The Mistress I Paid For

“Say something, Natalie.”

Joseph suppressed his anger.

It was ridiculous.

I was the one who should have been furious.

Just like the day I exposed his affair with Monica, after a brief moment of shock, anger had replaced his guilt.

He flew into a rage, accused me of betraying his trust, and of invading his privacy.

It was as if he were the one who had been cheated on, and I had become the woman who stayed out all night, who crawled into bed with younger men.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked as I looked up at him.

“Should I grow numb, hand you a divorce agreement, take nothing, and wait for the day you realize Monica is nothing special, then remember me during some night when you’re drunk, clutching your stomach in pain, thinking about the hangover brew I used to make for you?”

“I don’t drink,” he said calmly.

“Of course you don’t drink,” I replied.

“And I never got up in the middle of the night to make you a hangover drink.”

I forced a smile, one so strained that tears blurred my vision.

“How ridiculous.

“You don’t drink?

“I can’t even find a damn excuse for you. No drunken lapse, no moment of weakness!”

I screamed as I tore the bow tie from Joseph’s chest.

The color was deliberately chosen to match Monica’s gown.

“Joseph, I’m not the heroine from those wife-chasing novels I write. I won’t swallow my pride in silence, and I won’t kneel to pick up the used condoms you and Monica tossed aside.

“I want to ruin her. I want her parents—and everyone in their entire village—to know that this ungrateful thing slept with her sponsor’s husband!”

Only then did he snap back to his senses.

He gripped my shoulders hard.

“What did you do?”

Looking into his panicked eyes, I smiled like a madwoman.

“What did I do?

“I wanted her dead.”

Then, from outside the door, came the sharp sound of a slap, followed by a woman’s shrill curses, each word punctuated by a venomous “worthless slut.”

Joseph yanked the door open.

Monica was being beaten by her mother, her hair clutched tightly in her mother’s fist.

…

The banquet’s security guards stood frozen, stunned into silence.

By then, Monica’s mother, Marcy Martin, had straddled her, delivering slap after slap, each one landing with brutal force.

Monica’s cheeks were streaked with bright red marks, blood stained the corner of her mouth, and her carefully coordinated dress had been torn to shreds.

“What are you standing there for? Pull her away, now!” Joseph shouted, jolting the surrounding security guards into action.

Marcy was quickly restrained.

When our eyes briefly met, I gave her a slight nod.

That was enough.

Hit too lightly, and it wouldn’t satisfy my sense of justice.

Hit too hard, and it would escalate to the authorities, which I wanted to avoid.

Monica’s reputation was utterly ruined.

The title of “mistress” would forever cling to her name.

Watching her humiliated even a little eased the anger in my heart.

“You’ve gone too far, Natalie.”

Joseph wrapped Monica in his coat, intending to carry her away immediately.

“Joseph, if you walk out holding her, how are you going to explain to Frank?”

He froze, then turned to look at me.

“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

He left without another word.

Is that what I wanted to see?

To use a farce to prove that his love for Monica was genuine, while I remained the scorned woman in our marriage?

As Joseph departed, the onlookers dispersed in a murmur.

Marcy nervously wrung her hands and approached me with a fawning smile.

“About what you promised before…”

I waved weakly.

“Don’t worry. I’ll handle your son’s marital home and make the other arrangements for you.”

A smile spread across her face just as it had the first time I saw Monica.

Monica had always been bright, but her family was poor.

In her senior year of high school, her parents were planning to marry her off to some guy in the same village.

Through a recommendation from the village leader, I sponsored Monica’s studies.

I paid for her education, bought her daily necessities, listened to her talk about her family’s favoritism, and heard her dreams and hopes for the future.

She got into a prestigious university, and I accompanied her to register, buying her proper clothing and continuing to support her through college.

After graduation, I recommended her for a position in Adams Inc.’s technical department.

Yet within a month, she had transformed from a high-achieving technical employee

into my husband’s personal secretary, the kind of young, inexperienced assistant who constantly made clumsy mistakes.

I still remember, after her affair with Joseph was exposed, she came to my house, laughing and calling me “old lady”, demanding I help her change her shoes.

Only later did she cover her mouth in shock.

“I’m so sorry, Natalie… It’s been so long. I mistook you for the housekeeper.

“You should dress up properly, too. Even if you don’t go out, you’re not getting any younger. It’s not the time to go without makeup.”

She flaunted her youth as if it were a trophy.

Yet youth was the one thing she had no right to boast about, especially for someone who had no family support, someone who had been taken out of the countryside with the help of others.

She had forgotten where she came from, forgotten who had lifted her out of poverty.

So I would be the good person to remind her and, conveniently, send her back where she belonged.

It was only reasonable, wasn’t it?