That’s Your 100th Mistress, Time to Leave You

In five years of our marriage, my husband, Vincent Blackthorne had taken ninety-nine mistresses home.

At our anniversary party, he allowed the hundredth one to get me drunk.

I’m allergic to alcohol. I ended up in the hospital with anaphylactic shock. And still, he said to me, “Stop playing weak, Andrea. Sable’s craving barbecue ribs. Drag your pathetic weak self home and make them.”

Then came the warehouse fire. He didn’t hesitate for a second—he carried his mistress out, leaving me behind.

The flames swallowed my cries for help. My right leg was permanently damaged in the fire.

When I woke up in the hospital, he was pressing the doctor to graft skin on Sable’s arm, which had only been scraped in the commotion.

Something inside me finally died. “Vincent, I want a divorce.”

“Divorce? How dare you bring that up? You don’t care about your brother’s life anymore?” He scoffed. “Doesn’t your precious little brother still need his medical treatments?”

His mistress burst out laughing. She even started a betting pool in their private chat group.

[Come on, place your bets! How long will Andrea last this time after filing for divorce? One day? Or forever?]

Without missing a beat, Vincent placed his bet—one day—and threw in ten million.

I quietly bet one dollar on forever.

Ignoring their ridicule and sneers flooding the chat, I left the group. Then, I made a call—to Vincent’s greatest rival.

“Damian. I’m getting a divorce. You once said you’d take me away if I asked. Does that offer still stand?”

“Of course it does! Where are you? I’ll come get you right now!”

“No rush. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. Let’s meet in a month.”

After hanging up, I headed straight for the law office.

“Mr. Welch, I need you to draft two agreements for me: one divorce agreement and one for the transfer of shares.”

Welch hesitated. “Does Mr. Blackthorne know you’re divorcing him?”

I touched the bandage on my arm, still seeping blood. “He will.”

For now, he was probably busy with Sable Frost.

That afternoon, Vincent and I arrived home one after another.

Noticing the cold stove, his face darkened. “Didn’t I tell you Sable wants tiramisu? Why you haven’t made yet?”

I ignored his accusations and calmly took my seat.

His voice turned sharp. “Andrea, are you trying to piss me off? Don’t push your luck, or I’ll—”

“Cut off my brother’s medical expenses?” I finished for him, my eyes cold and steady. “Go ahead.”

I’d heard those threats more times than I could count.

For years, I’d bent over backwards to please him—all for my brother’s sake.

He made me watch him fawn over his lovers and clean up after their affairs.

He forced me to act as a live target while his mistresses practiced shooting—without protective gear.

He had me drive through thunderstorms, for hours, just to deliver hot soup to some woman.

But I’m still human. I’ve had enough of this humiliation.

I pulled out the documents from my bag.

“Two papers. Sign them.”

Vincent’s face dropped. He’d never seen me like this before. He was about to read them when his phone rang. He didn’t even bother to step away. He answered right in front of me.

Sable’s sweet voice came through.

“Vincent, why aren’t you back yet? My arm… It hurts again…”

Vincent softened instantly. “I’m coming, sweetheart,” he said, turning to leave.

I grabbed his wrist. “Sign first.”

Annoyed, he glared at me. “Didn’t you heard her? Sable needs me. Why are you always making things harder?”

With clear impatience, he snatched the pen, flipped to the last page and signed.

As I stared at his rushed, scrawled signature, my chest tightened.

If he’d even glanced at the document, he would’ve realized it was the divorce papers.

But he didn’t.

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The chime hanging by the entryway jingled softly with his departure.

I sat there for a moment, frozen.

The wind chime. It was my half-sister—Isolde Leighton’s favorite. She and Vincent had been childhood sweethearts. But five years ago, she was killed in a car accident.

The Leighton Family couldn’t bear to lose their engagement ties with the Blackthornes, so they forced me into Vincent’s room.

I’d never forget the look in Vincent’s eyes that night—pure disgust and hostility.

“You think pulling a dirty stunt like this will make you Mrs. Blackthorne? Dream on. I’ll never let that happen!”

But when the so-called "scandal" was exposed, my father broke down in tears and demanded Vincent take responsibility—or face public disgrace.

Old Mr. Blackthorne couldn’t risk the family’s reputation. So, they made us marry.

I knew Vincent didn’t love me. But I married him anyway—because I loved him. I told myself if I tried hard enough, maybe one day I’d warm his frozen heart.

But on our wedding night, he brought home a woman who bore a striking resemblance to my sister.

That was only the beginning.

I made a deal with myself—when he brought home the hundredth woman, I would leave.

Sable was the hundredth. And she looked more like Isolde than anyone before her.