Humiliated As My Husband’s Mistress, Though I'm His Wife

My husband and I were driving home when a woman, dressed provocatively, suddenly appeared in front of our car, making us stop.

She slammed her fist against the window, demanding, "Get the fuck out, you bitch!"

I was still trying to process what was happening, confusion swirling in my mind, when I saw my husband, Tristan McAllister, get out of the car.

He walked over to the woman and wrapped his arms around her, attempting to calm her down.

"Shirley, please don't make a scene," he said, his voice full of apology. "I didn't ignore your calls on purpose. I was just really busy with the family dinner today."

My heart tightened.

I opened the car door, ready to step out and confront them, but just before I could move, Tristan reached over, using his free hand to push me back into the passenger seat.

"Don't come out! Don't scare her!" His voice was filled with urgency.

At that moment, Shirley Reynolds pointed a trembling finger at me, her face twisted with fury. "You slut, do you think Tristan belongs to you alone? Stop hogging him! If you don't let him answer my calls next time, I'll tear your face off!"

Here I was, the legal wife, stuck in the passenger seat like some mistress, forced to hide away.

It was like being struck by lightning.

After going through a tough labor that left me paralyzed and spending three years abroad for treatment, I was starting to recover when this woman—this mistress—came out into the open to confront me.

Tristan, as if trying to comfort his grandmother, left me and the car behind on the side of the road. He scooped his mistress up in his arms and walked away with her.

I had just gathered all the details about Shirley when her call came in.

"Don't think you can threaten Tristan with divorce to make him cut me off," Shirley sneered through the phone. "Let me tell you, you bitch, I don't give a damn whether he divorces you or not! Being his wife is just a burden, anyway. Besides, illegitimate children have inheritance rights. All Tristan's money and love are with me."

His money? This mistress was something else.

Fine then, let's make this a high-stakes game.

——

"Only shallow women like you care so much about the title," Shirley sneered. "I'll give that title to you. You can be his wife, but from now on, stay in your lane. Stop interfering in our relationship, Lauren!"

Shirley's words were more like a threat; the way she spoke made it seem as if she were the rightful wife. Her arrogance came from the confidence Tristan had given her.

A fire ignited in my chest as I gripped the phone tightly.

"If you really had any capability, you wouldn't be making a scene in front of me like some clown! Also, Shirley, the title wasn't given to me by you. It's something you'll never get, no matter how much you kneel to heaven and earth. The things you don't care about, do you think I would care?"

Shirley's anger flared, and she spat furiously, "You'll pay for what you fucking said. I'll make you see just how much your dear husband loves me!"

With a sharp click, she hung up the phone.

I sat there, frozen, holding the phone for what felt like an eternity.

Everything felt so surreal, like I was watching a nightmare unfold.

If Shirley hadn't confronted me, I would never have believed that Tristan—the man who swore to stand by me through thick and thin—could betray me.

I couldn't believe that the same husband, who gave up everything—spending all his money and draining the family's fortune to send me abroad for the best treatment—would now betray me with her.

I sent a message to my father's most trusted lawyer, Felix Armstrong, asking for help.

"I want to do property preservation. Help me check Tristan's finances. He's cheating on me."

Making that decision felt suffocating, as if a part of me was being torn away.

Tristan finally came back, his face full of guilt.

He sat across from me, unable to meet my eyes.

I stared at him, unable to believe the man sitting in front of me was the same one who had once held me close and promised we would never be apart.

I suddenly remembered when we were younger. Tristan was eighteen, picking a wildflower from the roadside.

With a shy smile, he had handed it to me, saying, "I'll always give you, Lauren Carmichael, flowers, and that means I will always love you passionately."

The memory hit me like a blade to the chest. The pain was so intense it almost drove me mad. My eyes filled with tears.

Maybe seeing me cry triggered something in him.

His eyes flickered with guilt, and he spoke, his voice small. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Tristan's words hung heavily in the air, and for a brief moment, our eyes locked.

But then, he quickly lowered his gaze, unable to hold my stare for more than a second.