I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring.
Ray's calls kept buzzing in my pocket, relentless, as I stood in the endless security line at the airport. My thumb hovered over the screen for a heartbeat before I flicked it off and shoved the phone into my bag. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. The scanner's mechanical beep, the hum of travelers—it all blurred beneath the hammering of my pulse.
When my things slid out on the conveyor belt, I took my time slipping my shoes back on, my movements slow, deliberate. Among them sat a small velvet box—my wedding ring inside. I cracked it open one last time, staring at the simple band with its tiny diamonds. Once, it had meant forever. Now, it was just a weight I needed to drop. Without hesitation, I left it there and walked away, never glancing back.
The ring glinted under the harsh airport lights as I disappeared through the gates. From that moment on, Ray and I were strangers—no bridges left to cross.
At the grand estate where our wedding was supposed to happen, Ray's rage exploded like a storm when I didn't show. The murmurs of guests, the shocked stares, the pity—it all stabbed at his pride. He stormed out, jaw clenched, and sped home like the devil was chasing him.
The mansion was eerily silent when he arrived. The warmth was gone, the air thick with absence. He tore through the rooms, his dread growing—my closet empty, drawers stripped bare. Like I'd never existed.
Then his eyes landed on the living room wall. The painting I'd made for him—gone. A hollow ache spread through his chest.
"Lucy!" His voice cracked raw.
The housekeeper appeared, wringing her hands. "Mr. Palmer, Miss Susan… she left this morning. Jimmy took her to the airport around six."
Ray's breath hitched. "The airport?"
Lucy hesitated, then held out a crumpled paper. "I found this in the bedroom trash."
The document was creased, smudged, but the words at the top screamed at him: [Post-Abortion Recovery].
His legs gave out. He hit the floor, the paper shaking in his hands. "She was… pregnant?" His voice broke. Tears spilled over, his sobs echoing through the empty house. "Why didn't I know? She wouldn't just leave me… She wouldn't—"
Then the TV in the living room cut through his grief. The news anchor's grave voice filled the air:
"This morning, Flight 378 from Arlington to New York's JFK Airport encountered severe turbulence and failed to land safely. Tragically, there are no survivors."
Ray's face drained of color. My parents lived in the U.S.—it was the only place I'd go. The room spun as his worst fear took root.
For days, Ray didn't sleep. He sat glued to the TV, watching the wreckage replay over and over. His business crumbled, his sharp suits replaced with disheveled chaos. When the airline finally called to confirm the victims' remains, his heart shattered all over again.
At the crash site, a glint among the debris caught his eye—a small, familiar diamond ring. The last shred of hope left him. He dropped to his knees, clutching it as his body shook with sobs.
Three years passed in a blink.
Paris was soaked in rain, the cobblestones gleaming under warm café lights. I sat by the window, sketchpad open, espresso steaming beside me. My pencil moved in quick, precise strokes, capturing the rain-slick streets. The murmur of conversation around me faded into white noise.
The café door chimed. I barely looked up—until a deep, achingly familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"Susan… is that you?"
My hand froze mid-stroke. Slowly, I turned.
Ray stood there, eyes wide—disbelief, desperation, all of it raw in his gaze. His once-perfect suit hung loose, damp from the rain, his sharp edges softened by time and wear. Before I could react, he closed the distance and grabbed my arm, his grip firm but trembling.
"Susan," he whispered hoarsely, pulling me into a crushing embrace. He buried his face in my hair, breathing me in like I was air. "It's you. It's really you. I've finally found you."
I didn't fight him. Just waited, then gently pushed him back, putting cold, deliberate space between us. My face stayed blank, my eyes empty of the warmth they once held.
"I'm sorry," I said smoothly, voice flat. "You must be mistaken. We don't know each other."
Ray went still. "Impossible," he said, low and certain. His eyes searched mine, hunting for any flicker of recognition. "You're my Susan. You've always smelled like gardenias. I'd know you anywhere."
I arched a brow, unimpressed.
"They told me you were dead," he said, voice rising, rough with relief and pain. "But I never believed it. Even if you ran to the ends of the earth, I swore I'd find you."
My lips curled in a faint smirk, but my eyes stayed ice.
Ray reached for my hand, his voice softening. "Susan, we had fifteen years. Were all those moments a lie? Did I mean nothing to you?"
When my things slid out on the conveyor belt, I took my time slipping my shoes back on, my movements slow, deliberate. Among them sat a small velvet box—my wedding ring inside. I cracked it open one last time, staring at the simple band with its tiny diamonds. Once, it had meant forever. Now, it was just a weight I needed to drop. Without hesitation, I left it there and walked away, never glancing back.
The ring glinted under the harsh airport lights as I disappeared through the gates. From that moment on, Ray and I were strangers—no bridges left to cross.
At the grand estate where our wedding was supposed to happen, Ray's rage exploded like a storm when I didn't show. The murmurs of guests, the shocked stares, the pity—it all stabbed at his pride. He stormed out, jaw clenched, and sped home like the devil was chasing him.
The mansion was eerily silent when he arrived. The warmth was gone, the air thick with absence. He tore through the rooms, his dread growing—my closet empty, drawers stripped bare. Like I'd never existed.
Then his eyes landed on the living room wall. The painting I'd made for him—gone. A hollow ache spread through his chest.
"Lucy!" His voice cracked raw.
The housekeeper appeared, wringing her hands. "Mr. Palmer, Miss Susan… she left this morning. Jimmy took her to the airport around six."
Ray's breath hitched. "The airport?"
Lucy hesitated, then held out a crumpled paper. "I found this in the bedroom trash."
The document was creased, smudged, but the words at the top screamed at him: [Post-Abortion Recovery].
His legs gave out. He hit the floor, the paper shaking in his hands. "She was… pregnant?" His voice broke. Tears spilled over, his sobs echoing through the empty house. "Why didn't I know? She wouldn't just leave me… She wouldn't—"
Then the TV in the living room cut through his grief. The news anchor's grave voice filled the air:
"This morning, Flight 378 from Arlington to New York's JFK Airport encountered severe turbulence and failed to land safely. Tragically, there are no survivors."
Ray's face drained of color. My parents lived in the U.S.—it was the only place I'd go. The room spun as his worst fear took root.
For days, Ray didn't sleep. He sat glued to the TV, watching the wreckage replay over and over. His business crumbled, his sharp suits replaced with disheveled chaos. When the airline finally called to confirm the victims' remains, his heart shattered all over again.
At the crash site, a glint among the debris caught his eye—a small, familiar diamond ring. The last shred of hope left him. He dropped to his knees, clutching it as his body shook with sobs.
Three years passed in a blink.
Paris was soaked in rain, the cobblestones gleaming under warm café lights. I sat by the window, sketchpad open, espresso steaming beside me. My pencil moved in quick, precise strokes, capturing the rain-slick streets. The murmur of conversation around me faded into white noise.
The café door chimed. I barely looked up—until a deep, achingly familiar voice cut through the quiet.
"Susan… is that you?"
My hand froze mid-stroke. Slowly, I turned.
Ray stood there, eyes wide—disbelief, desperation, all of it raw in his gaze. His once-perfect suit hung loose, damp from the rain, his sharp edges softened by time and wear. Before I could react, he closed the distance and grabbed my arm, his grip firm but trembling.
"Susan," he whispered hoarsely, pulling me into a crushing embrace. He buried his face in my hair, breathing me in like I was air. "It's you. It's really you. I've finally found you."
I didn't fight him. Just waited, then gently pushed him back, putting cold, deliberate space between us. My face stayed blank, my eyes empty of the warmth they once held.
"I'm sorry," I said smoothly, voice flat. "You must be mistaken. We don't know each other."
Ray went still. "Impossible," he said, low and certain. His eyes searched mine, hunting for any flicker of recognition. "You're my Susan. You've always smelled like gardenias. I'd know you anywhere."
I arched a brow, unimpressed.
"They told me you were dead," he said, voice rising, rough with relief and pain. "But I never believed it. Even if you ran to the ends of the earth, I swore I'd find you."
My lips curled in a faint smirk, but my eyes stayed ice.
Ray reached for my hand, his voice softening. "Susan, we had fifteen years. Were all those moments a lie? Did I mean nothing to you?"
End of I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring book page.