From His Wife’s Replacement to The Woman He Regrets Losing

On the day my mother passed away, I wore a white dress to mourn her.

Seven-year-old Stephen Davis came rushing over, his small hands gripping a sharp pair of scissors. Before I could react, he slashed through the fabric and then dumped an entire bucket of cheap red paint over me.

"Today is my mom’s birthday! Who are you trying to curse by wearing such an unlucky color? She hated white the most!"

Like father, like son, their affections had always belonged to the same person.

A burning rash spread across my skin from the allergic reaction. As the thick paint dripped down my legs, mixing with the blood from fresh scratches, pain and itchiness twisted together into something unbearable.

Stephen sneered in satisfaction. "Don’t think that just because you married my dad, you get to be the lady of this house. That position will always belong to my mother!"

"You shameless homewrecker! Don’t even dream of me ever acknowledging your status!"

I looked at him, the child who carried my blood yet had crawled out of another woman’s womb, and suddenly, exhaustion settled deep into my bones.

So, blood ties meant nothing. Seven years of raising him couldn’t warm his heart.

"You don’t have to acknowledge me," I said, my voice calm. "Because I’m leaving."

——

The sharp scent of paint clung to my skin, stinging my nose and making my eyes water. A burning sensation spread across my face, tightening my expression in discomfort.

Stephen scoffed. "Serves you right! I hope your face rots away completely!"

"You scheming witch! Do you think that by copying my mother’s looks and making people say we resemble each other, you can take her place? Keep dreaming!"

His eyes blazed with fury as if he had suffered the greatest humiliation.

I had seen this tantrum countless times before.

Every time someone pointed out that Stephen didn’t resemble his late mother, that instead, he was starting to look more and more like me, he would explode in anger.

I used to comfort him, reassuring him that he was truly his mother’s son, that the resemblance was just a trick of familiarity from being around me for years.

But today, I didn’t have the patience.

I was exhausted.

I furrowed my brows slightly.

"Who said I had plastic surgery? You sleep with your mother's photo every night. If anyone should know whether I look like her or not, it's you."

"If you don’t believe me, go ahead and get a doctor to verify it. But are you sure you're ready to hear the truth?"

Stephen froze. For a split second, his face was blank, but then color flooded his cheeks, turning them an angry shade of red. His glare was sharp enough to cut, but he said nothing before spinning on his heel and storming off.

I let out a slow sigh and retreated to my room, where the housemaid had already prepared a bath.

The moment I stepped into the warm water, searing pain shot through my legs like fire licking at my wounds. My breath hitched, my skin burning unbearably.

I jerked back, desperate to escape the sting, but my foot slipped on the wet tiles.

A sharp gasp left my lips as I crashed to the ground, my knees slamming hard against the floor.

Pain shot through me, and within seconds, deep purple bruises bloomed across my skin.

Stephen skipped into the room, his grin dripping with mockery.

"Idiot! How does it feel to soak in a bath of salt water and chili juice? This is my filial piety to you, aren’t you touched?"

He tilted his head, eyes brimming with disdain.

"If you want to enjoy everything that rightfully belonged to my mother, then you must pay the price."

With that, he turned on his heel, not even sparing me another glance. Before leaving, he dismissed the housemaid, ensuring no one would help me up.

I lay sprawled on the floor in disgrace, my body trembling as the water around me darkened to a deep, sinister red. I could only stare, unable to utter a single word.

Back when they took my egg cells, I had bled just as much.

That egg had been fertilized with the sperm of the president of the Davis Group, turned into an IVF embryo, and implanted into Evie Cavendish, who had been born without eggs of her own.

And then, that child, who carried half my blood, was born. A boy.

His name was Stephen Davis. Stephen of the Davis family. Stephen, the son of Mrs. Davis.

Stephen, who despised me with every fiber of his being.

After cleaning myself up, I stepped out of the bathroom, only to find Carlos Davis seated on the sofa, his presence commanding as ever.

If Stephen’s features bore traces of mine, then the cold arrogance radiating from this man before me was unmistakably inherited by him.