When my fiancé and his first love were getting their marriage certificate, I was five months pregnant and trying on wedding dresses. His first love had been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and her greatest wish was to wear a wedding dress for him. So this time, the bride wasn’t me. I called his parents and brothers, but they all hemmed and hawed. Oh, everyone knew except me. I was just a joke. Later, he called me sobbing, begging to see me, pleading for me to come back to him. I warned him not to harass a married woman, or my boyfriend might come and beat him up like the scumbag he was. When I discovered Alexander’s marriage certificate with his first love, Isabella, I called him and asked, “Where are you?” He answered naturally, “Working overtime, where else could I be? Money’s hard to come by these days, and that client, ugh, so many demands…” The next second, I pushed open the hospital room door. There was Alexander, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, peeling an orange with one hand and feeding it to his first love, Isabella, with the other. How considerate. When Alexander turned and saw me, both he and his first love were stunned. Isabella, lying in the hospital bed, looked quite pitiful. Both her hands were hooked up to IVs, her face was pale, her lips were blue, and she wore a blue hospital cap on her head. I guessed she was undergoing chemotherapy and had lost her hair. My petite 5’3″ frame suddenly seemed intimidating to Alexander. He shrank back a bit, barely shielding his first love: “Amelia, this is my responsibility. It has nothing to do with her. We can talk about this when we get home. She’s sick. Please be understanding.” Isabella coughed weakly, pushing away his arm with effort: “Sister, it’s all my fault. Please don’t be angry with him. It’s all because of me…” As if I were the villain here. The one wielding a stick to break up the lovebirds. I didn’t say anything. I went downstairs to the convenience store, bought a box of milk, brought it up, set it down, and left. Alexander grabbed my arm, his eyes red as he said, “Amelia, I know you’re upset, but Isabella is dying. As they say, we should show the utmost respect for the dying…” I didn’t look at him. I said, “Congratulations on your marriage.” Alexander stood there, his eyes as wide as a goldfish’s: “After all we’ve been through, you have to hurt me with those words?”
Our relationship. Alexander and I had been together for eight years. Calm and uneventful. Like plain water. In Alexander’s private conversations with his buddies, he’d say I was virtuous, suitable for being a wife. Well, how should I put this? I wasn’t really as virtuous as the rumors said. In private, I smoked and drank. I deliberately acted that way in front of Alexander. There’s a saying, isn’t there? When he’s young and inexperienced, you seduce him; when he’s seen it all, you become his home. Alexander’s family was wealthy. After his first love Isabella left him years ago, he went off the rails for quite some time. Later, he was “captured” by me, the “suitable wife” material. The player settled down, the wanderer returned home. His career also flourished. People said I was virtuous, that I brought him good fortune. The reason I adjusted myself to be a pure, innocent flower to please Alexander was, of course, love. But Alexander, it seemed, didn’t love me.
When I went to the hospital to terminate my pregnancy, it became a trending topic online. The headline read: Shocking! Arrogant mistress flaunts pregnancy to taunt cancer-stricken wife! The accompanying photo was from the day I went to the hospital to see Alexander and Isabella. I couldn’t deny this accusation. They had a marriage certificate; they were legally husband and wife. What was I? What was my child? Nothing but a mistress and an illegitimate child. I’m a kind person. I thought if the child would be criticized by the world from the moment it was born, carrying the stigma of being illegitimate, then I chose not to bring it into this world. Under that trending topic, there were 80,000 comments insulting me. Perhaps because online bullying carries no consequences, netizens used the vilest language, dragging my entire family through the mud. My mood was affected, and I hemorrhaged heavily during the procedure. To make matters worse, I have Rh-negative blood. There was a delay in finding matching blood, and I almost didn’t make it. In that life-or-death moment, I felt a bit vulnerable. Instinctively, I wanted to grab my phone and call Alexander. After two rings, I hung up. In what capacity could I call him? What right did I have?
When I was discharged, the hospital entrance was packed with people. They were all women who despised mistresses, cursing and swearing. Someone even threw a tomato at me. It splattered. Leaving a red stain on my forehead, like blood. The nurse held them back, saying, “Have some humanity! She just had a miscarriage. She’s a patient who needs to recover. She can’t handle this kind of stress.” The women erupted, their mouths like a fermenting cesspool in July, buzzing annoyingly. So I retreated back into the hospital. As a result, those shrews spread rumors like wildfire. One lie led to another, and soon they were saying I had my uterus removed and would never be able to have children again. Online, people were cheering, saying this is what happens to mistresses, they should all be sterilized. This is the fate of a mistress. … Yes. That’s how I became a despicable mistress. Eight years.
Alexander and Isabella were preparing for their wedding. They were busy beyond belief. Thank goodness Alexander found time in his busy schedule to give me a call. He said Isabella only had three months left to live, and that people nearing death are pitiful. He wanted to accompany her through this final journey. He even comforted me, saying that after this final journey, he would marry me. He promised me an especially grand wedding, booking the best hotel in the city, hiring the best wedding planner, buying the most expensive wedding dress, and creating the most ceremonial atmosphere, complete with the traditional veil-lifting ceremony. He said he would make it up to me, really make it up to me. I said okay. There was a choke on the other end of the line, and Alexander’s voice was low: “Amelia, you’ve always been so understanding.” I licked my lips and said, “Let’s break up.” After saying it, I felt childish. Actually, we had already broken up when he and Isabella got their marriage certificate. Alexander laughed: “Why are you saying such hurtful things? Don’t joke around.” I said, “I can’t possibly be a mistress, can I?” Alexander’s voice froze again, filled with what seemed like deep sympathy: “Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re still carrying our child, aren’t you? Be good, okay? Wait for me.” Oh. Still carrying the child. So that’s his leverage. Wanting me to really be that “virtuous” woman, waiting for him. Dream on.
Without a doubt, I loved Alexander. But that doesn’t mean he can bully me as he pleases. Actually, I had loved Alexander since I was very young. Back then, he was the young master of a construction group, and my father was an employee under his father. A scaffolding worker. One day, he accidentally fell and broke his leg. The project manager didn’t want to compensate. My mother had been chronically ill, and our family was so poor we could barely afford to eat. I was desperate, so I went to kneel at the entrance of the construction site. Alexander was sitting in a car driven by his chauffeur, wearing sunglasses. He saw me kneeling nearby, about to faint from the heat. So he got out and gave me a bottle of water. I was so dizzy from the heat that when I opened my eyes and looked at him, I thought he was surrounded by a halo of light, like a deity descending from the clouds. That deity spoke softly, asking me what was wrong, what grievances I had. I burst into tears right then and there, sobbing as I told him everything. He frowned slightly, turned to say a few words to his driver, and told me to go home and wait. He even took a Häagen-Dazs ice cream from the car’s mini-fridge and gave it to me. That was the first time I had ever tasted Häagen-Dazs. I remember that flavor for the rest of my life. I went home in a daze, and the next day, my father’s work injury compensation came through. It was several tens of thousands of dollars, enough to support us for two and a half years. For him, it was nothing, just a word. But for us, it was our family’s lifeline. I was very grateful. Really. At that moment, a thought sprouted in my mind – I wanted to become someone like him. Someone who could help others, bring light and warmth to people’s lives. So I kept working hard. Studying, getting into a good university, starting a business. Maybe it was luck, or maybe it was because I entered e-commerce and caught the internet boom, riding the wave of opportunity. Anyway, I managed to make some money and became something of a “young talent.” Fate wasn’t too unkind to me after all. Unfortunately, I still missed my chance with Alexander.
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