Kill the Mistress, Not My Problem! - Chapter 10: Chapter 10

I never expected Old Mr. Carter to show up at my doorstep—with Mrs. Carter in tow. Suddenly, Patrick's evasive tone on the phone last night made sense. As I studied the elderly couple seated across from me, a mix of helplessness and simmering anger churned in my chest. Was this emotional blackmail?
Still, I couldn't deny they'd always treated me kindly. Old Mr. Carter, especially, had gone out of his way to salvage my marriage to Ryan during the whole Emma White debacle—no small feat for a man of his blunt nature.
"Grace, come home with me," he said, voice gravelly with age. "I won't force you to stay with him. But I've watched you grow up, and who knows how much time I have left? Humor an old man." He sighed. "As for Ryan… follow your heart."
The words stung my eyes. He meant it. At over eighty, his health was fading, and none of this mess was his fault.
Mrs. Carter's gaze dropped to my flat stomach, her eyes glistening. "Are you managing alone?" She pressed a bank card into my hand. "Take this. If you won't come back, at least buy yourself something nice. Your health matters most." Her voice cracked. "I've raised you since your parents drifted away. Seeing you and Andrew like this… it's on me too."
I refused the card. As they left, Mrs. Carter lingered like there was more to say, but she swallowed it.
In the car, she called Ryan. "She's fine," she snapped. "You made your choice—let her be." A pause. "And the baby… is it really gone?"
Ryan's voice was barely audible. Last time he'd seen me, he'd asked all the wrong questions. Now, hearing confirmation, panic slithered in. He knew me—tough exterior, marshmallow core. My sharp words were just bids for attention. He'd assumed the abortion threat was a bluff. But this time, I'd followed through.
I needed space from Ryan but had nowhere to run. The Carters' visit proved he'd track me anywhere. Why? Habit? Lingering guilt? Didn't matter.
That afternoon, I stared out the window, plotting. Before five, it was nannies and bodyguards. After that? Always Ryan. He'd been my whole world. But so what? Life's long, and he wouldn't be in mine anymore. That was enough.
I packed up and flew to Brooklyn. Mom fussed over me, introducing her boyfriend—Mr. Collins, all polished charm and respectful distance. He'd proposed once; she'd said no. They'd broken up, reconciled, and now thrived. Watching her glow, I smiled. Who needs love when life offers so much beauty?
Then he showed up. Again.
A week in Brooklyn, and there Ryan stood. Fury boiled up—the surprise visits, the Carters' ambush. If I didn't get it by now, I was an idiot.
"What do you want?" I hissed. "We're divorced. The baby's gone. Take Emma home and breed a damn soccer team. Just leave."
I barricaded the door and unleashed everything—Emma, the three hellish years, the lost child. With each word, his face paled. By the end, I felt lighter. Ryan's knuckles whitened on the doorframe, veins bulging. When our eyes met, his were raw with pleading.
Finally, he choked out, "I'm sorry. I regret it. Please—"
"No." I slammed the door.
His apology came too late. That love triangle had stolen enough of my life. I wouldn't look back.
Then he moved next door.
Every time I walked Little Blossom, he trailed silently behind. I ignored him. Soon, neighbors gossiped. "My cheating ex," I'd say.
Gasps. Then the inevitable: "But he's rich and handsome! Men stray—just turn a blind eye." "Have a kid, lock down his assets. Those side chicks can't touch you."
Pathetic. The man screws up, and women get lectured on tolerance.
Even the landlady pitied Ryan, cutting his rent. "Don't lose her," she told him. "She still cares—why else no dates?"
I rolled my eyes. Delusional.
Mom hinted at reconciliation. "I'm not a recycling center," I said. "No trash allowed."
Finally, I snapped. "You want forgiveness? Fine." Ryan's eyes lit up. "Name it."
"Return every dime you spent on Emma."
Money meant nothing to us. But Emma? Middle-class girl, starved for love and luxury. Three years of spoiling had ruined her for normalcy.
While Ryan was in Brooklyn, I'd sent her photos of him working for me. The man who'd once worshipped her, now groveling to me. Then he demanded repayment—five billion dollars' worth.
Predictably, she snapped. Her reckless drive left him paralyzed.
At the hospital, tubes snaked around Ryan. The doctor said waking up was a coin toss.
I studied his face—still stupidly handsome—and felt nothing.
Later, I bailed Emma out. Dad's old associate nodded at my "toy" selection. "Try everything. Just keep her breathing for the cops."
Three years of humiliation, the lost baby, the high-society whispers—I paid her back in full.
When Ryan woke, Patrick delivered the news: "Emma's dead."
The crash of shattered equipment echoed as Ryan broke down behind closed doors.
I moved out. People can glance back—just don't walk the same path twice.