago, when we got married, he had nothing.

No wedding. No rings. Our parents hadn’t even formally met.

Over the years, every time he needed my support, he dangled the word wedding in front of me like bait.

And damn, I always believed him.

Even now, knowing he was divorcing me for Carmilla, when he used that familiar, practiced tactic, my chest still ached.

I blinked, forcing the bitterness down. As I handed the document back, I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “If… we got divorced—”

I didn’t even finish before he cut me off, righteous and firm.

“How could we get divorced?”

His tone was absolute. “This family can’t function without you. Neither I nor our daughter can live without you.”

“You’re the backbone of this household. Don’t overthink things.”

He sounded so certain.

Yet his words and his actions couldn’t have been more opposite.

Before I could speak again, I noticed the smile he couldn’t quite suppress.

He thought he could trick me into signing the divorce papers and leaving me with nothing.

But soon, he'll understand what it feels like to lose everything.

As if realizing something, he coughed and forced himself back into composure.

“Alright. Get some rest. I’m going to step out and make a call.”

And with that, he hurried out of the room.

He even forgot to finish applying the meds.

I bit down on self-mockery.

Not long after, my phone vibrated.

It was a message from the lawyer.

[Ma’am, the divorce agreement has officially entered the process.]

I stared at that line for a long time.

And then I laughed.

I laughed and laughed until I finally broke, collapsing onto the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

Nine years of sincerity.

I’ll just consider myself blind, terrible at judging people.

After crying, I calmed down quickly.

Silently, I packed my belongings. I contacted the school, canceled all of Cruella’s tutoring classes, withdrew her enrollment from the private school, transferred her to a public one, and froze her allowance account.

I had never been speaking out of anger.

As for Viggo, he didn’t know yet.

In a few days, the company I brought into the marriage as a wedding gift would return, intact, to my dad’s name.

Including the house we were living in.

Everything I’d bought for this so-called family of three over the years, I sorted through it all. What could be thrown away, I threw the hell away.

When I came back again, the door was shut.

I opened it and saw Carmilla.

She was sitting on the living-room couch, sunglasses and a mask on, her suitcase beside her.

Cruella hovered around her, looking up at her like a little chick, chatting eagerly.

In the kitchen stood Viggo, hands that had never touched housework, wearing an apron, making her a late-night snack.

At the sound of the door, Carmilla removed her sunglasses and mask and smiled at me.

“Mariah! You remember me, right?”

Her tone was casual, as if nothing were wrong.

“We were roommates in college.”

“My hotel in Glendale got exposed by paparazzi. I can’t go back right now.”

“I thought about it, and you and Viggo are the only people I know here.”

She gestured around.

“This neighborhood has good privacy. I’ll just stay for a bit.”

Then, as if remembering something, she added warmly, “We’re old classmates. You won’t mind, right?”

Viggo walked out of the kitchen holding a bowl of soup.

He didn’t even look at me.

“Of course not,” he answered on my behalf. “We’re old classmates. What’s wrong with staying a few days? The house is big.”