Neglected Wife, Dying Vengeance

Name: Neglected Wife, Dying Vengeance
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Gavin

Short stories | Completed

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For seven years, I was the perfect wife to a man who saw me as the hired help, and a mother to a son he treated like a stranger. On our son's fifth birthday, my husband came home with another woman's child. He smiled a smile I hadn't seen in years and introduced me. "This is Chelsey," he said. "She's the housekeeper." Soon after, I was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. My own family's reaction was to demand I divorce my husband so he could marry his true love and secure their business merger. All while their new perfect family tormented my son, bullying him at school until he lost his voice. The final straw came when my husband slapped our son across the face in public for refusing to give his new stepbrother a toy. In that moment, I realized my marriage wasn't a shield for my son; it was the weapon being used against him. With only days to live, I kissed my son goodbye and walked to my husband's penthouse. My final act of revenge would be to die on his pristine white sofa. Let him be the one to clean up the mess.

Family Betrayal Revenge Divorce CEO

Chapter 17

Today 14:27

Chapter 1

For seven years, I was the perfect wife to a man who saw me as the hired help, and a mother to a son he treated like a stranger.

On our son's fifth birthday, my husband came home with another woman's child.

He smiled a smile I hadn't seen in years and introduced me.

"This is Chelsey," he said. "She's the housekeeper."

Soon after, I was diagnosed with terminal leukemia. My own family's reaction was to demand I divorce my husband so he could marry his true love and secure their business merger.

All while their new perfect family tormented my son, bullying him at school until he lost his voice.

The final straw came when my husband slapped our son across the face in public for refusing to give his new stepbrother a toy.

In that moment, I realized my marriage wasn't a shield for my son; it was the weapon being used against him.

With only days to live, I kissed my son goodbye and walked to my husband's penthouse. My final act of revenge would be to die on his pristine white sofa. Let him be the one to clean up the mess.

Chapter 1

Chelsey Blackwell POV:

Seven years of marriage. Five years with my son. Both milestones fell on the same day, a date circled in red on the calendar that felt more like a warning than a celebration.

I smoothed the tablecloth, the fabric cool beneath my fingertips. The dinosaur-themed plates were perfectly aligned, the matching napkins folded into little green triangles. Everything was ready for Bonnie' s fifth birthday party.

"Just... be home on time tonight, Kevan," I had said that morning, my voice small as he adjusted his tie in the hall mirror. His reflection was all sharp lines and cold ambition.

I rarely asked for anything. Our seventh wedding anniversary was a ghost in the room, a thing I no longer bothered to mention. It had been years since he' d acknowledged it with anything more than a passing grunt. Today, all that mattered was Bonnie.

Kevan had simply nodded, his eyes fixed on his own image, not mine. He didn't promise. He never did.

And now, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked past six, then seven. Each tick was a small, sharp jab against my ribs. The balloons, once buoyant and cheerful, seemed to sag in the dimming light.

I called his phone. It went straight to voicemail. I sent a text. No reply.

A familiar ache started in my chest, a heavy, cold weight that had become a permanent resident in my body. I knew why he was doing this. He resented me. He resented this marriage, a union his wealthy, elitist family had only sanctioned because his true love, Angelique Small, had left him for another man.

I was the consolation prize, the woman with a humble background chosen to fill a void until the "real" queen returned. I had accepted my role, playing the part of the dutiful wife, the devoted mother, all for the sake of my son.

The biggest mistake I ever made was believing my love could change him. My second biggest mistake was bringing our son, Bonnie, into this loveless world.

Kevan' s cruelty was a quiet, suffocating thing, but his indifference to his own son was a blade that twisted in me daily. He saw Bonnie not as his child, but as an anchor, a living symbol of his second-best life.

Bonnie was the only innocent one here. He deserved a father who looked at him with love, not with the faint, ever-present shadow of disappointment.

"Mommy, is Daddy coming home soon?" Bonnie' s small voice pulled me from my thoughts. He stood by the window, his little nose pressed against the cool glass, his breath fogging a small circle. His stomach rumbled audibly. He' d been so excited he' d barely eaten all day.

"Of course, sweetie," I lied, my heart cracking. "He' s just stuck in traffic. Why don' t we go ahead and cut your cake? You can make a wish."

I couldn' t let Kevan ruin this for him. Not today.

I lit the five small candles, their flames dancing in Bonnie' s wide, hopeful eyes. He clapped his hands together, took a deep breath, and blew. As the last flame flickered out, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway split the quiet.

The front door opened.

"Daddy!" Bonnie shrieked with pure, unadulterated joy. He scrambled off his chair and shot toward the hallway like a little rocket.

My own heart gave a traitorous leap of hope. He came. He actually came.

But my hope dissolved into ice as Kevan stepped into the living room. He wasn' t alone. A small, unfamiliar boy stood beside him, clutching his hand.

The boy looked to be about Bonnie' s age, dressed in an impeccably tailored miniature suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He had sharp, intelligent eyes and a disdainful little pout, like a tiny king surveying a peasant' s hovel.

My eyes met the boy' s. He sized me up with a chillingly adult gaze, his eyes sweeping over my simple dress before landing on my face with open curiosity.

"Daddy Kevan," the boy' s voice was crisp and clear, "who is this woman?"

My breath hitched. Daddy Kevan? A tidal wave of nausea and confusion crashed over me. Was this his son? Another son? The thought was a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

Before I could process the question, Kevan smiled down at the boy, a warm, genuine smile I hadn' t seen directed at me or Bonnie in years.

"Aspen," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "this is Chelsey. She' s the housekeeper."

The word hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Housekeeper.

My entire world went silent. The ticking clock, the hum of the refrigerator, even the frantic beating of my own heart-it all faded into a dull, roaring static. I felt like I was underwater, watching the scene unfold through a thick wall of glass.

Seven years. Seven years of marriage, of sacrifice, of loving a man who saw me as nothing more than the hired help. It was a joke. A cruel, seven-year-long punchline.

A wave of despair so profound it felt like drowning washed over me. My knees felt weak, my hands numb.

"Mommy?" Bonnie' s small hand slipped into mine, his touch grounding me. He looked up at me, his face a canvas of confusion and fear, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.

I squeezed his hand, my grip the only thing keeping me upright. I remembered the day Bonnie was born. Kevan had held him for less than a minute before handing him back to the nurse, his expression unreadable. I' d poured every ounce of my love, my life, into this child, trying to build a shield around his heart to protect him from his own father' s coldness.

Now I understood. Kevan was capable of love. He was capable of being a doting father. Just not to our son. It was a choice. A deliberate, cruel choice.

A bitter laugh threatened to bubble up from my throat. Fine. If I was the housekeeper, then I should be paid.

I straightened my spine, looked Kevan dead in the eye, and held out my hand. "In that case, Mr. Richard, you owe me my salary."

Kevan blinked, his polished composure finally cracking. "What are you talking about?"

"My salary," I repeated, my voice dangerously calm. "For being your housekeeper for the past seven years. And an additional fee for my nanny services for the past five. I believe my work has been exemplary, don' t you?"

He stared at my outstretched palm as if it were a venomous snake. Then, a dark amusement flickered in his eyes. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slapped them into my hand. "There. Ten thousand. Is that enough for you?"

Ten thousand dollars. That' s what seven years of my life, my love, my devotion were worth to him. The bills felt like ash in my hand.

"Fire her, Daddy Kevan!" the little boy, Aspen, piped up, tugging on Kevan' s sleeve. "I don' t like her. She looks at me funny."

My head snapped toward the child. "This is my house. If anyone is leaving, it' s you."

"Chelsey!" Kevan' s voice was a whip crack. He shielded Aspen behind him as if I were some kind of monster. "Don' t you dare speak to him that way!"

Something inside me, something that had been dormant for seven long years, finally broke free. "I hate you, Kevan," I whispered, the words tasting like poison and freedom on my tongue. "But God help me, I love my son more. And I will not let you or this... this interloper, hurt him."

Aspen' s lower lip began to tremble. "She called me an interloper! Daddy, I' m not an interloper! Make her leave! I want her to leave right now!"

"This is my home!" I roared, my voice shaking with a fury I didn' t know I possessed. "Mine and Bonnie' s! You want me to leave? You' re going to have to drag my dead body out of here first. Now get out!"