Chapter 1: The Mistress Kneels

That was the year I learned what real hatred looked like—right after Harrison Lowell had some guys beat up the college kid I’d just started sponsoring, I turned around and sent his little side chick straight to the ER.

It was the kind of payback that only made sense in our world. Retaliation wasn’t just a reflex—it was an art form. In our circles, you never let a slight slide. You made sure everyone heard your answer, loud and clear. That year, our feud played out like a twisted chess match, each move colder, meaner, more calculated than the last.

In public, we were always at each other’s throats. But behind closed doors? Things got even uglier.

You know how, when you’re around other people, you can put on a show—raised voices, icy glares, tension so thick it’s like you’re breathing in static? Behind closed doors, though, it was a bloodbath. We weren’t just fighting—we were tearing each other apart, word by word, memory by memory. Every argument was a contest: who could cut deeper, who could leave the bigger scar.

I thought we’d hate each other forever.

Back then, I couldn’t picture a world where that burning resentment would ever cool. I truly believed we’d die locked in this endless, bitter dance. It was exhausting, but it was all I knew. The idea of forgiveness—or even just not caring—felt like something that only happened to other people.

Until his little secret knelt in front of me, clutching her stomach.

I’ll never forget it. She just dropped to her knees right there on my hardwood floor, hands pressed to her belly, eyes wide and desperate. For a second, I wondered if she’d faint. She looked so fragile, like a porcelain doll about to shatter.

"Mrs. Lowell, Harrison doesn’t love you. Why can’t you just let him go already?"

Her voice was shaking, barely more than a whisper. The words just kind of hung there, awkward and raw. She was so young, so heartbreakingly earnest. For a moment, I almost pitied her. Almost.

I lounged on the living room sofa, drifting in my own thoughts, letting the pretty girl kneel there and cry until her eyes were swollen and red.

I watched her, swirling a glass of pinot in my hand while the late afternoon sun slanted across the room. She sobbed quietly, her shoulders trembling. I could’ve told her to get up, but I didn’t. I let her stay there, letting the silence stretch so long it turned cruel.

When she finally finished, I answered her question, slow and deliberate.

"Because he’s the one who won’t let me go."

My voice came out soft, almost bored. I watched confusion flicker across her face, like she’d never even thought of that answer before. Honestly, neither had I—not out loud, anyway.

She stopped crying and just stared at me, lost.

Her mouth parted a little. I could see her mind working, trying to fit my words into whatever story she’d been telling herself. It was almost funny, if it wasn’t so sad.

"But… Harrison said he’s been tired of you for ages."

She wiped her tears away, her delicate body swaying, but she still tried, stubborn as ever, to convince me.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, voice trembling but determined. "He spends half the month with me. He stopped loving you a long time ago. Mrs. Whitman, please, face reality—marriage without love can’t last."

I lifted my gaze and saw the stubbornness behind her sweet features. My voice softened, almost out of habit.

I studied her for a moment. She was clinging to her little piece of the story, desperate to believe it meant something. "You say Harrison spends fifteen days a month with you. What about the other fifteen? Do you know where he is? Do you know who he’s with?"

Her tears kept falling, but she didn’t have a word to say.

She opened her mouth, closed it again. Her bottom lip trembled. I almost felt sorry for her—almost.

I smiled and tilted my hand, blowing on my broken, glittering nail with lazy indifference.

I stretched out my hand, letting the light catch the jagged edge of my manicure. Let her stare. It was the only thing I had left. "Of course you don’t know. The person he was with yesterday—the one you’re so worried about—was just sent to the hospital by me. So you see, he doesn’t love me, but he’ll never love you either."

"But I’m still better off than you. At least I’ve got the title. What’ve you got, huh? Kneeling here, begging me to let him go?"

I let my words hang there, sharp as broken glass. Sometimes, the truth stings worse than any slap.

When she heard that, she just cried harder.

Her sobs echoed off the walls, raw and wild. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking so hard I thought she might break in two. For a second, I wondered if she’d ever stop.

Once she’d calmed down a little, I finally thought to ask her name.

I waited until her breathing slowed. Then, softer than before, I asked, "What should I call you?"

"I’m Maribel Ortiz. Maribel—like Mary plus Belle."

She said it carefully, still serious, her cheeks streaked with tears.

Her accent was soft, hesitant, almost musical. She glanced up at me through wet lashes, searching for a scrap of kindness. I just nodded, filing the name away.

Suddenly, I got it. Harrison would want to protect someone this fragile and pitiful—of course he would.

It was the first time I saw her not as a rival, but as a person—a scared, lonely girl. Pathetic. Or maybe just desperate. I could almost picture Harrison softening, just for her. She was exactly the kind of woman men wanted to save.

He’d hidden her well. In three years of marriage, I never knew he was keeping such a delicate girl on the side.

Looking back, I realized how little I really knew about the man I’d married. He’d built walls around his secrets, and I’d never bothered to climb them. Maybe I was too proud. Maybe I just didn’t want to see.

But just a few words from me, and she was on the verge of falling apart. With a temperament like that, she wouldn’t last long with Harrison.

I thought about all the women who’d come and gone, none of them lasting more than a season. Maribel was too soft for this world. She’d get eaten alive.

Because Harrison Lowell was cold and ruthless, always trampling on other people’s feelings.

That was the thing about him—he could be charming, even gentle, but underneath it all he was ice. No one ever really touched his heart, not for long. I knew that better than anyone.

I handed her a tissue and managed a smile.

I plucked a tissue from the box and held it out, my hand steady. "Maribel, Harrison’s had plenty of women around him over the years, but you’re the only one who’s ever dared to kneel in my house."

Maribel didn’t take the tissue. She clutched her belly, looking at me with those stubborn, fragile eyes.

Her hands pressed tighter over her stomach. She met my gaze, chin trembling but eyes fierce. "But I’m not like the others. I’m pregnant."

My hand froze in midair. I was in a terrible mood, but I couldn’t help but laugh.

The sound came out bitter and sharp, echoing off the high ceilings. I dropped my hand, feeling the weight of old grief settle over me like a shroud.

Once, Harrison and I almost had a child. That was the first year after his sister, Charlotte Lowell, died.

I remembered that spring—the rain, the smell of cut grass, hope blooming in my chest. For a moment, I thought we could start over. That maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

I went to him, overjoyed with the test results in hand, but he shoved me away.

He barely looked at me, just pushed me aside. The test slipped from my fingers, landing on the hardwood with a tiny click. My heart cracked a little, right then.

I still remember the hatred in his eyes.

It was a look I’d never seen before—cold, bottomless, like he wanted to erase me from his life. I still see it in my dreams, sometimes.

He was drunk, gripping my shoulders and slurring, "Savannah, it’s Charlotte’s anniversary. How can you even smile today?"

His words were slurred, but the pain in them cut like a knife. He shook me, hard enough to hurt. I could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the tears he wouldn’t let fall.

His face was so cold. Ever since Charlotte died in the hospital after taking a knife for me, he’d been like that.

He never forgave me. Not really. I saw it every time he looked at me—a shadow that never left his eyes.

He hated me for getting Charlotte killed, but he couldn’t bring himself to hurt me.

He was trapped, just like I was. Every day, we circled each other—both too stubborn to let go. Too broken to hold on. We were stuck. No way out.

Because for so many years, it was just the three of us, depending on each other. Any warmth he had left, that was me.

Back in high school, we were inseparable. Charlotte was the glue, Harrison the anchor, and me—the spark. We’d built a family out of nothing, and then lost it all in one night.

I held my belly and thought, things needed to end, one way or another.

I sat in the bathroom, knees drawn up to my chest, staring at the pale blue tiles. I knew something had to give. I just didn’t know what.

Maybe if I died, Harrison could finally stop drowning in the pain of hating and loving me.

It was twisted logic, but at the time it made sense. I wanted to set him free, even if it meant losing myself.

So that night, I slit my wrists in the bathtub. Blood swirled in the water, turning it red.

I watched the crimson spiral out, felt the warmth drain from my body. Everything went quiet, like the whole world was holding its breath. I almost felt peaceful.

As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I thought I saw Charlotte’s face.

She stood in the doorway, soft and luminous, her smile the same one she wore when we snuck out for ice cream after curfew. I reached for her, but my hand slipped through empty air.

Her eyes crinkled, just like they used to when we’d sneak out late at night. I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but the words wouldn’t come.

"Savvy, I don’t blame you. Please, stop hurting yourself."

Her voice was a balm, gentle and kind. I felt a tear slip down my cheek, mingling with the blood in the water.

When Harrison burst in, I was nearly unconscious from blood loss.

He kicked down the door, panic written all over his face. I remember how his hands shook as he wrapped a towel around my arms, the sound of his voice breaking as he called 911.

But with the last bit of strength I had, I grabbed his collar and murmured,

I pulled him close, my voice barely a whisper. "Harrison, I’m giving your sister her life back. You don’t have to be torn up anymore."

But I didn’t die. The baby inside me took the blow for me.

The doctors called it a miracle I survived. But the baby—our baby—was gone before I ever held it.

When I woke up, Harrison was crying so hard he could barely breathe.

He sat by my bedside, head in his hands, shoulders shaking. I’d never seen him so undone. It scared me, a little.

He held me, shaking, so tight it felt like he wanted to fuse me into his body.

His arms were a vise, crushing and desperate. I could feel his heartbeat, wild and frantic against my cheek.

"Savvy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have blamed you for Charlotte’s death. Don’t leave me, please."

His words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. For the first time in years, I believed he meant them.

That’s when the doctor told me the news: because of the complications from this miscarriage, I’d never be able to have children again.

The words landed like a death sentence. I stared at the ceiling, numb. Harrison squeezed my hand, his grip fierce.

Before the doctor finished, Harrison gripped my hand and made me a promise.

He leaned in, voice rough but steady. "Savvy, if it’s not your child, I’ll never have kids with anyone else."

I touched the corners of his reddened eyes, my own eyes filling with tears.

I wiped a tear from his cheek, my thumb trembling. I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to so badly.

"Okay, Harrison. We’ll never be apart again."

I smiled through the tears, sealing the promise with a kiss. For a moment, it felt like we could start over.

Because of that promise, no matter how bad things got, neither of us ever mentioned divorce.

We clung to each other, even as everything else fell apart. It was the only thing we had left.

But now? I wasn’t so sure anymore.

The cracks were starting to show. I could feel the ground shifting under my feet, and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on.