To Please Her Secret Lover, She Let Our Son Suffer

I hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever and I was running on nothing but grit and sheer will.

Every step I took felt heavier, every glance thrown my way like a slap to the face.

Mockery filled the air, thick and suffocating. I could barely hold my head up from the shame.

I tried to rise, but my legs buckled beneath me. My vision blurred and everything turned black.

“Are you okay? Low blood sugar?”

A voice cut through the haze, gentle yet unfamiliar. A hand reached out, offering a slice of cake.

It was Laurence Astor, Amara’s childhood sweetheart, the first man she ever loved.

Eight years ago, when the Lancaster family hit rock bottom, he broke up with her and left for abroad.

Amara, devastated, agreed to marry me.

Later, when her father fell gravely ill, all their savings were drained and the company had to be sold off.

I thought we had built something real through those years of hardship.

But now I realized my son and I were the only ones who had truly suffered.

“No need. Thank you.”

I avoided his hand, forcing myself to stand through the dizziness.

And just as I regained my footing, someone kicked me from behind. My face fell right into the cake Laurence had been holding.

Laughter erupted around me, sharp, merciless, like knives slicing through flesh.

Even Amara turned to look, her expression unreadable.

I scrambled to my feet, the humiliation stinging worse than the cream on my skin and fled the banquet hall.

After washing my face, I checked my phone. A new message had come in.

It was an email with an audio recording attached.

“Amara, when are you finally going to divorce that bootlicker?”

It was Laurence’s voice.

Amara let out a soft chuckle, her tone dripping with frost.

“If I hadn’t fought with you back then, that bootlicker wouldn’t have even had a shot.”

“And you were the one who came up with the plan, making my dad fake an illness so he’d transfer everything and push for a divorce. Who knew that bootlicker would cling on like a leech, even offering to repay the debts for me? Looks like we’ll have to cook up another plan.”

My chest tightened with pain.

So that was it; she’d only married me out of spite for Laurence.

She had staged everything to keep me from coveting her family’s fortune.

It was all just a well-played act.

But what had my son done wrong?

Why did he have to be dragged into her lies and suffer for it?

I wandered back to the hospital room in a daze, the bag of chicken sandwiches warm in my hand, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.

This would be the first taste of meat my son had in three long years.

After our family went bankrupt trying to save his grandfather, he had grown up far too fast, tagging along with me after school to pick up trash just to survive.

At school, he lived off plain steamed buns and bore the brunt of ridicule.

His classmates mocked him, taunted him and called him names.

Even so, with tears clinging to his lashes and bruises darkening his small face, he had looked at Amara and me, asking softly, “Dad, Mom, why did they used to call me ‘Young Master,’ but now they call me a beggar?”

My heart shattered.

I told him gently that real friends care about the person, not their wealth.

I would never forget how Amara cried as she clutched our son in her arms, her voice choked with guilt, whispering apologies, promising she’d work hard, earn money and give him a better life.

That woman, back then, was worlds apart from the one who had flaunted wealth like confetti at the hotel today.

Staring at my frail, pale son lying weakly in the hospital bed, my lips trembled. I bit down hard, but the tears still came, hot and uncontrollable.

During those three long years, her father pretended to be ill and I broke my back, working day and night, saving every cent just to give my son a birthday he could remember.

I wanted to take him to King's Fried Chicken, maybe even let him ride the carousel at the amusement park, just once.

But each time, like clockwork, the money vanished from my card, withdrawn by Amara.

She would apologize with red eyes, whispering that her father’s treatment couldn’t wait, begging me and our son to understand.

Even after he faked his death, for two more years, we were drowning in debt, barely able to scrape together rent.

Yet, through it all, my little boy never once complained.

He held his hunger like a badge of courage and would smile through the ache, saying, “Dad, didn’t you say the greatest happiness is when a family helps one another?”

“Grandpa and Mom need our help. I won’t eat King's Fried Chicken anymore.”

The King's Fried Chicken he hadn’t touched in five years.

The amusement park he never stepped foot in.

To Amara, were those just things we were meant to lose?