I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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Ray's next words struck like a slap to the face.
"Susan, you'll take the guest room tonight. The master bedroom is bigger, so Christine should have it," he said, his tone disturbingly casual, as if he weren't upending my entire world with a single sentence.
I gaped at him, my chest tightening with disbelief. "And where will you be sleeping?" My voice wavered despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
A flicker of panic flashed in his eyes before he smoothed his expression. Behind him, Christine lounged on the couch, her lips curling into a smug smirk.
"What kind of question is that?" Ray scoffed, feigning indignation. "I'll take the couch, obviously. Christine sleepwalks sometimes, and it's her first night here. You understand, don't you?"
The lie was so flimsy I could practically see through it. My stomach twisted, but I just nodded and turned away. The sharp click of the master bedroom door sealing shut behind them was the final nail in the coffin—fifteen years of love, gone in an instant.
That night, the house was icy and silent, save for the muffled noises seeping through the walls. At 3 a.m., they started—soft laughter, whispered words, then stifled moans. My body went rigid, each sound cutting deeper than the last. Clutching the sheets, I stared at the ceiling, my chest heavy with rage, humiliation, and a grief so sharp it stole my breath.
I couldn't take it anymore. Snatching my phone, I dialed a number I hadn't touched in years. My fingers trembled as I pressed each digit, memories of another life—one I'd left behind—flooding back.
"Bonjour, Madame Susan!" The voice on the other end was warm, delighted. "What a surprise! Have you finally decided to join us in France for oil painting?"
I inhaled deeply, steadying myself against the storm inside. "Yes," I said. "I'm applying for my student visa now."
"Magnifique!" he cheered. "I've waited five years for this. Paris is waiting for you, mon chéri."
Morning brought an eerie quiet. Steeling myself, I pushed open the master bedroom door—and nearly gagged.
The stench of sweat and cheap perfume clung to the air. The bed was a wreck, sheets tangled and stained. The trash can overflowed with crumpled tissues and empty condom wrappers. It was vulgar, a grotesque monument to their betrayal.
My eyes landed on the painting hanging opposite the bed—a portrait of Ray, one I'd poured my heart into. Every brushstroke had been an act of love, and I'd once considered it my finest work. Now, the sight of his face filled me with revulsion.
In the garden, I struck a match and held it to the canvas. Flames devoured the painting in seconds, the heat licking at my skin. But the fire inside me burned hotter. Next, I tossed in two boxes of love letters—once treasured, now just kindling.
Back in my room, I methodically erased every trace of him from my social media. Vacation photos, anniversary posts, happy memories—gone. By the time I finished, it was as if we'd never existed.
Then, a notification. A message from Christine.
Against my better judgment, I opened it. The photos showed an extravagant party—the kind of celebration I'd always wanted but never got. Elegant décor, champagne flutes, laughter. My stomach dropped as I swiped through, dread coiling tighter with each image.
Then, the final set.
Christine, radiant in a white mermaid gown and veil, clung to Ray's arm. He stood beside her in a tailored suit, looking unbearably pleased with himself. The caption:
[Finally where I belong. #WeddedBliss]
That evening, I leaned against the balcony railing, cigarette in hand, letting the memories wash over me. Ray had promised me a grand wedding once. The date was set, but he'd left all the planning to me—and his assistant.
Now I understood. I'd been a placeholder. Christine was his queen.
My phone buzzed. Christine's name flashed on the screen.
"Susan," she purred, venom lacing every syllable. "Drop the act. I know you figured it out last night—Ray and I have been together for years. So, how does it feel? The wedding was beautiful, wasn't it? He told me himself—I'm the love of his life."
I stayed silent, letting her words twist the knife.
"Why are you still clinging to him?" she sneered. "He's disgusted by you—"
"Christine, stop messing with Susan," Ray's voice cut in from the background, irritated, as if her cruelty were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"Susan, you'll take the guest room tonight. The master bedroom is bigger, so Christine should have it," he said, his tone disturbingly casual, as if he weren't upending my entire world with a single sentence.
I gaped at him, my chest tightening with disbelief. "And where will you be sleeping?" My voice wavered despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
A flicker of panic flashed in his eyes before he smoothed his expression. Behind him, Christine lounged on the couch, her lips curling into a smug smirk.
"What kind of question is that?" Ray scoffed, feigning indignation. "I'll take the couch, obviously. Christine sleepwalks sometimes, and it's her first night here. You understand, don't you?"
The lie was so flimsy I could practically see through it. My stomach twisted, but I just nodded and turned away. The sharp click of the master bedroom door sealing shut behind them was the final nail in the coffin—fifteen years of love, gone in an instant.
That night, the house was icy and silent, save for the muffled noises seeping through the walls. At 3 a.m., they started—soft laughter, whispered words, then stifled moans. My body went rigid, each sound cutting deeper than the last. Clutching the sheets, I stared at the ceiling, my chest heavy with rage, humiliation, and a grief so sharp it stole my breath.
I couldn't take it anymore. Snatching my phone, I dialed a number I hadn't touched in years. My fingers trembled as I pressed each digit, memories of another life—one I'd left behind—flooding back.
"Bonjour, Madame Susan!" The voice on the other end was warm, delighted. "What a surprise! Have you finally decided to join us in France for oil painting?"
I inhaled deeply, steadying myself against the storm inside. "Yes," I said. "I'm applying for my student visa now."
"Magnifique!" he cheered. "I've waited five years for this. Paris is waiting for you, mon chéri."
Morning brought an eerie quiet. Steeling myself, I pushed open the master bedroom door—and nearly gagged.
The stench of sweat and cheap perfume clung to the air. The bed was a wreck, sheets tangled and stained. The trash can overflowed with crumpled tissues and empty condom wrappers. It was vulgar, a grotesque monument to their betrayal.
My eyes landed on the painting hanging opposite the bed—a portrait of Ray, one I'd poured my heart into. Every brushstroke had been an act of love, and I'd once considered it my finest work. Now, the sight of his face filled me with revulsion.
In the garden, I struck a match and held it to the canvas. Flames devoured the painting in seconds, the heat licking at my skin. But the fire inside me burned hotter. Next, I tossed in two boxes of love letters—once treasured, now just kindling.
Back in my room, I methodically erased every trace of him from my social media. Vacation photos, anniversary posts, happy memories—gone. By the time I finished, it was as if we'd never existed.
Then, a notification. A message from Christine.
Against my better judgment, I opened it. The photos showed an extravagant party—the kind of celebration I'd always wanted but never got. Elegant décor, champagne flutes, laughter. My stomach dropped as I swiped through, dread coiling tighter with each image.
Then, the final set.
Christine, radiant in a white mermaid gown and veil, clung to Ray's arm. He stood beside her in a tailored suit, looking unbearably pleased with himself. The caption:
[Finally where I belong. #WeddedBliss]
That evening, I leaned against the balcony railing, cigarette in hand, letting the memories wash over me. Ray had promised me a grand wedding once. The date was set, but he'd left all the planning to me—and his assistant.
Now I understood. I'd been a placeholder. Christine was his queen.
My phone buzzed. Christine's name flashed on the screen.
"Susan," she purred, venom lacing every syllable. "Drop the act. I know you figured it out last night—Ray and I have been together for years. So, how does it feel? The wedding was beautiful, wasn't it? He told me himself—I'm the love of his life."
I stayed silent, letting her words twist the knife.
"Why are you still clinging to him?" she sneered. "He's disgusted by you—"
"Christine, stop messing with Susan," Ray's voice cut in from the background, irritated, as if her cruelty were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
End of I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring book page.