The Alleged Mistress’s Comeback

The moment the child hit the ground, I stood frozen, my mind a blur.

As reality hit me, I stumbled through the chaos, my body drenched in blood, trembling as I crawled toward my child. My heart felt as if it were being squeezed tightly, the pain so intense that I could hardly breathe.

Shaking, I gingerly lifted him into my arms, but the cries I had just heard were replaced by an unsettling silence.

Looking down at his ashen, bluish face, despair washed over me. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Desperate, I tried to push myself up and run for a doctor, but my legs felt like jelly, and I fell repeatedly without gaining my footing.

I collapsed to the ground, cradling him close, my palm gently patting his tiny body in a futile attempt to comfort him.

Before he was born, I had imagined countless nights wrapped around him as he slept.

Throughout my pregnancy, I had braved stormy weather to attend infant care classes, learning how to burp him after feeding, how to hold him so he would sleep soundly, and even studying infant gas exercises.

My parents, thrilled about his arrival, had built a three-story villa just for us, complete with a team of over a dozen servants, a nanny, a nutritionist, and even a preschool teacher lined up for him.

My father had started planning a grand celebration for his one-month milestone last month. That night, bursting with excitement, he called friends abroad and had his secretary reach out to friends back home, proudly announcing the good news of becoming a grandfather.

The invitation's cover featured a beautifully crafted layout of Oliver's and my names, with the inside content handwritten by us.

Even though Oliver had been swamped with work and rarely home this past year, he made sure to video call me every day, keeping tabs on the baby's growth. Whenever he spotted a cute outfit, he'd buy it right away and store it in the nursery, waiting for the day our child could wear it.

How could he, the embodiment of all our love, just be gone like this?

I lifted my gaze to the mockingly smirking fake heiress. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up from the ground, but before I could regain my balance, a woman next to me landed a punch, sending me sprawling back down.

She raised her phone, shoving the screen close to my face, her voice dripping with mockery. "Look, everyone. This is what happens to mistresses!"

The screen was flooded with fast-scrolling comments, and yet I caught glimpses of the vile insults directed at me.

They said I deserved to lose my child.

They lamented missing the moment when the fake heiress had caused my child's death.

They added that I, a mistress like me, should rot in hell with my baby, for it was important to eliminate the problem at its source.

I fixed my gaze on the usernames, forcing myself to remember each of these scoundrels.

One day, I would settle the score with each of them, one by one.

The fake heiress laughed triumphantly, pressing her stiletto heel hard against my hand and looking down at me with contempt. "Karen? You steal my man, and I'll make sure you never find peace."

Staring at the sharp heel digging into my palm, I felt no pain.

Instead, I tilted my head back, facing everyone in front of me, laughing maniacally, "I won't forget any of you. Everything you've done today will be paid back in blood!"

The fake heiress laughed arrogantly. "I'll be waiting. Just don't be surprised if you meet your son first. Come on. Let's get out of here."

As I glared at their retreating figures, struggling to rise again, the fake heiress suddenly spoke, "Oliver, what are you doing here?"