My Husband and Son Chose His Mistress Over Me

"Walker Group stock just plummeted twenty-two percent."

Lucas tossed a silver tablet onto my lap, the heavy metal smacking against my thighs.

I flinched, pulling myself up against the stiff hospital pillows. I stared at the glowing screen.

"Look at it, Charlotte," Lucas commanded. He stood at the foot of my bed, checking his gold wristwatch. "Look at what your husband has been doing while you played the obedient housewife."

I picked up the device. A high-definition video played on a loop at the top of a major entertainment news site. Ethan walking into the lobby of the Four Seasons. Olivia pressed against his side, laughing into his shoulder.

"That was taken last month," Lucas said, pacing the narrow room. "The media got everything. Hotel logs. Resort receipts. Dinner reservations at Le Bernardin. The entire country knows Olivia lives in your house."

"Who leaked this?" I asked, my voice raspy.

"I bought the files from a private investigator Ethan paid off a year ago," Lucas replied, adjusting his cuffs. "I released them to every major outlet at six this morning."

I swiped down the page. Thousands of comments flooded the article. People calling Ethan a cheater. People calling Olivia a parasite. And mixed in between the outrage, questions about the invisible wife.

"He let her wear my jewelry," I whispered, zooming in on a photo from a gala. "That diamond choker. Ethan told me he lost it during our move."

"He didn't lose it," Lucas snapped. "He gave it to his mistress."

"She isn't just his mistress," I argued, my chest tightening. "She wants my entire life. She wants my son."

"She can have the cheating husband," Lucas said coldly. "But she will never touch a Sinclair heir. We will deal with Noah later. Right now, your husband is panicking."

Lucas pulled his phone from his pocket, reading a text. "His board of directors is tearing him apart on an emergency conference call right now. They want to know why his secret romance is tanking their shares."

A sharp knock hit the door. One of Lucas's private security guards stepped into the room.

"Mr. Sinclair," the guard said, his voice flat. "Ethan Walker just arrived downstairs. He is at the front desk demanding to see his wife."

My stomach clamped. A phantom pain ripped through my empty womb, radiating down my spine.

"He finally figured out you weren't at the manor," Lucas sneered. He turned to the guard. "Have security throw him out."

"Wait," I interrupted, gripping the edge of the mattress.

Lucas shot me a sharp glare. "Do not tell me you want to speak to him."

"I don't," I said, forcing the words through a tight throat. "Tell the head nurse to give him one message."

The guard nodded, waiting for my instruction.

"Tell him I am gone," I stated, locking eyes with my brother. "And tell him that from today forward, I will never step foot in the Walker house again."

"Understood," the guard said, slipping out of the room.

Lucas walked over and yanked the IV pole closer to the bed. "Get up. We are leaving before he finds a way up here."

Two nurses entered, removing my IV and helping me into a wheelchair. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through my lower abdomen. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from crying out.

We bypassed the main lobby entirely, rolling through the sterile basement corridors toward the loading dock. A black SUV waited with the engine running.

Three hours later, the hum of the private jet engines vibrated beneath my leather seat. I stared out the oval window at the shrinking city below. Seven years of my life, gone. A marriage built on lies. A child I would never get to hold.

"Drink this," Lucas ordered, pressing a warm porcelain cup of broth into my hands. "You look like a corpse."

"Thank you," I muttered. I took a small sip. The liquid tasted like ash.

"My team just sent an update," Lucas noted, reading off his screen. "Ethan tried to breach the VIP wing. Hospital security detained him."

"Did he get my message?" I asked, staring into the dark broth.

"The nurse delivered your exact words," Lucas confirmed. "He shattered a glass vase in the lobby and threatened to sue the hospital for kidnapping."

"Kidnapping," I repeated, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "He leaves me bleeding on the floor, ignores me for two days, and now he claims I was kidnapped."

"He still thinks he owns you," Lucas said, taking the cup from my trembling hands.

"He thinks he owns Charlotte Walker," I corrected, staring out at the clouds. "He has no idea who Charlotte Sinclair is."

The rest of the flight passed in heavy silence.

The tires hit the private runway with a sharp screech, throwing me forward against my seatbelt.

A fleet of cars waited on the tarmac. We transferred into the back of a stretched sedan, driving through the iron gates of the Sinclair estate. The mile-long driveway, flanked by ancient oak trees, stretched out before us.

The car stopped before the massive stone steps of my childhood home.

"Ready?" Lucas asked, opening my door.

I nodded. I let him help me out, my legs trembling under my own weight.

The massive oak doors stood wide open. Dozens of family members and staff lined the grand foyer. My Aunt Beatrice stood near the front, clutching a silk handkerchief. My cousin Julian stood beside her, his arms crossed, his expression grim.

"Charlotte," Aunt Beatrice gasped, stepping forward. "Look at you."

"Give her space, Beatrice," Julian warned, pulling his mother back by her elbow.

I ignored them both, my eyes fixed on the man standing at the center of the entrance.

Richard Sinclair.

My father leaned heavily on his silver-handled cane. His gray hair was thinner than I remembered. He wore a charcoal suit, every button perfectly fastened, his posture rigid and commanding.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps. The crisp autumn air bit at my exposed arms.

He didn't rush forward. He didn't offer open arms.

His sharp gaze swept over my frame, cataloging every detail of my ruin. He stared at my hollow cheeks. He tracked the dark purple bruise blooming across my left jaw. His eyes finally dropped to my wrists, lingering on the raw friction burns where Ethan had grabbed me.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. No one in the courtyard dared to speak.

His knuckles turned stark white around the head of his cane. A deep, unnatural red flooded his eyes. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched near his ear.

He finally realized what I had endured for the past seven years. The poverty. The submission. The abuse.

"Dad," I whispered, my voice breaking the heavy quiet. "I'm home."

He didn't say a single word of comfort. He didn't tell me everything would be alright.

Instead, Richard Sinclair turned his back to me and faced his chief of staff.

"Call the board of directors," my father ordered, his voice echoing like a gunshot across the quiet driveway. "We dismantle the Walker Group by midnight."