I Found His Mistress... Wearing My Ring - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

"You still have the nerve to bring up the past? I told you, I never want to see you again."
The words cut sharper than I meant them to, my voice trembling under the weight of years of pent-up anger. Just seeing Ray again made that old fire ignite in my chest.
I remembered how he always prided himself on being dignified—too proud for public scenes. Three years ago, saying this in front of others would've unleashed his explosive temper, the kind that could turn violent if pushed too far. But not today.
Instead of fury, his lips twitched into a smile—amused, bittersweet. He stepped closer, eyes locked on mine, and before I could react, his hand was on my cheek.
His touch sent a shiver down my spine—not from affection, but from the stark reminder of who he was... and what he still thought I was to him.
"So you're finally willing to admit it," Ray murmured, almost tenderly, his thumb brushing my skin like he hadn't been the one to break me.
I met his gaze coldly, forcing back the flood of memories. "That's right. I'm Susan. I didn't die." My voice was flat, but my heart raced.
Ray's eyes softened, his lips curling in satisfaction, as if his persistence had paid off. Like my survival was his victory. That smugness felt like a slap. Did he really think he could waltz back in and pretend nothing happened?
I gathered my drawing tools, my movements mechanical, grounding myself in the reality that I didn't care what he had to say. Not anymore.
When I stood to leave, he froze. Panic flashed across his face before his hand shot out, gripping my wrist with desperate urgency.
"Susan, life without you has been unbearable. You've been hiding from me for three years. It's time to come home."
A bitter laugh escaped me as I yanked my wrist free. I wiped my cheek where he'd touched me, like his fingers left a stain.
"Ray," I said, my calm voice belying the storm inside, "three years, and you're still as self-absorbed as ever. Has anyone ever told you how pretentious you sound?"
I let the silence hang thick between us. "Don't think I don't know. You've already brought Christine into your home. And now you chase me to France to ask me back? If she's so good, hold on tight."
His face twisted in disbelief—the first crack in his perfect composure. But he still didn't get it. He didn't know the truth behind why I left, the depth of his betrayal. Only his own selfish wants.
"Listen," he pressed, "if you come back, I'll divorce Christine immediately. To me, she's not worth a single strand of your hair."
I scoffed. This was the first time he'd ever belittled her in front of me. The woman he once worshipped, protected at all costs—even if it meant ruining others. I knew how he'd used his power to blacklist anyone who challenged her. But that power had crumbled. His perfect life was rotting from the inside.
"Ha, spare me the drama," I said, rolling my eyes. "And let me correct you—if you divorce her, it's not for me. I heard she's been unfaithful. That kid might not even be yours, right?"
His face contorted—guilt, shame, I didn't care which.
"Don't get me wrong," I added with a icy smile, "I couldn't care less about your mess. But those online videos mocking you two? Hilarious."
Ray's mouth opened, then shut. Silence. A small, sweet victory.
I knew his marriage to Christine had been a train wreck from the start. She was a walking scandal, even too much for Ray to cover up. Her reputation was trash—and so was his. The Palmer Group's stocks had tanked. Without my family's influence, Ray was just a drowning man clinging to scraps.
And here he was, begging for a second chance like I hadn't seen every lie.
But I wasn't the same woman he'd broken. I'd learned one thing in three years: no flowers, no promises, no sweet talk would ever drag me back.
Yet he'd flown across the world at the faintest whisper of me. Showed up at my gallery daily with roses, disrupting my clients, my students—like they were just extras in his redemption arc.
The final straw? When I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed a bucket of paint, not caring about the mess, and stormed outside.