She Let Our Son Die for Her Lover

I don’t know if he died with his eyes open, or if it’s like what the old folks in my hometown used to say—if someone refuses to close their eyes after death, it means they’re still clinging to this world, unable to let go.

Looking at my devastated expression, watching my tears fall without end,

Isabelle trembled slightly, and memories of that morning slowly surfaced.

But in the next second, she sneered.

“They all left in the car. Nothing else happened after that.”

She squatted in front of me, her voice cold and devoid of emotion.

“I’m starting to wonder something—did you instruct your son to take that road on purpose? Did you want him to catch me cheating just so he’d hate me?”

“My son is taking the college entrance exam. He doesn’t have time for nonsense like this. It’s you who can’t move on—you came to the hospital, caused a scene, and even lied about your son being dead.”

By the end, Isabelle was shouting.

Since hiring Victor as her assistant, their relationship had become increasingly intimate.

Once, I went to her office to surprise her with lunch, only to walk in and see her sitting on Victor’s lap, laughing and playing.

No wonder her coworkers always gave me odd looks. Maybe they all thought I wore the crown of a fool.

I stormed in and pulled her off him, but before I could even speak, she scolded me.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m cheating?”

“Victor saw I was tired and offered a massage. I accidentally fell into his arms, and you just happened to walk in!”

She said it while trembling, and I had no proof to refute her.

After that, she became even busier—so busy she stopped coming home.

She didn’t even show up for our son’s birthday.

I only learned from her social media posts that she’d gone on a trip with Victor.

Apparently, because Victor never married in his thirties and said he couldn’t forget her, Isabelle was so moved she threw everything away for him.

Just then, Victor’s nose started bleeding. Isabelle, alarmed, rushed to him, using her sleeve to stop the flow.

She used to be a clean freak, refusing to let anything dirty touch her clothes.

But for him, for Victor, all her rules could be broken.

“Victor, what’s wrong? Why are you bleeding?”

Then, turning to me, she shot me a venomous glare.

“You punched him, didn’t you? You made him bleed!”

Her eyes were like a snake’s—cold and deadly, ready to strike.

My forehead was bleeding too, but she didn’t even glance at me.

Yet when a drop of blood trickled from Victor’s nose, she acted like it was a crisis.

She hurriedly left with him, and I, dizzy and brokenhearted, forced myself toward the morgue.

I couldn’t collapse now—my son’s funeral still needed me.

But before I could enter, Isabelle grabbed my arm.

“You think you can just leave after hurting Victor? He’s lost a lot of blood, and his blood type is rare—panda blood. You have it too. Go save him.”

I gripped her wrist tightly. “Isabelle, go in and see for yourself. Then tell me if I’m lying.”

But she flung my hand away, sneered at the morgue, and said coldly,

“Take him away. If he wants to tell stories, let him tell them to the dead!”

She ordered her men to restrain me, and I struggled like mad.

To think they wanted me to donate blood to the man who killed my son—

The humiliation of it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Isabelle instructed the doctor to insert a needle into my arm immediately.

The doctor looked at my battered face with sympathy.

“Mrs. Carter… Mr. Morgan’s bleeding isn’t severe. It’s already stopped. Maybe we can… just forget it?”