Neglected Wife, Dying Vengeance

For seven years, I was the perfect wife to a man who saw me as the hired help, and a mother to a son he treated like a stranger.

On our son's fifth birthday, my husband came home with another woman's child.

He smiled a smile I hadn't seen in years and introduced me.

"This is Chelsey," he said. "She's the housekeeper."

Soon after, I was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. My own family's reaction was to demand I divorce my husband so he could marry his true love and secure their business merger.

All while their new perfect family tormented my son, bullying him at school until he lost his voice.

The final straw came when my husband slapped our son across the face in public for refusing to give his new stepbrother a toy.

In that moment, I realized my marriage wasn't a shield for my son; it was the weapon being used against him.

With only days to live, I kissed my son goodbye and walked to my husband's penthouse. My final act of revenge would be to die on his pristine white sofa. Let him be the one to clean up the mess.

Chapter 1

Chelsey Blackwell POV:

Seven years of marriage. Five years with my son. Both milestones fell on the same day, a date circled in red on the calendar that felt more like a warning than a celebration.

I smoothed the tablecloth, the fabric cool beneath my fingertips. The dinosaur-themed plates were perfectly aligned, the matching napkins folded into little green triangles. Everything was ready for Bonnie' s fifth birthday party.

"Just... be home on time tonight, Kevan," I had said that morning, my voice small as he adjusted his tie in the hall mirror. His reflection was all sharp lines and cold ambition.

I rarely asked for anything. Our seventh wedding anniversary was a ghost in the room, a thing I no longer bothered to mention. It had been years since he' d acknowledged it with anything more than a passing grunt. Today, all that mattered was Bonnie.

Kevan had simply nodded, his eyes fixed on his own image, not mine. He didn't promise. He never did.

And now, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked past six, then seven. Each tick was a small, sharp jab against my ribs. The balloons, once buoyant and cheerful, seemed to sag in the dimming light.

I called his phone. It went straight to voicemail. I sent a text. No reply.

A familiar ache started in my chest, a heavy, cold weight that had become a permanent resident in my body. I knew why he was doing this. He resented me. He resented this marriage, a union his wealthy, elitist family had only sanctioned because his true love, Angelique Small, had left him for another man.

I was the consolation prize, the woman with a humble background chosen to fill a void until the "real" queen returned. I had accepted my role, playing the part of the dutiful wife, the devoted mother, all for the sake of my son.

The biggest mistake I ever made was believing my love could change him. My second biggest mistake was bringing our son, Bonnie, into this loveless world.

Kevan' s cruelty was a quiet, suffocating thing, but his indifference to his own son was a blade that twisted in me daily. He saw Bonnie not as his child, but as an anchor, a living symbol of his second-best life.

Bonnie was the only innocent one here. He deserved a father who looked at him with love, not with the faint, ever-present shadow of disappointment.

"Mommy, is Daddy coming home soon?" Bonnie' s small voice pulled me from my thoughts. He stood by the window, his little nose pressed against the cool glass, his breath fogging a small circle. His stomach rumbled audibly. He' d been so excited he' d barely eaten all day.

"Of course, sweetie," I lied, my heart cracking. "He' s just stuck in traffic. Why don' t we go ahead and cut your cake? You can make a wish."

I couldn' t let Kevan ruin this for him. Not today.

I lit the five small candles, their flames dancing in Bonnie' s wide, hopeful eyes. He clapped his hands together, took a deep breath, and blew. As the last flame flickered out, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway split the quiet.

The front door opened.

"Daddy!" Bonnie shrieked with pure, unadulterated joy. He scrambled off his chair and shot toward the hallway like a little rocket.

My own heart gave a traitorous leap of hope. He came. He actually came.

But my hope dissolved into ice as Kevan stepped into the living room. He wasn' t alone. A small, unfamiliar boy stood beside him, clutching his hand.

The boy looked to be about Bonnie' s age, dressed in an impeccably tailored miniature suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He had sharp, intelligent eyes and a disdainful little pout, like a tiny king surveying a peasant' s hovel.

My eyes met the boy' s. He sized me up with a chillingly adult gaze, his eyes sweeping over my simple dress before landing on my face with open curiosity.

"Daddy Kevan," the boy' s voice was crisp and clear, "who is this woman?"

My breath hitched. Daddy Kevan? A tidal wave of nausea and confusion crashed over me. Was this his son? Another son? The thought was a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

Before I could process the question, Kevan smiled down at the boy, a warm, genuine smile I hadn' t seen directed at me or Bonnie in years.

"Aspen," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "this is Chelsey. She' s the housekeeper."

The word hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Housekeeper.

My entire world went silent. The ticking clock, the hum of the refrigerator, even the frantic beating of my own heart-it all faded into a dull, roaring static. I felt like I was underwater, watching the scene unfold through a thick wall of glass.

Seven years. Seven years of marriage, of sacrifice, of loving a man who saw me as nothing more than the hired help. It was a joke. A cruel, seven-year-long punchline.

A wave of despair so profound it felt like drowning washed over me. My knees felt weak, my hands numb.

"Mommy?" Bonnie' s small hand slipped into mine, his touch grounding me. He looked up at me, his face a canvas of confusion and fear, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

I squeezed his hand, my grip the only thing keeping me upright. I remembered the day Bonnie was born. Kevan had held him for less than a minute before handing him back to the nurse, his expression unreadable. I' d poured every ounce of my love, my life, into this child, trying to build a shield around his heart to protect him from his own father' s coldness.

Now I understood. Kevan was capable of love. He was capable of being a doting father. Just not to our son. It was a choice. A deliberate, cruel choice.

A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up from my throat. Fine. If I was the housekeeper, then I should be paid.

I straightened my spine, looked Kevan dead in the eye, and held out my hand. "In that case, Mr. Richard, you owe me my salary."

Kevan blinked, his polished composure finally cracking. "What are you talking about?"

"My salary," I repeated, my voice dangerously calm. "For being your housekeeper for the past seven years. And an additional fee for my nanny services for the past five. I believe my work has been exemplary, don' t you?"

He stared at my outstretched palm as if it were a venomous snake. Then, a dark amusement flickered in his eyes. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slapped them into my hand. "There. Ten thousand. Is that enough for you?"

Ten thousand dollars. That' s what seven years of my life, my love, my devotion were worth to him. The bills felt like ash in my hand.

"Fire her, Daddy Kevan!" the little boy, Aspen, piped up, tugging on Kevan' s sleeve. "I don' t like her. She looks at me funny."

My head snapped toward the child. "This is my house. If anyone is leaving, it' s you."

"Chelsey!" Kevan' s voice was a whip crack. He shielded Aspen behind him as if I were some kind of monster. "Don' t you dare speak to him that way!"

Something inside me, something that had been dormant for seven long years, finally broke free. "I hate you, Kevan," I whispered, the words tasting like poison and freedom on my tongue. "But God help me, I love my son more. And I will not let you or this... this interloper, hurt him."

Aspen' s lower lip began to tremble. "She called me an interloper! Daddy, I' m not an interloper! Make her leave! I want her to leave right now!"

"This is my home!" I roared, my voice shaking with a fury I didn' t know I possessed. "Mine and Bonnie' s! You want me to leave? You' re going to have to drag my dead body out of here first. Now get out!"

Chelsey Blackwell POV:

Kevan stared at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fury. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but the raw, unhinged look in my eyes must have given him pause. He simply scooped Aspen into his arms, turned on his heel, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. The party decorations looked garish and mocking now.

"Mommy," Bonnie whispered, his voice trembling. "Are you okay?"

I knelt and pulled him into a tight hug, burying my face in his soft hair. "I' m fine, sweetie. Let' s have some cake."

We sat at the table, the giant chocolate cake between us looking obscene in its cheerfulness. Bonnie picked at his slice, his earlier excitement completely gone.

"Mommy," he said quietly, not looking at me. "Does... does Daddy not like me?"

The question was a direct hit to my heart. I forced a bright smile. "Of course he likes you, honey. He loves you very much. He' s just... very busy and stressed out from work."

The lie felt like acid on my tongue.

Bonnie pushed a piece of cake around his plate. "He never hugs me like he hugged that other boy."

He didn' t need to say more. I knew exactly what he meant. Kevan' s affection was a currency he only spent on others. For his own son, his pockets were always empty.

What kind of father despises his own child? A man who sees that child as the living embodiment of his own failure. A man who blames an innocent five-year-old for his own loveless marriage.

Tears I didn' t know I was holding back began to stream down my face. I cried for my son, for his wounded heart. I cried for myself, for the seven years I had wasted trying to earn the love of a stone statue.

A tiny hand touched my cheek, wiping away a tear. "Don' t cry, Mommy. It' s my birthday. You should be happy."

My son, my sweet, sensitive boy, was comforting me on his own ruined birthday. The thought sent a fresh wave of grief through me.

Just as I managed to pull myself together, the front door opened again. It was Kevan, alone this time. His face was a thundercloud.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice clipped.

"About what?" I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "About my salary? Or about my upcoming performance review as your housekeeper?"

He ignored my jab, his jaw tight. "About Aspen. His name is Aspen Hood. He' s Angelique' s son."

Angelique. The name hit me like a physical blow. His one true love. The woman he' d never gotten over. So the little boy was hers. It all made a sick, twisted kind of sense now.

"Aspen' s father passed away a few years ago," Kevan continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "Angelique has been raising him alone. He' s... had some psychological issues since his father' s death. He saw a picture of me and for some reason, he started calling me 'Daddy.' His therapist said it would be good for his recovery to let him... play the part for a while."

He was explaining, justifying. But all I could hear was the unspoken truth: I am doing this for Angelique. I am playing father to her son because I still love her.

I held up a hand, cutting him off. "Kevan, what day is it today?"

He frowned, confused by the change of subject. "It' s October 28th. What does that have to do with anything?"

"It' s Bonnie' s fifth birthday," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "Do you even know what his favorite color is? Do you know he' s allergic to peanuts? Do you know he' s afraid of the dark and needs a nightlight? Do you know anything about your own son at all?"

I was screaming now, a torrent of seven years of repressed anger and pain pouring out of me. "You haven' t been to a single parent-teacher conference! You missed his first steps! You weren' t there when he had a fever of 104 and I had to rush him to the emergency room alone! Where were you, Kevan? Were you playing daddy to someone else' s child then, too?"

It was the first time in our entire marriage that I had raised my voice to him. The first time I had ever lost my temper.

He looked genuinely stunned, as if a piece of furniture had suddenly started shouting at him.

He cleared his throat, his gaze flicking to Bonnie, who was watching us with wide, terrified eyes. "Bonnie, I... I' m sorry. Daddy' s sorry."

"It' s okay, Daddy," Bonnie mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. "Please don' t fight with Mommy."

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain control. "Fine. Let' s just... let' s finish the cake."

We sat in a tense, miserable silence. Just as I was about to suggest we open presents, a small figure appeared in the doorway. It was Aspen.

"Daddy Kevan," he whined, clutching his stomach. "My tummy hurts."

Instantly, Kevan was on his feet, his face etched with concern. "What' s wrong? Do you feel sick?" He knelt, pressing a hand to Aspen' s forehead.

Aspen leaned into him, but his eyes met mine over Kevan' s shoulder. There was a glint of triumph in them, a malicious little smirk that sent a chill down my spine. He wasn' t sick. This was a game.

He was a perfect miniature of his mother, Angelique-beautiful, manipulative, and an expert at getting what she wanted.

I had to fight back. I couldn't let them win.

"Kevan," I said, my voice steady. "Stay. It' s your son' s birthday. Stay and open his presents with him."

He barely glanced at me, his attention fully on Aspen. He scooped the boy into his arms. "I can' t. He' s not feeling well. I have to take him home." His voice was laced with an icy fury, as if I were the most unreasonable person in the world for asking him to be a father to his own child for five minutes.

"Please," I begged, my pride crumbling.

He turned, his face a mask of cold dismissal. "Get out of my way, Chelsey."

He pushed past me without a second glance. I stood there, frozen, as the front door closed, plunging the room back into silence.

My son' s birthday. Our seventh anniversary. And I had just begged my husband to stay, only to be shoved aside for another woman' s child.

The bitter taste of despair filled my mouth. I was a fool. A complete and utter fool.

I turned back to the table and forced a smile for my son. "Well, more presents for us, right sweetie?" I said, my voice cracking on the last word.

Chelsey Blackwell POV:

Kevan didn' t come home that night. Or the next. I wasn' t surprised. This was his pattern. After any conflict, he would disappear for days, sometimes weeks, leaving me in a limbo of silence and uncertainty.

On the third day, I took Bonnie to school and returned home to find Kevan in the kitchen. He was standing at the stove, carefully flipping a pancake. Not for me, or for Bonnie. For Aspen, who was sitting at the dining table, a proprietary air about him, as if he owned the place.

The sight was a punch to the gut. In seven years of marriage, Kevan had never once cooked for me. Not even a piece of toast. But here he was, playing the perfect domestic father for another woman' s son in my kitchen.

My chest constricted, a familiar pain that was both emotional and physical. I had to get out of there before Bonnie came home from his half-day of kindergarten and saw this. The thought of my son witnessing this casual, loving scene between his father and another boy was unbearable.

"Oh, you' re back," Aspen said, his voice dripping with disdain. He wrinkled his nose. "Daddy Kevan, why does she live here? I don' t like her."

Kevan placed a perfectly golden-brown pancake on Aspen' s plate and ruffled his hair. "Be nice, Aspen. She' s just the help." He didn't even look at me.

"One day, you' ll have a son just like him," I said, my voice tight. "And I hope he treats you with the exact same measure of contempt you show me and your own child."

Kevan' s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "What did you say?"

"You heard me," I said, standing my ground.

He took a menacing step toward me, but I didn' t flinch. He glared at me for a long moment before turning his back, dismissing me completely.

I left the house, my hands shaking. I drove aimlessly for a while before remembering my appointment. I needed to pick up the results of my recent physical.

At the hospital, the doctor, a kind-faced man in his fifties, sat me down in his office. His expression was grim.

"Mrs. Richard," he began, his voice gentle. "I' m afraid I have some bad news. Your bloodwork came back with some... concerning results. We' ve diagnosed you with acute myeloid leukemia."

The words didn' t register at first. Leukemia. It was a word from a television show, not from my life.

"It' s in the advanced stages," he continued softly. "We need to admit you immediately and start an aggressive course of chemotherapy."

My first thought, my only thought, was of Bonnie. What would happen to my son?

My body started to tremble uncontrollably. A low, keening sound escaped my lips, a sound of pure, animal grief.

"I need to go," I mumbled, stumbling to my feet. Just as I reached the door, my phone rang. It was Bonnie' s school.

"Mrs. Richard? It' s the school nurse. Bonnie has a fever. You need to come pick him up."

The world tilted on its axis. I was dying, and my son was sick.

I rushed to the school, my mind a whirlwind of terror and despair. Bonnie was waiting for me in the nurse' s office, his face flushed and his eyes glassy.

"Mommy," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I don' t feel so good."

"It' s okay, baby," I croaked, scooping him into my arms. "Mommy' s got you."

He felt so small and fragile against my chest. Every step to the car was an agony. A sharp, stabbing pain had started in my lower back, a symptom the doctor had warned me about.

I got him home and tucked him into bed. I' d raised him to be independent, to not be a burden. Now I regretted it. I wanted him to be demanding, to need me desperately, to give me a reason to fight this disease.

When I walked back into the living room, Kevan was there, playing a video game with Aspen. They didn' t even look up as I walked past them with our sick child. My heart, which I thought couldn' t break any further, splintered into a thousand more pieces.

It was in that moment that I hated him more than I had ever hated anyone in my life. I hated him for his cruelty, for his indifference. I hated him for bringing a child into this world only to discard him. And I hated myself for ever loving him.

My life was a ticking clock, and I would spend every last second I had making sure my son was loved and cared for, even if it meant fighting a war I was destined to lose.

I made Bonnie some soup, but we were out of the crackers he liked. I had to go to the store.

"Kevan," I said, my voice flat. "I' m going to the store. Bonnie is in his room. He has a fever. Just... check on him."

He grunted in response, his eyes glued to the screen.

When I returned twenty minutes later, I walked into a nightmare. Bonnie was standing in the middle of the living room, his face smeared with thick, red lipstick. Aspen stood behind him, the offending tube in his hand, giggling.

"What did you do to him?" I screamed, dropping the grocery bags.

Aspen' s face crumpled. "I was just playing! We were playing clowns!" he wailed.

Kevan immediately jumped up and rushed to Aspen' s side, comforting him. "It' s okay, Aspen. It was just a game." He glared at me. "Look what you did. You scared him."

"He humiliated our son!" I shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at Bonnie, who was now crying silently. "And you did nothing! You were supposed to be watching him!"

"Don' t be so dramatic, Chelsey," Kevan sneered. "It' s just lipstick. You' re insane." He picked up a crying Aspen and carried him away. "You' re a monster. A crazy, jealous monster."

The words echoed in the silent room. Monster.

I looked at my son' s tear-streaked, lipstick-smeared face. "He' s right," I whispered to the empty room. "I am a monster. Because I' m going to die and leave my baby all alone in this world."

And Kevan, the man who was supposed to be his father, just stood there, comforting the child who had hurt him.