Who Is My Husband's Mistress?

Malachi returned the next day.

The moment he walked in, he strode to my side, his voice thick with concern.

“Freya, are you feeling any better? The doctor said you’re grieving too much and need to rest.”

As he spoke, he set down several exquisite boxes. Inside were my favorite antique jewelry pieces, including a diamond-encrusted brooch.

“You gave this a second look at the auction, didn’t you? I remembered, so I went to get it for you today.”

For a moment, my heart fluttered.

He was still the same Malachi—meticulous, remembering all my preferences, placing me at the center of his world.

After dinner, he mixed my favorite cocktail and gently reminded me to put my duties aside and get some rest.

But my insides were in turmoil.

That night, while he was in the shower, he left his backup tablet—used exclusively for internal family communications—on his study desk.

I stared at the tablet, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst from my chest.

Finally, my hand reached out and picked it up.

The password was still our anniversary.

The screen lit up, the wallpaper a photo from our coronation. I was leaning against him, laughing with wild abandon, while he looked down at me, his gaze so tender it could melt steel.

My hand shook as I opened his encrypted contacts. I scrolled, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Nothing. No flirty messages. No secrets. Every conversation was as clean as the Patek Philippe on his wrist.

Banks, trusts, even offshore accounts—all filled with surprises he had prepared for me.

The suspicion in my heart had almost vanished.

Until I opened an app disguised as a stock market tracker.

In the message list, one chat stood out: 【No_More_Olives】.

I clicked on it. Inside were dense chat logs.

“Malachi, I miss you.”

“You’re so bad. Your kiss is still on my collarbone, like a scorching brand.”

The words on the screen stabbed at my eyes, one by one.

What shocked me more was that Malachi, a man of few words and cold as ice to outsiders, was uncharacteristically patient with her.

“Silly girl, are you still lazing in bed?”

“Be good and use the cream. I’ll be gentler next time.”

“How about I make it up to you? I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Every word, every sentence, was steeped in affection, as if he were coaxing a naive little girl.

My fingers froze on the screen, a suffocating pain churning in my chest.

I then opened the private photo album for 【No_More_Olives】.

All her posts were glimpses of daily life, but they were filled with traces of their intimacy.

A blurry photo of a man from behind, his shoulders broad and familiar, the family crest on his cufflink identical to Malachi’s.

A short, late-night video showing two place settings on a table, captioned: “Thanks to my hero for the late-night supper.”

And the latest post: a long, powerful hand, fastening a watch onto a woman's wrist.

The caption read:

【Meeting you is the greatest luck of my life.】

I held the tablet, my palms slick with cold sweat.

This was the Malachi Gallo they called the ‘perfect Don’? The man whose iron fist and cold demeanor were legendary? All of that restraint, all of that care he reserved only for me—it was all here, poured out like cheap wine for this other woman.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest, as if a fresh wound had been ripped open.

I swiped to the next photo. It was the receipt for the watch.

Patek Philippe, three hundred thousand dollars.

Below it, in small print, was a line about the complimentary gift: a pair of solid gold cufflinks.

I clapped a hand over my mouth, a choked sob escaping as tears streamed down my face.

They were the same ones Malachi had given me today.