I'll Raise His Mistress's Baby - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
You are reading I'll Raise His Mistress's Baby, Chapter 10: Chapter 10. Read more chapters of I'll Raise His Mistress's Baby.
It was no surprise Herbert couldn't find me—I'd disappeared into the middle of nowhere, a quiet corner of the world untouched by the chaos of modern life.
The people here lived simply, their lives woven into the rhythms of nature. They didn't fuss with phones or social media, so they had no idea about the desperate online manhunt Herbert had launched to track me down.
I'd rented a little cottage on the edge of a golden wheat field. When the wind swept through, the stalks swayed like an endless ocean, carrying the scent of earth and freedom.
In my time here, I'd wandered far and wide, drinking in the raw beauty of the world—the thunderous crash of waves against cliffs, mountains clawing at the sky, and grasslands stretching beyond the horizon. For the first time in decades, I felt like myself again—light, unburdened, alive.
That afternoon, the sun hung bright and warm overhead. I set up my easel by the field, ready to capture the scene in paint.
"Excuse me… are you Ms. Brown?"
I glanced up to see a backpack-toting guy, probably a college student, peering at me through his glasses.
I shook my head with a smile. "Sorry, no."
He chuckled, shrugging it off, then pulled out his phone. "This guy's been posting videos looking for his wife. You look a lot like her."
The screen showed Herbert—but not the man I remembered. His face was gaunt, streaks of gray threading through his hair. The confident, vibrant man I'd once known was gone, replaced by someone hollowed out by regret.
I stared, lost in the image, until the guy plopped down beside me. "Even if you are her, I wouldn't tell him. Sounds like a real piece of work. Rumor is his wife left because he was cheating."
I kept painting, my smile steady, but then he added, "Karma got him, though. Died in a car crash. Some messed-up woman rammed into him—total freak accident."
My brush stuttered, smearing the canvas.
"He left one last video," the guy said, tapping the screen.
Herbert lay in a hospital bed, tubes snaking around him, his voice thin and broken. "Samantha… I love you. I'm sorry. If there's a next life—"
I stood abruptly, cutting him off.
"Ms. Brown," the guy called after me. "I hope you find happiness."
Back in my room, the tears came—not from grief, but something more complicated, a storm of emotions I couldn't name.
"Samantha? What's wrong?" Patrick, my landlord and the only fellow expat I'd met here, stepped inside, concern knitting his brow. He taught art to the village kids and had patiently guided my own clumsy attempts at painting.
I wiped my cheeks. "It's nothing."
He hesitated, then pulled a bouquet from behind his back, grinning sheepishly. "Samantha… I like you. A lot. Would you be my girlfriend?"
I wasn't surprised. I'd seen the way he looked at me.
"Thank you," I said softly. "But I'm not staying much longer."
"I'll go wherever you go," he said quickly.
I pushed open the window, letting sunlight spill in. "I don't want roots. Or promises. I leave tomorrow. If we're meant to be, we'll cross paths again."
His face fell. "Where are you headed?"
I thought for a moment. The truth was, I had no idea.
But did it matter?
Life wasn't about destinations. Every step was part of the journey.
The past was a shadow I couldn't change—but the road ahead? That was mine to paint.
The people here lived simply, their lives woven into the rhythms of nature. They didn't fuss with phones or social media, so they had no idea about the desperate online manhunt Herbert had launched to track me down.
I'd rented a little cottage on the edge of a golden wheat field. When the wind swept through, the stalks swayed like an endless ocean, carrying the scent of earth and freedom.
In my time here, I'd wandered far and wide, drinking in the raw beauty of the world—the thunderous crash of waves against cliffs, mountains clawing at the sky, and grasslands stretching beyond the horizon. For the first time in decades, I felt like myself again—light, unburdened, alive.
That afternoon, the sun hung bright and warm overhead. I set up my easel by the field, ready to capture the scene in paint.
"Excuse me… are you Ms. Brown?"
I glanced up to see a backpack-toting guy, probably a college student, peering at me through his glasses.
I shook my head with a smile. "Sorry, no."
He chuckled, shrugging it off, then pulled out his phone. "This guy's been posting videos looking for his wife. You look a lot like her."
The screen showed Herbert—but not the man I remembered. His face was gaunt, streaks of gray threading through his hair. The confident, vibrant man I'd once known was gone, replaced by someone hollowed out by regret.
I stared, lost in the image, until the guy plopped down beside me. "Even if you are her, I wouldn't tell him. Sounds like a real piece of work. Rumor is his wife left because he was cheating."
I kept painting, my smile steady, but then he added, "Karma got him, though. Died in a car crash. Some messed-up woman rammed into him—total freak accident."
My brush stuttered, smearing the canvas.
"He left one last video," the guy said, tapping the screen.
Herbert lay in a hospital bed, tubes snaking around him, his voice thin and broken. "Samantha… I love you. I'm sorry. If there's a next life—"
I stood abruptly, cutting him off.
"Ms. Brown," the guy called after me. "I hope you find happiness."
Back in my room, the tears came—not from grief, but something more complicated, a storm of emotions I couldn't name.
"Samantha? What's wrong?" Patrick, my landlord and the only fellow expat I'd met here, stepped inside, concern knitting his brow. He taught art to the village kids and had patiently guided my own clumsy attempts at painting.
I wiped my cheeks. "It's nothing."
He hesitated, then pulled a bouquet from behind his back, grinning sheepishly. "Samantha… I like you. A lot. Would you be my girlfriend?"
I wasn't surprised. I'd seen the way he looked at me.
"Thank you," I said softly. "But I'm not staying much longer."
"I'll go wherever you go," he said quickly.
I pushed open the window, letting sunlight spill in. "I don't want roots. Or promises. I leave tomorrow. If we're meant to be, we'll cross paths again."
His face fell. "Where are you headed?"
I thought for a moment. The truth was, I had no idea.
But did it matter?
Life wasn't about destinations. Every step was part of the journey.
The past was a shadow I couldn't change—but the road ahead? That was mine to paint.
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