The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Twelve years of marriage. Twelve years with Jack, my childhood sweetheart turned millionaire husband. And now, he's fallen for the new receptionist at his company.
She's pushing forty—not as pretty as me, not as fit, nothing special at all. Yet in just six months, she's managed to give Jack something I couldn't: emotional fulfillment.
Exhausted, he looked at me and said, "If we divorce, you can have the house, the car. Olivia, just… let me go."
I lowered my gaze and whispered, "Alright."
Then I bought a calendar and circled a date.
Divorce countdown: 30 days.
Forty minutes after Jack confessed his affair and asked for a divorce, I slid the papers across his desk. The agreement was simple: the house, the car, full custody of our child—all mine. Plus a lump sum of $2 million for support. After that, he'd be free. No more obligations. No more us.
Jack was on a conference call when I walked in. His eyes flickered when he saw the words "Divorce Agreement," but he barely reacted. Just a nod.
I left without another word.
To make things easier, I packed up everything of his—three suitcases' worth. Clothes, toiletries, even the dusty childhood photos from the attic. Then I spotted our wedding portrait tucked in the corner.
There we were—young, radiant, wrapped in each other's arms under golden sunlight. Back when he'd pull me close and murmur, "Honey, I love you so much. I'm the luckiest man alive."
We met in college. Back then, Jack was just a broke kid in worn-out sneakers. I had plenty of admirers, but he was different—calm, kind, effortlessly charming. We married right after graduation, and he built his company from the ground up.
When I got pregnant, I quit my job to focus on our family. I poured everything into making our home perfect—cooking, cleaning, raising our child. Meanwhile, Jack balanced late-night meetings with helping me with the baby and smoothing things over with his mother.
To everyone else, we were goals. The perfect couple.
But then, the late nights became more frequent. "Meetings," he'd say. Sometimes, he wouldn't come home at all.
Friends joked I should keep an eye on him. I laughed it off, but doubt gnawed at me.
So I showed up at his office a few times with late-night snacks.
Everything seemed normal—just a bunch of exhausted employees in a conference room. And Rachel, the receptionist, sitting quietly at her desk.
Early forties, average height, thin, short hair. Nothing striking—except her voice. Soft, warm, completely at odds with her plain appearance.
She smiled when she saw me.
All these years, I'd imagined this moment. I'd braced myself for a glamorous secretary, a young intern, maybe even a high-powered businesswoman.
Never in a million years did I think it'd be Rachel.
From what I'd heard, she'd been through a messy divorce herself. This job was her fresh start. She came in early, memorized everyone's coffee orders, even baked treats for the office. Some coworkers even bought lunch from her.
I'd actually felt bad for her. Once, I told Jack to go easy on her—she'd been through enough.
His response? "The company isn't a charity. I've already warned her about side hustles."
At the time, I teased him for being heartless.
Now? Now I realize he was just pissed she had to work extra to make ends meet.
As for why he chose today to drop the bomb—
This morning, like always, I made him hangover soup after he stumbled in drunk.
He stared at the bowl like it offended him, then pushed it away. After a long silence, he finally looked up, exhaustion in his eyes.
"I've been seeing someone," he admitted. "For six months. Hotels, late nights… it's Rachel."
My heart shattered.
Rachel.
The name hit me like ice water.
And just like that—our perfect life was over.