Chapter 4
I let out a hollow laugh. “Please do.” I opened the bedroom door, just wanting to crash and forget this nightmare. But the moment I walked in, I stopped cold. The bedsheets were crumpled. The blanket had been used. And under my pillow, there it was—women’s underwear. Not mine. A wave of nausea hit me. Lana had already slept in my bed? I grabbed my essentials, didn’t even glance at the people in the living room and stormed out. I slammed the door behind me. Hard. I’d stay at a hotel tonight. That place felt dirty now. Tomorrow, I’d bring in a cleaning crew. Maybe even throw out the bed. The day had drained every ounce of energy out of me. After washing up at the hotel, I collapsed on the bed—only for my phone to buzz. A friend request. I accepted without thinking. Then came the photos. Every single one showed Micah and Lana, in my house, tangled up in each other on what was supposed to be our marital bed. The last image came with a message. [Smart women know when to quit.] I replied: [And some are into leftovers. I’m more than happy to hand him over.] Then I turned off my phone and went to sleep. When I woke, the sun was already up. I ate breakfast, then went back to my house to reclaim what was mine. But when I opened the front door, I froze again. Balloons. Streamers. Posters on the walls. Micah and Lana’s wedding photos, everywhere. Strangers—people I didn’t recognize—were lounging on my couch, raiding my fridge, drinking from my mugs. My bookshelf had been ransacked. Files scattered everywhere. The antique ornaments I’d bought at auctions and the heirloom gifts from my parents—manhandled and some already shattered. I forced myself to stay calm and turned off their loud music. They all turned to look at me, annoyed. “Who are you?” I asked coldly. “What are you doing in my house?” They exchanged confused glances. “Your house? You mean Lana’s house?” “We’re here for the wedding. Who the hell are you?” the other added. I almost choked on my own fury. “Micah and Lana… are holding a wedding here?!” Then someone pointed at me. “I know her. Guys, she’s that mistress!” Before I could say anything, someone flung a cup of milk tea in my face. “You’ve got some nerve showing up here. Trying to ruin the wedding, you homewrecker?” More people joined in—slapping, kicking, screaming at me. I fought back, but there were too many. I was shoved to the ground. They got braver, crueler. Someone hit me. Someone tried to rip my clothes. Others livestreamed the whole thing, wanting the whole internet to “see what a mistress looks like.” I covered my face, but they grabbed my hands and yanked them away. They pinned my limbs down and hung a pair of heels around my neck. Then they spat in my face, mocking me, calling me bitch, slut and other names. I sobbed, helpless and humiliated, as they used my pain for entertainment. Until suddenly—someone shouted, “The groom’s here!” They backed off and rushed to the door. I scrambled to my feet, barely able to stand. And there they were—Micah in a sharp suit, Lana in a wedding gown. Micah saw me, disheveled and broken. He hesitated, then walked over. Leaning in, he whispered, “I thought you left. This is not a real wedding. We’re just putting on a show… for the kid.”