Wife's Revenge After Betrayal

During the holiday season, my husband had cleared his schedule, planning to take me on a vacation. Just as we were about to board the plane, he received unexpected news that his mother was unwell.

“Honey, I'm really sorry. My mom's unexpectedly not feeling well, and I need to check on her. I can't join you this time,” he said.

Although a bit disappointed, I understood the importance of his mother's health and agreed. After he left, I tore up my plane ticket. I wanted to see how my mother-in-law, who had passed away three months ago, was supposedly doing.

I discreetly followed him back to our house and didn’t rush out of the car. I opened my phone and was stunned to see our maid’s daughter flaunting on Instagram from inside our home.

“Your generous love is the best birthday gift I had at 21!” she posted, wearing a white Victorian-style dress, leaning against a man. That man was, of course, my supposedly devoted husband.

With determination, I marched inside. As soon as I stepped into the foyer, I saw about a dozen guests in the grand living room, which was decorated with balloons. They were chanting:

“Kiss! Kiss!”

By the time I entered, Patrick had pulled Amyra into a passionate French kiss amid the excited cheers. He finally noticed me standing at the entrance, his eyes widening in shock. Instinctively, he tried to push Amyra away, but I was faster, landing two swift slaps across his face.

The room fell into stunned silence. Amyra turned, spotted me, and screamed, clutching Patrick’s arm and hiding behind him. I looked at him with a mocking smile.

“When did you get yourself a new mom?” I asked.

Patrick's eyes darted around in panic, trying to explain, but then a girl with a bob cut confronted me.

“Who are you to storm into someone's house and start hitting people? Are you crazy? Apologize to Amyra’s boyfriend right now!”

Her remark encouraged others to chime in:

“You can’t just hit people! There’s the law, you know. An apology isn’t enough—someone should call the cops!”

“I agree. We should have the police look into her. If she’s hitting people now, who knows what she’ll do next?”

“A perfectly good birthday party spoiled by some lunatic. Do you even know who you're hitting?”

I smiled slightly at them before turning back to Patrick. “Do you also think I shouldn't have slapped you?”

Patrick licked his lips, starting to speak when Amyra tugged on his sleeve, shaking her head. I watched their little interaction with amusement, waiting for their next move.

Patrick glared at me angrily. “Reagan, what nonsense are you spouting now? It’s Amyra’s birthday. If you have something to say, save it for later. Don’t embarrass yourself here and ruin Amyra’s day. Get out now!”

He was clearly worried about his mistress losing face in front of her friends. I smirked, giving him a casual look.

“Patrick, are you telling me to leave, or are you afraid your little secrets will come out?”

The next moment, Amyra began to sob softly. “Reagan, I know you’ve always had a crush on Patrick, and seeing us together makes you upset. But love is a two-way street. Patrick loves me. We’ve been together for two years. He promised to marry me once I graduate. Please stop clinging to him.”

Patrick hadn’t expected her to say that and glanced at me with a guilty expression.

Amyra’s words left me stunned. Patrick and I had been married for just over two years. That meant he’d been cheating a month into our marriage, bringing Amyra and her mother into my home under the guise of hiring a maid. They had deceived me for a full two years.

The girl with the bob cut spoke again. “I get it now. You’re the maid who has a crush on Amyra’s boyfriend. I didn’t expect you to be so shameless, trying to steal someone else’s boyfriend in public.”

I found the label of “maid” ridiculous and laughed. “Amyra, are you still dreaming? What makes you think you’re worthy of having me as your maid?”

No sooner had I finished speaking than a drink was thrown in my face. The girl holding the glass looked at me smugly. “The one who needs a reality check is you. Everyone knows who Amyra is, and her mom is a successful businesswoman. Her boyfriend runs a company. This whole mansion is hers. And you…look at those clothes. Not even a brand name. You’re only fit for menial work.”

Rags? My clothes were unbranded because they were custom-designed by a master tailor. Other girls chimed in, defending Amyra, “Exactly! Apologize to Amyra, or you’ll lose your job!”

Then a guy added, his tone arrogant, “Lady, you should know your age. Competing with Amyra for a man? If you’re so desperate, I could help. I haven’t tried a woman over thirty before. How about two hundred for a night?”

His comment made others laugh. I wiped the drink from my face, glaring at Patrick. “Patrick, I’m your wife, and you just stand by while they insult me for your mistress? I warn you, you'll regret this!”

Patrick looked at me coldly. “Amyra is my girlfriend. You brought this on yourself.”

With so many backing her and Patrick siding with her, Amyra stood tall and spoke with confidence. “Reagan, I call you ‘sis’ out of respect for your age, but don’t forget your place. Throw tantrums all you want, but today, in front of everyone, you slapped Patrick. He’s the CEO of a company. Did you ever think about how you made him feel?”

Then, softening her voice, she turned to Patrick. “Patrick, I may be young, but I know how to support my man and respect you in public, unlike Reagan…”

Her insinuations were clear, aiming straight at Patrick’s fragile pride. I chuckled. “You’ve reminded me. I forgot to slap you.”

In a flash, I grabbed her hair and landed two firm slaps on her pale cheek. Amyra screamed and began to cry.

“Reagan, how dare you hit me! I won’t forgive you!”

“Are you going to bark again?”

I raised my hand to slap her again, but Patrick caught my wrist, pushing me hard. His force was strong, making me topple over a champagne tower, crashing to the floor with shards of glass in my hand.

Patrick ignored me, holding Amyra protectively, and scolded, “Reagan, apologize to Amyra!”

I looked at my bloodied palm, gritting my teeth to bear the pain, and slowly began picking out the glass shards.