The Billionaire's Betrayal A Wife's Revenge

All that was left were his eyes, full of defiance, and a terrified "Mom" squeezed from his throat.

That day, I lost my child.

That same day, I lost my father.

At the funeral, the local media tore me apart—wall-to-wall coverage calling me a death omen, a lone star who killed her father and her child.

They said bad luck clung to me. That I killed my own son.

Old Mrs. Patterson even waited along my route and splashed chicken blood on me to "drive away evil."

Alex rushed to the hospital and didn't blame me. He sued over a dozen outlets for reckless reporting. He held me, told me again and again it was an accident, that I still had him.

After Ethan died, every six months a new "sister" moved in.

And I accepted every single one, obeying Alex's demands in almost self-punishing obedience, becoming a laughingstock in the local press.

Because I was terrified he'd leave me.

Until six months ago.

A box of film negatives arrived.

And I finally learned the truth about Ethan's death.

Through the haze, I swore I heard him calling "Mom" again.

I touched his photo and murmured, "Soon, Ethan. Mommy will get you justice. Very soon."

The next morning, before dawn, the bedroom door swung open.

Lily strolled in and sprawled across my bed like she owned it. She picked up Ethan's photo and laughed.

"So this is the dead kid."

"You still keep his picture around? Aren't you afraid it'll bring bad luck?"

I snatched it back and clutched it to my chest, voice ice-cold. "Get out."

She stuck her tongue out, unafraid.

The moment Alex walked in, she ran into his arms, tugging his hand, voice syrupy. "Honey, you said I could stay wherever I wanted. I pick this room."

"The windows are huge."

Without bothering to hide it, she pulled out little toys meant for lovers and set them on the nightstand—right where Ethan's photo had been.

Alex frowned and glanced at me, wanting to speak but stopping himself.

I turned away, placed the photo in front of my vanity, and set a bag of snacks beside it like I always did.

Behind me, her breathy voice wouldn't stop: "The doctor said babies need sunlight. And last time we had so much fun here... there are still marks from us on the glass."

"I've got even more exciting things we haven't tried yet."

"I heard there's a typhoon coming. Lightning and thunder—that's what makes it romantic..."

She'd learned fast. Every word I said yesterday, parroted back perfectly.

Today she wore a pure white dress, but her moves were shameless. She bit Alex's ear and whispered to him right in front of me, not taking me seriously at all.

He didn't agree right away. But his throat bobbed—clearly tempted.

I tucked away the mockery in my eyes and reminded him, staking my claim: "Alex. Did you forget what you promised me?"

This house was my father's legacy.

Back then, Alex had been penniless—the most invisible intern under my father. Because of me, he was kept close and taught everything.

My family's business became his foundation. He mortgaged this property for capital and inherited every connection my father left behind.

He made it. Five years ago, he tore down the old house and rebuilt it. He said he wanted to erase the bad memories, and so I could wake up to the ocean, he had an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling glass custom-made for my bedroom. After that, he set up one little love nest after another outside.

But we both understood without saying: no matter how he played around, those women would never set foot in this house.