The Bastard Calls Me A Mistress?

It was the thirtieth anniversary of my alma mater, and I had been invited back to give a speech.

But as I stepped on stage, my husband's illegitimate son rushed toward me, brandishing a knife. His accusations rang through the hall: I was a homewrecker, the woman who had driven his mother to her death.

He went even further, kidnapping my daughter and threatening her safety unless I publicly read a letter of confession.

I was beaten to within an inch of my life, my body battered and bruised. I demanded my husband come forward and confront the truth. Instead, he turned on me.

"I was forced to be with you in the first place!" my husband spat, venom dripping from every word. "You're the real mistress!"

I walked up to the podium, my hands trembling slightly as I gripped the microphone. The screen behind me flickered to life just as I was about to speak. But before I could utter a single word, a wave of noise swept through the audience like a storm.

I glanced out at the students, their eyes filled with disdain, judgment burning in their gazes.

One of the school leaders in the front row stood up abruptly, pointing toward the screen behind me. "Who did this?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

Unease settled in the pit of my stomach as I slowly turned to look. Where my professional résumé should have been displayed in clear text, there was instead a bold red message, each word an accusation screaming across the screen:

"I am the mistress who drove my lover's wife to her death. I deserve to die!"

Before anyone could remove the damning words, a male student leaped up from the crowd, his face twisted in fury as he pointed at me.

"It's her! This slut destroyed my family and forced my mother, the rightful wife, to her death!" he shouted, his voice shaking with emotion. "How can someone like her call herself a philanthropist?"

I recognized him instantly. He was the school's top student—the very same boy I had been sponsoring for years, helping him through financial hardships.

"Have you mistaken me for someone else?" I asked, frowning. "I've been married for many years, and my daughter is about your age. There's no way I'm involved in what you're claiming."

The boy sneered, his voice icy. "I would recognize your face anywhere, even if you turned to ashes."

"You think just because you married my father, you can erase what you did? Let me tell you something," he hissed. "A mistress will always be a mistress. You're filthy—your whole existence is dirty. A marriage certificate doesn't change that."

I took a deep breath, my expression hardening. "Do you have any evidence? Slandering someone without proof can have serious legal consequences." I reminded him firmly, hoping to rein in the madness swirling around me.

The murmurs from the crowd began to grow, a wave of whispers spreading through the auditorium like wildfire.

"That can't be true, right? Miss Cole is the vice-chairwoman of a famous company! She could have any man she wants," one student muttered in disbelief.

"I've heard she's been married to the chairman for years, and they've always been deeply in love. Why would she be a mistress to some poor guy?" another chimed in, their voice laced with skepticism.

"Exactly… And that boy, Henry Basset, is just a poor student on scholarship here. Could he be making all this up to stir trouble?" someone else suggested.

A few voices called out, demanding he leave the stage.

But the accusations only seemed to fuel Henry's rage. His face twisted in anger as he stormed forward, shoving me aside. He then used my laptop to project a series of photos onto the large screen.

"Here!" he shouted, jabbing at the images with trembling fingers. "These are my parents' wedding photos, and others of them together.

"They were childhood sweethearts," he continued, his voice thick with emotion. "They got married right after they graduated and had me. They were the envy of everyone…"

Then, with a furious gesture, he pointed directly at me.

"But now, because of you—because of you, everything is ruined!"

I stared at the screen, my breath catching in my throat.

The man in the photos was unmistakable. It was my husband, Charles Basset.

But the woman standing beside him, the bride—she wasn't me. She was a stranger. A woman I had never seen before, but her face bore a striking resemblance to Henry.

My heart raced as I looked closer. The dates on the photos… most of them were taken after Charles and I had already been together.

The revelation hit me like a punch to the gut. Was Henry really Charles's illegitimate son?

Had I been deceived for years by a man who was living a double life, playing me for a fool all this time?

The bile rose in my throat, nausea creeping over me as the weight of the truth pressed down hard.

And still, Henry's accusations continued, his words cutting through the air like knives.

"You seduced my father while my mother was pregnant! You used her life and mine as leverage, threatening him that if he didn't leave her and marry you, both she and I would die!

"My father had no choice but to give in.

"And after he left, my mother was left alone to raise me. She was miserable—haunted by what happened. A few months ago, she couldn't take the pain anymore…" His voice broke, but he pressed on, each word dripping with bitterness.

"She jumped to her death.

"And you—you are the murderer!"