The Mistress Accused Me of Being the Homewrecker

"Ms. Ruiz, this is my husband's fault. We're willing to compensate you," Stella said.

Compensate?

A heavy weight pressed against my chest.

"And what exactly are you compensating me with?" I sneered.

She frowned in deep thought for a full five minutes before answering, "The Vasquez family will give you three hundred million. We'll help you immigrate. With that money, you can live whatever life you want."

"Just don't come back to the country again. For a failed relationship, three hundred million is a good deal."

I stared straight into Gerald's eyes.

He said nothing. He let his mistress treat me like I was the mistress.

I inhaled slowly, forcing my trembling emotions back into my chest.

"Gerald, I'm giving you one last chance. Tell us—who is the mistress? Whose marriage certificate is fake?"

"If you don't clarify it, then tonight the three of us are going to make the front-page headlines together."

"You don't have to love me. You can fall for someone else and divorce me. But you don't get to treat me like a fool."

"Everything that happened today... I'll take it as the price of being your childhood sweetheart."

Gerald frowned deeply, glaring at me for "making things worse."

But faced with my unwavering gaze, he finally spoke the truth.

"Sorry, Stella. The marriage certificate between you and me... It's fake. I'm sorry."

Smack!

Stella trembled with rage—as if her world had collapsed—and slapped him hard.

I continued, my voice was cold, "No wonder after we registered our marriage that day, you rushed off saying you had something urgent. Turns out you were going to comfort her."

"And on our wedding night—did you spend the first half with me, then use some 'emergency at work' excuse to go keep her company?"

Stella couldn't take it. She broke down and ran out.

Gerald didn't even glance at me.

He chased after her, and didn't return all night.

I didn't care.

I was used to it.

My work involved late-night scientific research; my schedule was always nocturnal.

And that became the perfect cover for years of his cheating—something I never suspected.

On his laptop, I prepared a divorce agreement.

Just as I finished, a WhatsApp notification popped up.

[Mr. Vasquez, should I continue arranging night shifts for Madam? Her medical results weren't ideal.]

My heart tightened.

The message was from my direct supervisor.

I opened the chat.

It wasn't long, but every message was the same—Gerald repeatedly instructing him to give me night shifts.

Even three years ago, after my miscarriage, when my body was weak, he still told them to keep me on exhausting late-night laboratory work year after year.

I sat before the computer, drained and hollow, rereading the chat over and over.

By the time Gerald returned, his face was weary and tense.

He checked several rooms before Wilma told him I was in the study.

The moment he opened the door and saw the laptop—and my lifeless expression—his face tightened with a sudden alarm.

He rushed to me, half-kneeling as he grabbed my hands.

His eyes were bloodshot. He must have spent the whole night comforting Stella.

"Wilma said you haven't eaten since yesterday. Can you eat something? Please?"

He spoke as if nothing had happened. As if we were still the same couple.

But now, his voice only made my stomach twist in revulsion.

I pulled my hands away from his grip.

My voice was icy calm. "Let's divorce. I can see clearly now—you love her. You even have a child already."

"I love you too. Stop it. I am not divorcing you." He cut me off suddenly, expression turning serious.

I stared at him, unable to understand this man anymore.

My gaze toward him grew more and more filled with contempt.

"Gerald, you're spineless."

"I will never respect a man like you."

He suddenly laughed—a laugh filled with defiance, or perhaps complete indifference.