My Daughter Helped Hide My Husband’s Mistress

My normally well-behaved daughter, Alyssa, suddenly threw a tantrum, demanding a vacation to the Caribbean.

When I refused, she went on a hunger strike.

With no other choice, I gave in and took her to our family's private island. Antonia remained in New York, claiming he had family business to handle.

We were gone for half a month. I was exhausted, but Alyssa whined that it wasn't enough, begging to stay a few more days.

The gallery was already hounding me to return for an important auction.

I arranged for a private jet for the following day, preparing for our return to New York.

But I never expected to overhear my daughter on a satellite phone in the middle of the night, secretly calling her father:

"Papa, is Evelyn feeling better? Mom and I are coming back tomorrow. I tried to buy us more time, but it was no use. You've got to get Evelyn and her stuff out of the house—fast! Whatever you do, don't let Mom find out!"

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1

I rolled over in the middle of the night, my hand hitting the empty space where my daughter should have been. I jolted awake.

The bedroom door was ajar. No lights were on in the villa.

In the dead silence, I could faintly hear Alyssa's voice drifting in from the terrace.

I frowned. What was she doing up so late?

Slipping out of bed, I padded out of the bedroom. I saw her small figure huddled in a corner of the terrace, clutching a satellite phone.

"Papa, is Evelyn feeling better? Does she like it at our house?"

"Mom and I are coming back to New York tomorrow. I wanted to stay a few more days so Evelyn could be at our house longer, but Mom wouldn't listen. She's so stubborn! She's messing everything up. If it weren't for her, I could be home with you and Evelyn right now."

"Papa, you have to get Evelyn to pack her things and get out of our penthouse. Don't let Mom find out!"

A moment ago, I was worried about my daughter. Now, a cold dread washed over me, my blood running cold as my mind went numb.

I couldn't process the words I was hearing.

My beloved husband and the precious daughter I had adored for ten years were conspiring against me.

All for a woman named Evelyn.

Evelyn?

My eyes fixed on the satellite phone in Alyssa's hand, and a memory clicked into place. Evelyn was my daughter's piano teacher.

She was the one who had convinced Antonia to buy that two-hundred-thousand-dollar custom piano.

At the time, I'd told Antonia to return it. What kind of teacher lets a student's family spend so much?

Antonia had agreed, but our daughter threw a fit.

She cried, insisting that Teacher Evelyn had it specially made to cultivate her talent. She claimed that returning it meant I didn't support her musical dreams.

I had no choice but to meet Evelyn myself, even gifting her a set of jewelry as a courtesy.

I never imagined this woman would be the reason I was being betrayed by both Antonia and my own daughter.

"Mama?"

Alyssa scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide with panic when she saw me.

I forced a placid smile onto my face. "What are you doing out here so late? You should be sleeping."

She was just a child. Her eyes darted around as she fumbled for a lie. "I... I just missed Papa, so I called him. Mama, I'm sleepy. I'm going to bed."

She even faked a yawn.

As she tried to slip past me, I stopped her.

My voice trembled as I asked a desperate question. "Do you love me?"

Alyssa turned and buried herself in my arms, rubbing her small face against me like she did when she was three. "Alyssa loves Mama the most. And Papa the most, too!"

Watching her small back disappear into her room, I felt like two voices were screaming in my head.

One insisted it was all a misunderstanding. The other demanded I find the truth.

Once a seed of doubt is planted, it only grows.

I sat on the sofa in the dark living room, took out my burner phone, and opened Evelyn's private social media profile.

When she first added me, I'd restricted her profile so we could only chat.

This was the first time I'd ever looked at her profile.

The latest post was from today:

*What am I going to do with him? He's so possessive.*

The accompanying photo showed her lying in bed in a provocative slip, a man's arm draped possessively over her waist.

Staring at the screen, my hands began to shake, and I could barely breathe.

A single tear splashed onto the phone, then another, until they were falling freely.

I tossed the phone aside and buried my face in my hands, hot tears streaming through my fingers.

The background was our bedroom. The antique lamp, the headboard—even the framed photo of me on the nightstand was perfectly visible.

And the family crest tattooed on that arm belonged to my husband of nine years, Antonia.