My Husband Moved His Pregnant Mistress Into Our Home — So I Disappeared And Bankrupted His Pride

Part 1

I stared at the mud dripping from her boots onto my expensive Persian rug.

The girl was young, trembling inside a soaked traveling cloak that clung tightly to her frame.

She stood in the center of my drawing room, completely terrified.

Her swollen belly pressed against the thin fabric.

Craig stood beside her, raising a hand as if trying to calm a frightened horse.

He looked paler than I had ever seen him.

My husband, a man who routinely ruined politicians with a signature, was actually begging.

“There was a riot in the city,” Craig said.

His voice sounded unusually thin against the drumming of the autumn rain outside.

“Her carriage was attacked, and she had nowhere else to go.”

I didn’t look at his face.

I kept my eyes fixed entirely on the girl’s stomach.

For five years, I had endured quiet, agonizing attempts to give him an heir.

I had suffered through his heavy sighs every time my flow arrived.

I drank bitter herbal remedies and spent cold nights staring at the ceiling.

Now, he had brought his London singer into my sanctuary.

“I see,” I replied.

I made sure my voice carried no tremor.

“She carries my blood,” Craig continued.

He took a cautious step toward me.

“I cannot turn her away in her condition.

But you are my wife, and this changes nothing between us.

She will be kept in the East Wing, and you will never have to see her.”

I placed my teacup on the saucer.

The porcelain clinked unnaturally loud in the dead silence of the room.

“You have brought your pregnant mistress into my home,” I said.

“It changes absolutely everything.”

I didn’t wait for his retort.

I stood up and walked past them both.

The scent of wet wool and fear radiated from the girl as I brushed past her shoulder.

That night, the East Wing of the manor burned with warm, golden light through the storm.

Craig spent the entire evening over there.

He fetched doctors, ordered warm milk, and panicked over his unborn child while our marriage bled out on the floor.

He probably expected me to sulk in my chambers.

He likely thought I would scream, throw a vase, demand an apology, and eventually submit to the humiliation.

That was what women in our position were trained to do.

He did not know me at all.

Standing in the center of my cavernous dressing room, I unfastened the diamond necklace from my throat.

The heavy stones clattered against the mahogany vanity, looking and feeling exactly like ice.

After letting my emerald silk gown pool on the floor, my fingers yanked at the corset laces until the restrictive garment fell away.

A plain wool riding habit that smelled faintly of cedar became my new armor.

Packing was swift as two practical linen dresses, sturdy boots, and modest pearls went into a leather satchel.

The velvet-lined boxes holding rubies he had given me after every argument remained untouched.

He always operated under the assumption that a heavy enough stone could crush any resentment.

The corridor was utterly dark when I opened my bedroom door.

I moved like a ghost down the servants’ stairs.

My soft-soled slippers made absolutely no sound on the wooden planks.

I unbolted the rear scullery door and stepped out into the biting rain.

The mud of the courtyard sucked at my boots, but I leaned forward and marched.

I had slipped a stable boy a small fortune in gold earlier that afternoon to tie a quiet mare near the outer gates.

She was there, shivering under the canopy of an old oak tree.

I hoisted my satchel over the saddle, gripped the wet leather reins, and mounted.

I turned the horse toward the dark, winding road leading north and never looked back.

Three months later, I was dead to that world.

In my place stood a woman whose hands smelled permanently of lye soap and gutted fish.

The coastal town I had fled to did not care about pedigrees.

It cared about the tide, the herring catch, and the price of coal.

I wiped a gray rag across the splintered surface of a tavern table, leaning my weight into it to scrape away spilled porridge.

My shoulders were tight, bundled beneath a scratchy second-hand wool bodice.

When I pushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead, I felt the rough, cracked skin of my own knuckles.

The physical exhaustion was a profound gift.

I earned six shillings a week pouring ale and carrying bowls of thick stew for fishermen.

It was nothing, yet it was absolutely everything.

The tavern doors slammed open, letting in a gust of freezing wind.

A group of fishermen tramped in, shaking water from their oilskin coats.

I went straight to work, dodging grasping hands with a practiced pivot of my hips.

“Hear the news from the south?” one of the men asked, tearing a hunk of dark bread with his teeth.

I kept my head down, but my rag stopped moving.

“A lord’s gone mad,” the other man grunted.

“He’s tearing up the roads between here and the capital.

His wife ran off on him, and he’s offering a massive reward for information.

They say he’s burning through the countryside, checking every port and coaching inn.”

My heart gave a single, violent thud against my ribs.

I picked up the empty bowls and retreated toward the kitchen.

My hands were shaking so violently I nearly dropped the crockery.

Why was he looking for me?

He had exactly what he wanted.

He had his mistress, his heir, and his bloodline.

My absence should have been a convenient relief.

But as the panic receded, a cold, sickening realization washed over me.

I had wounded his pride.

He was a man who owned vast tracts of land, ships, and people.

A possession does not simply walk away from him.

He wasn’t hunting me because he missed me.

He was hunting me because I had humiliated him.

I wiped my wet hands on my apron, knowing I had to leave before dawn.

I carried a basket of fresh bread out to the noisy, smoky tavern floor.

Then, the heavy oak doors of the tavern opened again.

The wind didn’t howl this time.

It simply brought in a freezing, suffocating silence.

The laughter died in the throats of the fishermen.

Three men stood in the doorway, wearing heavy riding cloaks lined with black fur.

On the breast of the man in the center, gleaming in the firelight, was a silver pin bearing a crest I recognized perfectly.