At my daughter's third birthday bash, we had an unexpected crasher.

She claimed she was my husband's legitimate wife.

I didn't buy it—until she slapped a marriage license right in my face.

Seeing that all-too-familiar face on the license, it hit me—I'd been the other woman for five years.

I tried to clear the air, insisting I was just another victim.

She wouldn't hear it and trashed my daughter's million-dollar fairytale cake and her one-of-a-kind Barbie set.

Still fuming, she threatened to tear up my haute couture gown right there.

"Throwing a birthday bash for a homewrecker's kid? Seriously, get real!"

"You squandered the money my husband and I scraped together, and you're going to pay back every cent!"

I gave her a taste of her own medicine with a slap.

Apparently, she forgot that she was wearing the hand-me-downs she once begged me to give her at the thrift market.

If she wanted to settle the score, I was all in.

***

"Mommy, are you the mistress?"

Cooling our heels backstage, my daughter blurted out the question.

Taken aback, I asked, "Why would you think Mommy's the mistress? Who said that?"

Blinking her big, innocent eyes, she replied, "Then why did my teacher say I was the mistress's kid?"

I furrowed my brow and pulled out my phone to get to the bottom of it.

Just as I opened WhatsApp, a status update caught my eye.

[What do I do? Turns out my husband has a secret family, and the kid's practically a kindergartener! Hearing that little twerp call my husband 'daddy'—my world's crumbling!]

Driven by curiosity, I tapped through to her profile.

Two fresh statuses popped up.

[Appreciate the love, folks. He fessed up—he turned down a chick who threw herself at him. But she didn't take no for an answer, got him drunk, and the rest is history!]

[My hubby's a catch and a softie, not a saint. Can't blame him; blame that bed-hopper who used her kid to snag him!]

[I pinch pennies buying used clothes to save for us, but this hussy throws a lavish party with my husband's earnings! What a laugh—like she has any right to celebrate!]

[Tune in for my live teardown of this hussy's party today. Don't miss it!]

Recognizing the profile picture, I realized it was Savannah Beck—the same mom who had wanted my daughter's outgrown clothes.

I planned to donate them, but after connecting on WhatsApp, she played the sympathy card non-stop, pushing me to send more clothes for adults.

Without much thought, I included some adult clothes too.

After getting the clothes, she complained they were filthy, claimed they caused a rash, and conned me out of some cash. Nearly drove me nuts.

Savannah's last update was a link to her live stream.

I clicked it and saw a woman in my cast-offs broadcasting live.

With over 30,000 watching, the chat was bursting with insults towards mistresses.

There was Savannah, leading a live mob scene.

"Folks, this mistress splurged over a million on a cake for her brat. I only found out when I saw the bill on my husband's phone!"

"She prattles about love having no order, the unloved being the real homewrecker. More like she's scheming for my husband's wallet!"

"She dipped into our joint funds—I can stomach her sleeping with my husband, but blowing my money? That's a step too far!"

"Today, I'm reclaiming what's mine!"

Her words knotted my brow.

I'd splurged on a similar cake for today.

My husband thought it was too much, but nothing's too good for my girl.

Cheating's never just one person's fault.

Blaming only the other woman while letting the man off didn't sit right with me.

Just then, my daughter in her tiny dress chimed in, "Isn't that Auntie Savannah, my teacher's sister?"

"She said Auntie Savannah and Daddy were old schoolmates."

With that, I dialed my husband, Dan Simmons.

I hoped I could help somehow.

No answer, so I messaged: [Emma's birthday's kicking off. Can you make it? BTW, know someone named Savannah Beck? Emma's teacher mentioned she's your classmate, seems she's in trouble. Might need a hand.]

As I set my phone down, a racket came from outside.

I made sure Emma was okay, then stepped out to see the fuss.

The moment I exited the lounge room, the door to the dining hall flew open.

A crowd stormed in.

Savannah was at the forefront, yelling that she'd teach the homewrecker some lessons.

She held her phone high, live-streaming the three-meter-tall cake at the center of the hall.

"Look, this pathetic cake cost my husband over a million! She must have duped a lot of money out of him for this. Watch me put an end to this sham!"

As she approached the cake, I yelled, "Wrong place! This is Simmons' birthday party, not some mistress's setup. Leave. Now."

The room was packed with the guests.

I had invited Emma's entire preschool class and their families to make her day special.

I didn't want this mix-up to spoil it.

But before I could say more, she slapped me.

"So, you're the mistress?"

"Wrong place? I came here for you, you snake!"

She thrust the camera in my face, "Look everyone, here's the slut who seduced my drunken husband!"

"Throwing a bash for your brat, really? The nerve!"

"Let's show everyone how a real wife handles a homewrecker!"

I contained my rage, clarifying, "You're confused! My husband is Dan Simmons, and I am no mistress!"

"Please leave my daughter's party now, or things will get ugly!"

Undeterred, Savannah whipped out a marriage certificate and flung it at me.

"Really? Since when is Dan Simmons your husband? He's mine!"

"I've got legal proof. What do you have, bitch?"

Gazing at Dan Simmons's name on the marriage license, my head spun.

Then it hit me—we had a big wedding five years back but never got legally hitched.

Dan claimed his family was strapped for cash and didn't want to look like he married up.

He said he'd rather earn my parents' approval with his own merits before we made it official.

Who knew that "later" meant a whole five years? Our daughter is already three, and we're still not legally married.

Whenever I pressed him about tying the knot legally, Dan would beat around the bush.

I once joked if he'd secretly married someone else.

Turns out, I was spot on.

The license revealed Dan had been married to Savannah for seven years.

And here I was, unknowingly the other woman for five.

Rage choked my words and my body wouldn't stop shaking.

Savannah misread my shock as fear and taunted, "If you're not the mistress, let's see your marriage certificate then."

Caught without one, Savannah turned to the crowd and yelled, "Really, folks? You came to a party thrown by a mistress? Don't you worry about your kids learning tricks from this lowlife? What a mess!"

Immediately, whispers filled the room.

"I can't believe it. Mo's mom was all lovey-dovey online, and she's the mistress? Flaunting her daughter's bash like that, is she trying to broadcast her affair?"

"Exactly, looks can be deceiving. Thought she was classy, but she's just trash. Had I known, I'd have kept my son away from Emma."

"Man, I regret showing up. Is it too late to head out?"

...

That's when my daughter stepped out of the back room.

Suddenly, those who adored her were backing away as if she carried a disease.

My heart ached seeing Emma's confused face; I struggled to stay composed and explained, "I won't lie, Dan and I didn't get the paperwork done, but we had a wedding—our friends and family see us as legit spouses!"

"We didn't file because Dan wanted to earn my family's blessing first."

"I'm a victim in this too. If you don't believe me, we can call Dan right now and sort this out."

I remembered how my family initially disapproved, and Dan, ever considerate, suggested we hold off on the license to give me an out if needed.

I thought he was being protective, really looking out for me.

Turns out, he'd already tied the knot with someone else.

Now, his real wife was using that to attack me.

Angered, I reached for my phone to call Dan.

But Savannah grabbed it first and smashed it on the ground.

"Don't think I'm clueless—you're trying to dial for backup, right?"

"Trying to seduce my husband again? Fat chance!"

Watching my phone shatter, my anger surged.

"This is between us three. Why can't I talk to Dan? What gives you the right to crash my daughter's birthday and spout lies—aren't you afraid of the police?"

Savannah sneered, "No need to talk to Dan. I'm his wife, I speak for him!"

"You want to call the cops? As if a homewrecker like you has that right!"

"Watch as I take you down in front of everyone on this livestream!"

With that, she kicked me fiercely, and I tumbled into my daughter's massive cake castle.

Emma adores Elsa from Frozen, so I had splurged on a cake castle designed by a top-tier pastry chef.

It was reinforced with sturdy steel rods to support its structure.

Falling on those could have been disastrous.

Losing balance, the castle crumbled and collapsed.

Luckily, I just scraped my leg on a rod, leaving a small red mark. Yet, it could've been much worse.

Catching my breath, I listened as Savannah laughed at my creamy mess.

Shoving the camera in my face, she gloated, "This is how you deal with mistresses—no mercy, or they never learn!"

"Can't believe she dodged that. But wrecking her fancy cake? Totally worth it!"

I knew Savannah was out for blood, but wanting me dead? That was a new low.

Enraged by her smugness, I bellowed, "Savannah Beck, if you don't want to lose it all, you better leave now, or you'll regret it!"

Savannah just laughed harder.

"You, a mistress, daring to threaten me? Please!"

"Every dime you've spent is from Dan and me! Better spit out what you owe, or I'll make sure you can't even beg for mercy!"

She then grabbed a bat and shattered the champagne tower.

Mo's treasured limited-edition Barbie was next, destroyed in Savannah's rage.

Her entourage mimicked her, trashing the place further.

The birthday bash turned into a complete disaster.

Then Savannah and her mob started hunting for something—or someone.

They were after Emma, I knew.

But thankfully, our nanny kept her hidden. So long as she kept quiet, she'd be safe for now.

However, Savannah guessed as much and directed a brute to drag me down by my hair, throwing me to the floor.

The pain made me scream.

As chaos erupted, the guests at the birthday party scattered in all directions.

My daughter, Emma, however, broke away from the nanny and ran towards me, tears streaming down her face.

She yelled as she ran, "Stop! Leave my mom alone, you bullies!"

Savannah grinned, thrilled her scheme was unfolding as planned.

Clutching her phone, she menacingly approached Emma.

"Playing the perfect little family, huh? Folks, want a peek at what the mistress's brat looks like? Smash that like button, and I'll show you the true face of this little cheat! With a mom like hers, this kid's bound to be rotten too—should be squashed right here!"

Panic surged through me as I saw Savannah closing in. I tried to break free with all my might.

A heavy boot kicked me back down, driving shards of glass into my skin.

Pain shot through me, but I only screamed louder, "Don't touch my Emma!"

I desperately called out to the teacher Lena Carter in the corner, "Ms. Carter, please, help me—call 911!"

Ms. Carter just scoffed.

"Call the police? Why? If you weren't so morally corrupt, you wouldn't be in this situation."

"Poor Emma, having a mother like you."

I had always made sure Emma was happy at preschool, even going so far as to curry favor with Ms. Carter.

Yet, there she stood, unwilling to even make a call to the police while we were being attacked.

A wave of despair overwhelmed me.

Savannah then noticed the designer dresses Emma and I were wearing.

"Why should two tramps like you wear such fine clothes? Rip them off!" she commanded.

Savannah viciously tore the train from Emma's dress, causing her to cry out in terror, frozen with fear.

The brute beside me was quick to follow suit, ripping my dress to shreds.

As Savannah reached to tear the remaining fabric from Emma, I broke free and shielded her with my body.

Disgusted, Savannah turned and shouted, "Get this trash away from her!"

"After I'm done with the kid, I'll deal with her!"

"Thinks she can steal my man? Not on my watch, not with all these eyes on us!"

As she spoke, a muscle-bound man tried to pull Emma and me apart.

Emma clung to me, crying inconsolably.

I clung back, fighting with every ounce of my strength.

My nails broke off in the struggle, my fingers bleeding, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear of losing her.

Despite my efforts, they pried Emma from my arms.

Her breathing became faint, and panic-stricken, I screamed, "Emma's having an asthma attack! Her inhaler's in her bag—she needs it now or she might die!"

"You want money? I'll give you anything, just save my daughter!"