While I Bury Mom, He’s Livestreaming with His Mistress

I was at my mother’s funeral. Out of nowhere, the housekeeper rushed up to me.

“Miss Lucia, Mr. Grant’s mistress just gave birth!”

Steven Grant—my fiancé—didn’t deny it. He just said calmly, “You should focus on the funeral first.”

The next day, he didn’t show up to pay his respects. Instead, he called me, “I’ve been staying at the postnatal recovery center to help take care of Nel. I won’t make it to the funeral.”

When I didn’t respond, he sighed. “Look, it was just a mistake. Nel has no intention of coming between our families—she just wants to keep the baby. But I’m the father. I can’t pretend the child doesn’t exist. After we get married, I’ll spend Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at her place to help raise the baby. The rest of the week, I’ll be home with you.”

My hands curled into fists. I smiled through the sting in my eyes. “Steven, it’s over. The engagement is off.”

He scoffed. “Your mom just died. Don’t make a scene.”

I hung up without a word. Then I walked straight up to Steven’s biggest rival.

“Marry me. Let’s bring down the Grants. Are you in?”

——

Jaxon looked stunned for a moment.

A rare blush crept across his usually stoic face. He hesitated. “There’s a rule among the Browns, my family would only marry once. If you become my wife, you’ll be mine for life.”

I thought he was rejecting me. So I left while feeling disappointed. But he grabbed my hand, his usual sharp gaze suddenly filled with quiet intensity.

“Lucia, think your decision seriously. There’s no backing out of this marriage.”

I smiled and nodded. “I’m sure of my decision. I won’t back out.”

Jaxon Brown was actually the man my mother had originally chosen for me. He came from a good family, had integrity and compassionate. If I hadn’t fallen for Steven, I would have married him long ago.

The funeral was a whirlwind of arrangements and Jaxon was by my side every step of the way, helping with everything for over two exhausting weeks.

Meanwhile Steven, he didn't even call a single time.

For the past two weeks, every time I opened Instagram, there they were—Steven and Nellie. Smiling ear to ear, holding the baby, hands forming a heart.

Its caption read: [My whole world in one photo.]

I scoffed, bitterness tightening in my chest. Then, my phone rang.

Steven’s lazy voice came through, “The funeral’s over, right? Wanna come by the recovery center to see the baby?”

I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror—dark circles, red eyes. “Steven, we broke up.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then he just said, “Yeah. That’s probably for the best. Nel’s been kinda depressed since the birth. Seeing you might upset her.”

And just like that, two weeks’ worth of tears finally spilled over. I laughed through the ache in my throat. “Did you not hear me? I said we’re done.”

Another pause—then a low, mocking chuckle. “Lucia, you were with me for five years. I used you up. You think anyone else would still want you?”

“I told you, the baby was a mistake. Why can’t you just let it go?”

I didn’t respond.

Then I heard something crash on his end of the call.

Steven gave a sharp laugh. “Fine. Go. Leave. I’ll be here when you come crawling back.”

He hung up.

When I got home, I found the door code had been changed.

I tried calling him—straight to voicemail. With nowhere else to go, I checked into a cheap hotel for the night.

The next morning, my feed lit up with a livestream suggestion.

It was from the postnatal recovery center. Nellie was hosting the stream, smiling, chatting with followers. Steven sat beside her, gazing at her like she hung the moon.

The same look I used to think was meant for me.