The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
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Two weeks ago, at a business dinner, Jack got wasted. The kicker? The stunning female CEO they'd been collaborating with ended up driving him home herself. After that, she arranged private meetings with him—more than once.
Meanwhile, I'd stopped bringing afternoon tea to the office. The rumor mill went wild: Olivia and Jack must've had a blowout fight. The consensus? He'd be back on the market soon.
Cue the vultures. Ambitious women started circling Jack like sharks smelling blood.
That's when Rachel panicked.
"Miss Whitaker, you're incredible—I couldn't keep this from you. Don't be upset. Sure, Mr. Wilson's handsome, but he's a total dirtbag. You'll find someone better! Actually, forget men—you'll crush it in your career! Your café's gonna blow up. Then you can think about dating. Haha!"
Emma's pep talk lifted my spirits.
"Thanks. I'll give it my all."
After hanging up, I noticed the time: past midnight. The calendar notification glared at me.
Divorce countdown: 14 days.
Putting it all together, Rachel's desperation made sense. With our divorce looming, she'd assumed she'd waltz into my place as Jack's new wife. But now? Competition had arrived—younger, bolder, hungrier.
She was terrified.
So she flexed her "authority," pushing Jack around, probably stirring drama for weeks. Tonight's stunt? Forcing him to leave mid-dinner. She'd crossed a line and knew it.
Those photos earlier? A cheap ploy to bait me into confronting Jack—to make me look unhinged while she played the victim.
Honestly, I'd been ready to wash my hands of this mess. But if she insisted on making me sick?
Fine. Game on.
I didn't block her. Didn't delete her.
Instead, I called Jack and asked him to dinner.
He hesitated—surprise, surprise—but agreed.
I picked the hole-in-the-wall diner near campus where he'd taken me for my birthday years ago. Back then, it was all he could afford after saving up for months, even skipping meals to buy me a necklace.
Now, his sleek luxury car looked absurd parked in that grungy alley.
Across the table, the polished executive in a tailored suit briefly flickered into the earnest boy I'd loved—then vanished.
I'd chosen a street-side table on purpose. Sunlight streamed in as Jack mechanically rinsed my utensils, a relic of old habits.
He barely touched his food, complaining the flavors were "off" before flagging down the owner.
"Is your dad still in the kitchen?"
"Yep!" the owner lied smoothly.
Truth? The original chef was there—along with three others. The spicy pork wasn't his. Close, but not identical.
Jack's palate had gotten expensive.
"Of course it tastes different," I said, smiling. "You've moved on to finer things. But to me? It's exactly like before."
He set down his chopsticks. "Olivia, I'm sorry—"
"Don't. You've moved forward. I should learn from you."
A pause. Then, cautiously: "Don't you want to ask… anything?"
"Would you tell me the truth?"
Like how you screwed Rachel while my dad was in surgery?
Silence. He exhaled sharply and pivoted: "Did you need something?"
"The remaining $12 million. Sooner the better."
"Even if this was just about money, I'm glad you called." His voice softened. "I never realized… you stayed while I left. I'll transfer it. If you ever need help—"
"Thanks."
After he left, I tipped the owner extra for the white lie.
Then, I visited a PI firm.
They'd already dug up Rachel's dirt by afternoon. Fast.
The file was juicy:
Age 41. Married. 12-year-old kid.
Her husband worked at a factory in the next town over. Her most frequent contact? Her brother—who knew about Jack.
Mind. Blown.
At work, Rachel played the "divorced single mom" card. Reality? Still married.
"This legit?" I asked the investigator.
He flashed a cocky thumbs-up. "Rock-solid, ma'am. Say the word, and I'll leak it—"
"No."
I didn't want Jack knowing. Not yet.
In fact, I hoped Rachel kept hiding her husband… at least until the divorce was final.
I'd underestimated her. This wasn't some mistress angling for a ring.
This was a grift. Two years of playing the long game—only to have jackals swoop in at the finish line.
No wonder she was losing it.
I circled the calendar.
Divorce countdown: 13 days.
Meanwhile, I'd stopped bringing afternoon tea to the office. The rumor mill went wild: Olivia and Jack must've had a blowout fight. The consensus? He'd be back on the market soon.
Cue the vultures. Ambitious women started circling Jack like sharks smelling blood.
That's when Rachel panicked.
"Miss Whitaker, you're incredible—I couldn't keep this from you. Don't be upset. Sure, Mr. Wilson's handsome, but he's a total dirtbag. You'll find someone better! Actually, forget men—you'll crush it in your career! Your café's gonna blow up. Then you can think about dating. Haha!"
Emma's pep talk lifted my spirits.
"Thanks. I'll give it my all."
After hanging up, I noticed the time: past midnight. The calendar notification glared at me.
Divorce countdown: 14 days.
Putting it all together, Rachel's desperation made sense. With our divorce looming, she'd assumed she'd waltz into my place as Jack's new wife. But now? Competition had arrived—younger, bolder, hungrier.
She was terrified.
So she flexed her "authority," pushing Jack around, probably stirring drama for weeks. Tonight's stunt? Forcing him to leave mid-dinner. She'd crossed a line and knew it.
Those photos earlier? A cheap ploy to bait me into confronting Jack—to make me look unhinged while she played the victim.
Honestly, I'd been ready to wash my hands of this mess. But if she insisted on making me sick?
Fine. Game on.
I didn't block her. Didn't delete her.
Instead, I called Jack and asked him to dinner.
He hesitated—surprise, surprise—but agreed.
I picked the hole-in-the-wall diner near campus where he'd taken me for my birthday years ago. Back then, it was all he could afford after saving up for months, even skipping meals to buy me a necklace.
Now, his sleek luxury car looked absurd parked in that grungy alley.
Across the table, the polished executive in a tailored suit briefly flickered into the earnest boy I'd loved—then vanished.
I'd chosen a street-side table on purpose. Sunlight streamed in as Jack mechanically rinsed my utensils, a relic of old habits.
He barely touched his food, complaining the flavors were "off" before flagging down the owner.
"Is your dad still in the kitchen?"
"Yep!" the owner lied smoothly.
Truth? The original chef was there—along with three others. The spicy pork wasn't his. Close, but not identical.
Jack's palate had gotten expensive.
"Of course it tastes different," I said, smiling. "You've moved on to finer things. But to me? It's exactly like before."
He set down his chopsticks. "Olivia, I'm sorry—"
"Don't. You've moved forward. I should learn from you."
A pause. Then, cautiously: "Don't you want to ask… anything?"
"Would you tell me the truth?"
Like how you screwed Rachel while my dad was in surgery?
Silence. He exhaled sharply and pivoted: "Did you need something?"
"The remaining $12 million. Sooner the better."
"Even if this was just about money, I'm glad you called." His voice softened. "I never realized… you stayed while I left. I'll transfer it. If you ever need help—"
"Thanks."
After he left, I tipped the owner extra for the white lie.
Then, I visited a PI firm.
They'd already dug up Rachel's dirt by afternoon. Fast.
The file was juicy:
Age 41. Married. 12-year-old kid.
Her husband worked at a factory in the next town over. Her most frequent contact? Her brother—who knew about Jack.
Mind. Blown.
At work, Rachel played the "divorced single mom" card. Reality? Still married.
"This legit?" I asked the investigator.
He flashed a cocky thumbs-up. "Rock-solid, ma'am. Say the word, and I'll leak it—"
"No."
I didn't want Jack knowing. Not yet.
In fact, I hoped Rachel kept hiding her husband… at least until the divorce was final.
I'd underestimated her. This wasn't some mistress angling for a ring.
This was a grift. Two years of playing the long game—only to have jackals swoop in at the finish line.
No wonder she was losing it.
I circled the calendar.
Divorce countdown: 13 days.
End of The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to The Other Woman Wasn’t Even Pretty book page.