His Mistress Wore White to Our Daughter's Funeral
by Ava Sterling
He buried our daughter on Tuesday. On Wednesday his mistress moved into my house. On Friday I found out I was pregnant — and the father wasn't him.
They buried my six-year-old daughter in the rain, and my husband came with his pregnant mistress on his arm. By nightfall I had no home, no name, and no money — only a nurse's note proving the surgery that would have saved Lily was cancelled by Julian himself. Then came two pink lines, a man in a black car, and a truth I had been running from for six weeks. He wanted the Ashford empire. I wanted it to burn. Neither of us knew I was already carrying the one thing that could end them all.
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