The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty - Chapter 6: Chapter 6
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I'd just reached the bottom of the stairs when my phone buzzed—Emma from Jack's company.
Emma's the kind of person who says exactly what's on her mind, which makes her impossible not to like.
"You busy?" she asked without preamble. When I said no, she launched right in: "So it's true? You and Jack are really getting divorced?"
No point hiding it.
"Was it Rachel?"
The question caught me off guard. Had Jack been broadcasting our dirty laundry at work?
When I didn't answer, Emma let out this dramatic groan. "Miss Whitaker, I knew it! That woman's been insufferable ever since you stopped bringing us afternoon tea. God, I miss you!"
Back when Jack and I were still playing happy family, I'd bring his team treats almost weekly. The running joke was they only stayed for "Mrs. Wilson's famous snacks."
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm opening a café soon. First round's on me."
Emma squealed loud enough to crack my eardrum. "Address! Now!"
I promised to text it later.
She took a breath, then launched into full rant mode. "You wouldn't believe Rachel these days. The second you disappeared, she went from receptionist to office manager overnight. Now she struts around like she owns the place—all those fake smiles replaced with constant nitpicking. And get this—she's started dressing like you! Same dresses, same heels. It's pathetic. What the hell does Mr. Wilson see in her?"
She finished with, "If I didn't have a mortgage, I'd quit tomorrow just to avoid her smug face."
By then I'd reached my apartment door. Emma was still venting, so I humored her a few more minutes before finally hanging up.
Funny—I realized I didn't even care about Rachel anymore. Gone was that clawing desperation to understand what Jack saw in her.
I pushed the door open and froze. Jack's shoes sat neatly by the entryway. Inside, he was playing video games with our son.
"Mom!" Jason yelled. "Come beat Dad with me!"
A year ago, Jack would've scooped him up right then, tickling him until they both collapsed laughing before dragging me into the chaos. Our home used to echo with that sound.
Now Jack just cleared his throat and ruffled Jason's hair. "Mom's tired. Next time, okay?"
"Okay. Dad, when do your business trips end?"
Jack hesitated. "Soon," he said softly, then nudged him toward bedtime.
Exhausted from café preparations, I had zero energy for chitchat. "Don't forget to lock up," I muttered, heading for my room.
He called after me, "I promised Jason I'd stay tonight."
Whatever.
The bedroom door had barely clicked shut when Jack's phone rang in the living room. His responses grew progressively sharper:
"I told you—I'm here for Jason... Yes, signed the papers... No, we're not sharing a room! How many times?"
A heavy silence. Then knocking.
"Olivia, company emergency. I'll come see Jason tomorrow."
I didn't open the door. Just a flat "Okay" at wall-volume.
His car hadn't left the parking lot when my phone pinged—$50K deposited into Jason's account. The memo read: Treat him tomorrow.
I ignored it, opening my laptop to review café blueprints. Then—
Snapchat notification.
Unknown sender. No text. Their profile pic showed flowers. The account was blank—no posts, no history. I couldn't even remember adding them.
The chat log revealed they'd been in my contacts for two years.
As I puzzled over this, another message appeared:
[Feeling smug?]
My stomach dropped. Rachel.
But she'd only worked at Jack's company for six months. How—
A photo loaded. Jack shirtless in a hotel bed, a woman's hand splayed on his chest.
Date stamp: 2/16/23.
I barely made it to the trash can before vomiting.
February 16th. The day of Dad's first major surgery. Jack had "postponed meetings" to "be there" for me. We'd video-called all night because I couldn't sleep. He'd "rushed back" that morning to wait outside the OR.
Turns out he'd rushed straight from Rachel's bed.
More photos arrived—our anniversary, Jason's birthday—each showing Jack dividing his time like some twisted time-management expert.
Nausea gave way to icy clarity. I saved every image.
Rachel's timing wasn't accidental. Of the $20M divorce settlement, $8M had transferred. The house and cars were already mine. If I caused trouble now, Jack could retaliate—and Jason would lose his father permanently.
Jack had expected hysterics when he confessed the affair. My calm acceptance threw them both. Rachel's move reeked of desperation.
But why now?
A midnight call to Emma revealed the answer: At a recent client dinner, a stunning female CEO had driven drunk Jack home. Subsequent private meetings sparked office gossip that "Mr. Wilson would soon be single." Suddenly, ambitious women were "tripping" into Jack's path.
Rachel's response? Immediate promotion to office manager—complete with tyrannical rule. She wasn't just guarding her prize; she was marking territory.
Those photos weren't just cruelty. They were bait—hoping I'd explode so Jack would see me as the unstable one.
Fine. If she wanted war, she'd get it.
First step: Dinner with Jack at the cramped diner near our old college—the fanciest place he could afford back when he saved for months to buy my birthday necklace.
His Mercedes looked absurd parked outside.
Jack frowned at his food. "Tastes different." He even called over the owner, who confirmed the original chef (his father) still worked there.
I took a bite. "Tastes the same to me. But then, I'm not the one who's moved on."
"Olivia, I—"
"Actually, I need the remaining $12M soon."
His face softened with pity. "Even if this was just about money, I'm glad we talked. I'll transfer it ASAP."
After he left, I tipped the owner extra. That pork hadn't been cooked by his father—just a chef mimicking the recipe. Close, but not identical.
Let Jack believe his palate had outgrown such places. Let him think I remained stuck in nostalgia. Vulnerability breeds generosity.
Next stop: A private investigator's office. By afternoon, I held Rachel's dossier.
Age: 41.
Status: Married (not divorced as claimed).
Children: One (12 years old).
Husband: Factory worker in a neighboring city.
Most surprising? Her brother knew all about Jack.
This wasn't some mistress dreaming of becoming wife. This was a long con—two years invested, now threatened by younger competitors.
I circled tomorrow's date:
Divorce countdown: 13 days.
Game on.
Emma's the kind of person who says exactly what's on her mind, which makes her impossible not to like.
"You busy?" she asked without preamble. When I said no, she launched right in: "So it's true? You and Jack are really getting divorced?"
No point hiding it.
"Was it Rachel?"
The question caught me off guard. Had Jack been broadcasting our dirty laundry at work?
When I didn't answer, Emma let out this dramatic groan. "Miss Whitaker, I knew it! That woman's been insufferable ever since you stopped bringing us afternoon tea. God, I miss you!"
Back when Jack and I were still playing happy family, I'd bring his team treats almost weekly. The running joke was they only stayed for "Mrs. Wilson's famous snacks."
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm opening a café soon. First round's on me."
Emma squealed loud enough to crack my eardrum. "Address! Now!"
I promised to text it later.
She took a breath, then launched into full rant mode. "You wouldn't believe Rachel these days. The second you disappeared, she went from receptionist to office manager overnight. Now she struts around like she owns the place—all those fake smiles replaced with constant nitpicking. And get this—she's started dressing like you! Same dresses, same heels. It's pathetic. What the hell does Mr. Wilson see in her?"
She finished with, "If I didn't have a mortgage, I'd quit tomorrow just to avoid her smug face."
By then I'd reached my apartment door. Emma was still venting, so I humored her a few more minutes before finally hanging up.
Funny—I realized I didn't even care about Rachel anymore. Gone was that clawing desperation to understand what Jack saw in her.
I pushed the door open and froze. Jack's shoes sat neatly by the entryway. Inside, he was playing video games with our son.
"Mom!" Jason yelled. "Come beat Dad with me!"
A year ago, Jack would've scooped him up right then, tickling him until they both collapsed laughing before dragging me into the chaos. Our home used to echo with that sound.
Now Jack just cleared his throat and ruffled Jason's hair. "Mom's tired. Next time, okay?"
"Okay. Dad, when do your business trips end?"
Jack hesitated. "Soon," he said softly, then nudged him toward bedtime.
Exhausted from café preparations, I had zero energy for chitchat. "Don't forget to lock up," I muttered, heading for my room.
He called after me, "I promised Jason I'd stay tonight."
Whatever.
The bedroom door had barely clicked shut when Jack's phone rang in the living room. His responses grew progressively sharper:
"I told you—I'm here for Jason... Yes, signed the papers... No, we're not sharing a room! How many times?"
A heavy silence. Then knocking.
"Olivia, company emergency. I'll come see Jason tomorrow."
I didn't open the door. Just a flat "Okay" at wall-volume.
His car hadn't left the parking lot when my phone pinged—$50K deposited into Jason's account. The memo read: Treat him tomorrow.
I ignored it, opening my laptop to review café blueprints. Then—
Snapchat notification.
Unknown sender. No text. Their profile pic showed flowers. The account was blank—no posts, no history. I couldn't even remember adding them.
The chat log revealed they'd been in my contacts for two years.
As I puzzled over this, another message appeared:
[Feeling smug?]
My stomach dropped. Rachel.
But she'd only worked at Jack's company for six months. How—
A photo loaded. Jack shirtless in a hotel bed, a woman's hand splayed on his chest.
Date stamp: 2/16/23.
I barely made it to the trash can before vomiting.
February 16th. The day of Dad's first major surgery. Jack had "postponed meetings" to "be there" for me. We'd video-called all night because I couldn't sleep. He'd "rushed back" that morning to wait outside the OR.
Turns out he'd rushed straight from Rachel's bed.
More photos arrived—our anniversary, Jason's birthday—each showing Jack dividing his time like some twisted time-management expert.
Nausea gave way to icy clarity. I saved every image.
Rachel's timing wasn't accidental. Of the $20M divorce settlement, $8M had transferred. The house and cars were already mine. If I caused trouble now, Jack could retaliate—and Jason would lose his father permanently.
Jack had expected hysterics when he confessed the affair. My calm acceptance threw them both. Rachel's move reeked of desperation.
But why now?
A midnight call to Emma revealed the answer: At a recent client dinner, a stunning female CEO had driven drunk Jack home. Subsequent private meetings sparked office gossip that "Mr. Wilson would soon be single." Suddenly, ambitious women were "tripping" into Jack's path.
Rachel's response? Immediate promotion to office manager—complete with tyrannical rule. She wasn't just guarding her prize; she was marking territory.
Those photos weren't just cruelty. They were bait—hoping I'd explode so Jack would see me as the unstable one.
Fine. If she wanted war, she'd get it.
First step: Dinner with Jack at the cramped diner near our old college—the fanciest place he could afford back when he saved for months to buy my birthday necklace.
His Mercedes looked absurd parked outside.
Jack frowned at his food. "Tastes different." He even called over the owner, who confirmed the original chef (his father) still worked there.
I took a bite. "Tastes the same to me. But then, I'm not the one who's moved on."
"Olivia, I—"
"Actually, I need the remaining $12M soon."
His face softened with pity. "Even if this was just about money, I'm glad we talked. I'll transfer it ASAP."
After he left, I tipped the owner extra. That pork hadn't been cooked by his father—just a chef mimicking the recipe. Close, but not identical.
Let Jack believe his palate had outgrown such places. Let him think I remained stuck in nostalgia. Vulnerability breeds generosity.
Next stop: A private investigator's office. By afternoon, I held Rachel's dossier.
Age: 41.
Status: Married (not divorced as claimed).
Children: One (12 years old).
Husband: Factory worker in a neighboring city.
Most surprising? Her brother knew all about Jack.
This wasn't some mistress dreaming of becoming wife. This was a long con—two years invested, now threatened by younger competitors.
I circled tomorrow's date:
Divorce countdown: 13 days.
Game on.
End of The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty Chapter 6. Continue reading Chapter 7 or return to The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty book page.