The Truth About His Mistress
img img The Truth About His Mistress img Chapter 1
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Chapter 7 img
Chapter 8 img
Chapter 9 img
Chapter 10 img
Chapter 11 img
Chapter 12 img
Chapter 13 img
Chapter 14 img
Chapter 15 img
Chapter 16 img
Chapter 17 img
Chapter 18 img
Chapter 19 img
Chapter 20 img
Chapter 21 img
Chapter 22 img
Chapter 23 img
Chapter 24 img
Chapter 25 img
Chapter 26 img
Chapter 27 img
Chapter 28 img
Chapter 29 img
Chapter 30 img
Chapter 31 img
Chapter 32 img
Chapter 33 img
Chapter 34 img
Chapter 35 img
Chapter 36 img
Chapter 37 img
Chapter 38 img
Chapter 39 img
Chapter 40 img
Chapter 41 img
Chapter 42 img
Chapter 43 img
Chapter 44 img
Chapter 45 img
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Chapter 1

The cold dread in my stomach was a familiar feeling, one I'd dismissed too many times.

But not today.

Not after what I saw.

My hand shook as I dialed Elizabeth, my mother.

The phone barely rang twice before she answered, her voice calm, a stark contrast to the chaos inside me.

"Liv? What's wrong? You sound terrible."

"Mom," I choked out, the word a painful lump in my throat. "It's Michael."

Silence on her end, but it wasn't empty. It was the silence of knowing, of waiting.

"He's here, Mom. At this... this baby brunch I'm supposed to be photographing." My voice cracked. "With another woman. And a baby, Mom. A newborn."

The words tumbled out, a torrent of disbelief and dawning horror.

"They introduced him as the father."

I heard her sharp intake of breath.

"That bastard," Elizabeth said, her voice suddenly like ice. "I knew it. I always knew there was something off about him."

Her words, harsh as they were, were a strange comfort. Validation.

I wasn't crazy. I wasn't just hormonal and paranoid, like Michael always said.

"He told me... he told me I was imagining things," I whispered, tears finally breaking free, hot and fast. "For months, Mom."

"Listen to me, Olivia," Elizabeth's tone sharpened, cutting through my despair. "You are not imagining anything. I've had my suspicions. I'll make some calls. I'll find out exactly what's going on."

"What do I do?" I felt so lost, the floor of my world gone. My hand went to my own belly, four months pregnant with Michael's child. Our child.

"You do nothing for now except breathe," she commanded. "Stay where you are, if you can. Don't confront him again until I call you back. I'll handle this. We'll handle this."

A sliver of strength returned. My mother. My rock.

"Okay, Mom."

"And Liv," she added, her voice softening slightly, "you are strong. Stronger than he thinks. Stronger than you think right now. Remember that."

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me.

The call ended.

I looked around the opulent Beverly Hills venue, the pastel decorations suddenly sickening.

A profound betrayal. Yes, that's what this was.

And a decision began to form, cold and hard, in the pit of my stomach.

This couldn't be my life. This wouldn't be my child's life.

The impending change felt like a storm gathering just offshore.

            
            

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