He Chose His Mistress Over Our Dying Son

Rio Hayes stayed by my side, gently patting my back as he silently wiped away his tears. I looked up at him, struggling to fathom how he could be so insincere.

Just as my emotions threatened to overflow, Theodora Collins stepped into the room, casting a scornful glance at Amos’s lifeless body with a look of distaste. Leaning close to Rio, she murmured in German, "Darling, our son is still waiting to celebrate his birthday. Why are you here in the morgue with the departed? This is such bad luck. Let's go quickly."

Rio’s eyes darted toward me, uncomfortable, and replied, "I’ll be right there." He stood, attempting to coax me to rise with him.

I didn't move, my gaze locked on Theodora. Noticing my scrutiny, Theodora offered a brief, apologetic smile and switched to English, saying, "Ma’am, my condolences. There's a matter that needs Rio’s attention. Could we borrow him for a few hours?"

Despite her seemingly courteous words, her demeanor was unmistakably that of someone in charge.

As I watched, Rio and Theodora departed, their fingers intertwined even before leaving the morgue. Swallowing my grief, I brought Amos's body back to England.

I visited every cemetery in London, selecting a peaceful resting place for him. Situated between hills and near a river, it was about a mile from the amusement park Amos adored.

Rio knew I had returned but never reached out. Instead, he arranged for a housekeeper and had a selection of organic vegetables delivered, instructing her to prepare meals for me regularly.

But I had no appetite, visibly wasting away. Unable to console me, the housekeeper updated Rio on my condition.

I overheard the call. After listening, he merely responded with a detached "hmm" before hanging up.

On the day of Amos’s burial, I dialed his number. Theodora answered, out of breath, calling me "ma’am" and saying Rio was busy.

I chuckled—busy indeed, but with another woman. I hung up, and laid my son to rest.

The day was sunny, perfect for camping, yet my Amos lay in a cold grave. Holding his baby photos, I nearly fainted, my tears seeming endless.

Not until the sun vanished below the horizon did I return to the chilly emptiness of what was once my home. Normally, by this hour, the dinner table would be set with ravioli, pulled pork, spiced honey cake, and a steaming coffee pot, but today the house was eerily silent.

As I pondered this, Rio called. "Honey, I let the housekeeper go because her cooking didn’t meet your standards. I’m back in the country and almost home. I’ll make dinner tonight, just wait for me."

Mimicking his indifferent tone, I simply replied, "Hmm."

Rio seemed momentarily taken aback, as I had never spoken to him so coldly before. Before he could respond, I ended the call.

Barely putting my phone away, an Instagram notification popped up—a video liked by a friend. I clicked it to find a travel clip posted by Theodora, ending with a silhouette unmistakably belonging to Rio.

Her profile was a diary of sorts, documenting the everyday moments of her life with Rio and their son, Callahan. The earliest post was from seven years ago, on the very day I gave birth to Amos.

In the video, Theodora, wearing vintage-style maternity clothes, gleamed at the camera. Subsequent clips were filled with scenes of their cozy family time in the villa next to mine. Watching Rio play affectionately with another son, my heart grew colder.

With Amos, he had always been the stern father. I never knew he had such a gentle side.

Back when I invested every penny I had into his startup, to avoid hindering him, I endured the heartbreak of seven miscarriages and my health deteriorated.

After his business succeeded, he finally agreed to have a child. We spent three years trying, until eventually, IVF blessed us with Amos.

On the day Amos was born, Rio wept like a child, promising to protect and love us forever. Yet, within a year, he had impregnated Theodora, and I only now discovered the truth.

How painfully ironic.