1 In the eight years I was married to Andrea Chabrol, I never once laid eyes on our son. The moment he was born, Andrea whisked him away to the family estate. He’d sighed, his voice laced with a weary resignation. "Seraphina," he’d said, "marrying you was already an exception. When it comes to the heir’s upbringing, my parents will not bend." He’d looked at me then, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Besides, with your level of education and background… do you honestly think you can raise a worthy successor?" I swallowed the bitter pill of my inadequacy, telling myself this was just how these old-money families operated. Until last night. For the very first time, my son asked to see me. My heart was bursting, every fiber of my being humming with the joy of finally meeting him. But the first words out of my seven-year-old son’s mouth were: "So you're the mistress my dad keeps on the side?" The world screeched to a halt. My head whipped around to face Andrea. … Panic flashed across Andrea's face. He immediately tried to hustle our son out of the room. "Where did you learn such language? That's disgraceful! Go home right now and copy your calligraphy exercises, ten times!" But the reprimand only fueled the boy’s anger. He dodged Andrea’s hand and ran towards me, shoving me hard. "You really are something else! You didn't even have to say a word to get my dad to punish me!" he sneered. "Today, I'm going to teach you a lesson for my real mom! You filthy homewrecker!" I stared at the small, furious face before me, a face that was a near-perfect mirror of my own. A crumpled, sour dread began to churn in my stomach. "Don't you know," I started, my voice trembling, "I'm the one who..." "Seraphina! That's enough!" Andrea’s roar cut me off. Confused, I opened my mouth to protest, but just then, a woman walked through the door. The scent of expensive perfume wafted from her sleek, dark hair. The tailored trench coat she wore fit her like a second skin. She had the unmistakable air of someone who had been coddled her entire life, untouched by hardship. Her eyes flickered over me, a subtle, dismissive glance that made me instinctively tuck a stray strand of my own coarse, dry hair behind my ear. Then, she walked right past me and ruffled my son’s hair. "There you are. You ran off again. Mommy’s really going to have to let Daddy punish you this time." My son melted into her arms. "Mommy, I'm sorry! You have no idea how horrible this woman is!" My hand, still hovering near my ear, froze. A chill crept through my veins. So she was the "Mommy" he was talking about. Andrea’s childhood sweetheart—Isabelle Vance. She had always been the Chabrol family’s first choice for a daughter-in-law. Her family was their social equal, and she and Andrea had grown up together. I was just the poor scholarship kid who had managed, by sheer academic force, to walk the same university halls as him. So even when Andrea had chosen me, his parents had never stopped accusing me of being a gold digger. That was when I started working myself to the bone, desperate to prove I didn't need their money. Andrea would secretly slip his credit cards into my purse, but I never touched them. I knew it was his way of respecting my pride while still worrying about me. Then, he’d taken our son to the estate, citing his "education." Seven years had passed, and he had never once let me see him. "Do you have any idea how much a mother's genetics influence a child?" he’d argued. "Don't you want what's best for our son? Just wait. Once his character is formed, my parents will let you see him." I had always believed we loved and understood each other. I trusted him. I respected his decisions. But Isabelle—the woman my son was now calling "Mommy"—hadn't even gotten into a real university. Her family had donated a building to get her a diploma. It finally hit me. It wasn’t that my education was insufficient. It wasn’t that this was some sacred, old-money tradition. It was simply that they could not bear for the world to know that the mother of the next Chabrol heir was an ordinary woman. It wasn't just his parents. Even Andrea had never truly respected me. The realization was a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs. By the time I came to my senses, Andrea was already leading our son out the door. I took a step forward, but Isabelle blocked my path. She smiled, a cold, sharp thing. "I wouldn't waste your energy. Both Andrea and the boy… they belong to me." I ignored her, my heart pounding with a desperate urgency. I tried to push past her. Isabelle let out a short, sharp laugh and grabbed my arm. "Are you deaf?" Her long, pointed nails dug into my flesh, leaving angry red marks. I tried to pull away, but her grip was like steel. After a moment of struggling, I finally looked up, my eyes burning. "I don't want Andrea anymore," I choked out. "I just want my son." 2 The words felt raw and foreign in my mouth. The moment my son called her "Mommy," my world had shattered. Ten months I had carried him. And even though I was never allowed to see him, the primal, unconditional love of a mother had always been there. I had swallowed seven years of longing, telling myself it was for his own good, so he could have the best education imaginable. Even my friends couldn't understand. They’d urged me to adopt, to have a child by my side, something to hold onto. I had been horrified by the suggestion. Now, I saw how foolish I'd been. How could I have been so naive? How could I have trusted Andrea so blindly? The regret was so intense I wanted to die and start over. Isabelle’s lips curved into a smug smile. "What are you thinking? You didn’t know? I was the one who was afraid of the pain of childbirth, of ruining my figure. That's why Andrea had you do it." "Andrea will never be yours," she continued, her voice a cruel whisper. "And the child will never be yours. Because from the moment he was in your womb, he was destined to call me Mother." Her words were a physical blow, leaving me stunned and reeling. For a moment, I thought I must be hallucinating. "What are you talking about?" "Think about it," she said, her tone dripping with contempt. "If I had been willing to give birth, do you really think someone like you would have ever been worthy of carrying a Chabrol heir? You, a low-life from the gutter, you reek of poverty. How could the mother of the next Chabrol be someone with no background, no name? Tell me, does that sound right to you?" She reached out and twirled a strand of my hair between her fingers, then burst out laughing. "You were just ashamed of yourself a moment ago, weren't you? You know it, too. From head to toe, not a single hair on your head can compare to mine." My private moment of self-doubt, laid bare and mocked. A hot flush of humiliation washed over me. I yanked her hand away. But as I pulled back, Isabelle suddenly crumpled to the floor in a graceful heap. I froze. Even though I knew she was faking, my first instinct was to help her. But Andrea, who had just put our son in the car, was already rushing back. He didn't hesitate. He slapped me, hard, across the face. "If you have a problem, you take it up with me! I was the one who told him to call her 'Mommy'! What do you get out of bullying her?" His eyes bored into me, cold and accusatory, like I was a criminal. The stinging pain on my cheek was a stark reminder of a time when his eyes had held nothing but tenderness for me. Even when we fought, I’d never seen such pure hatred in them. They say you can see love in a person’s eyes. I don't know when it changed. But in that moment, as the force of his blow resonated through me, I realized I no longer cared. Andrea gently lifted Isabelle from the floor and settled her on the sofa. "Are you okay? Where does it hurt?" Isabelle’s eyes filled with tears, her lower lip trembling. "Everywhere," she whimpered. "I think I twisted my ankle." Andrea was beside himself with worry. He spun around and yelled at me, "What are you waiting for?! Get the first-aid kit! She was raised in comfort, you think she's tough like you?!" Watching them, it all became painfully clear. Once, after I’d fallen during a track meet in college, he had been just as frantic, practically carrying the school nurse to my side. Now, his concern was just for a different person. I silently retrieved the first-aid kit and handed it to him. As he took it, I heard myself say, "Andrea, let's get a divorce." "The house, the cars, the money… I don't want any of it. I just want my son." His hand, which had been gently massaging Isabelle’s ankle, froze. 3 He slowly looked up. His eyes scanned my reddened cheek, but there was no flicker of remorse. "I was just upset," he said flatly. He rummaged through the kit, pulled out a tube of anti-inflammatory gel, and tossed it to me, completely ignoring my previous statement. I didn't catch it. I just watched it clatter onto the table. He hadn't even offered a simple "sorry." Andrea’s hand, still holding the gel, paused mid-air. When he saw I wasn’t going to take it, he dropped it on the table. "You were the one in the wrong. Being overly dramatic will just make you seem pathetic." A chill went through me. It was in that moment I realized that in our relationship, Andrea had always seen himself as the one in power. That's why he would never apologize, never consider my feelings, never listen to what I had to say. Even when I discovered that he had let my own son call another woman "Mother," he felt no need to explain himself. I had thought we were equals, that we at least had mutual respect. Isabelle sighed dramatically. "Darling, it's not a big deal. Please don't be angry." She then clamped a hand over her mouth, feigning a mistake, and looked at me apologetically. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm just so used to calling him that in front of the boy. You understand, don't you? It's important for a child's development to have both a mother and a father figure." I could only laugh coldly. "He has a real mother. I'll be taking him back, so you won't have to play pretend anymore." Isabelle’s eyes instantly filled with tears. "I've been with him for seven years," she cried. "He's like my own son. You can't just take him away! Do you know his favorite food? Do you know which classes he hates? Do you know which little girl in his class always wants to play house with him? You know nothing! Are you even fit to be a mother?" She paused, turning her head away to wipe a tear. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I lost control. I just don't think you are a qualified mother." Andrea wrapped an arm around her, comforting her. "You didn't say anything wrong. It's okay, don't cry. No matter what anyone says, this family and our son will only ever recognize you as his mother." I was shaking with rage. Her words were like daggers, carving into my heart. She had stolen my role, my life, and now she was calling me unqualified. Just as I was about to retort, I felt a force from behind. I stumbled forward, catching myself just before I fell. I turned around. It was my son, his little fists flailing at me. "You ugly homewrecker! You bullied my mommy! Go to hell! You're shameless! You bitch!"
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