The next morning, Sylvia asked me to meet her in a quiet tea room.
When she saw me, there wasn’t the slightest surprise in her eyes.
“Shari,” she said calmly, “I recognized you the moment I saw you at the District yesterday.”
I froze.
Then she continued, as if explaining something trivial.
“Before I married Bert, I already knew about you.”
She crossed one elegant leg over the other.
“In our circle, men having someone on the side isn’t exactly shocking. Bert was considered restrained. You were the only one.”
“I was never his side woman,” I said immediately.
She let out a soft, cold laugh.
“What you call yourself doesn’t matter.”
Then she slid a fresh prenatal report across the table.
“I’m pregnant. This child is the tie between our families. Originally, I didn’t care to deal with you. But once you dragged this onto the trending page, I had no choice.”
Along with the report, she pushed over a confidentiality agreement and a blank check.
“Sign this. Record a public apology. Leave San Antonio within two days. Fill in whatever amount you want.”
I pushed both documents back.
Then I stood up to leave.
Her voice stopped me.
“Shari, you won’t survive here. If you change your mind, call me.”
She was right.
That entire morning, I carried my résumé from one related office to another. Every HR manager who looked at my file refused me almost immediately.
The reason was always the same.
Conduct issues. Bad for the organization’s image.
Some were even crueler.
“If you were good enough to aim for a man like that, why are you looking for a real job now?”
Photos of me showing up for interviews were posted online too. Someone even tagged Bert’s social account.
Seconds later, my phone rang.
“Shari, how long are you going to keep making a scene?” Bert snapped. “I offered you a job and you refused it. Instead you run around humiliating yourself. Isn’t that enough?”
The winter wind cut across my face like knives.
“In your eyes,” I asked quietly, “am I the other woman too?”
He went silent.
For a long time.
Then all he managed was, “Shari, I—”
I hung up.
A few minutes later, my phone rang again.
This time it was my mother, sobbing so hard I could barely make out her words.
“Shari, what kind of daughter did I raise? They’re saying you were someone’s mistress for five years. Your father had a heart attack from the shock. The surgery costs eighty thousand. We’ve sold everything we can and it’s still not enough…”
Something slammed into my head.
A snowball.
I looked up.
Two children across the sidewalk were pointing at me.
“Bad woman!”
“Hit the bad woman!”
More snowballs came flying.
They laughed and ran away, turning back to make faces at me.
I dropped to my knees in the snow, tears splashing onto my phone screen, and with shaking hands I dialed Sylvia’s number.
She answered on the first ring, amused.
“That was fast. Changed your mind already?”
My throat was raw.
“I’ll do it.”
She brought me to a livestream studio used by an online media company.
After I signed the confidentiality agreement, I sat in front of the camera and read from a script in a numb voice.
“Hello everyone. I’m Shari Lane. Regarding the recent false information circulating online, I would like to formally apologize to Ms. Sylvia Zott and Mr. Bert Hale. I fabricated chat records to attract attention. Mr. Hale and I were merely classmates from the academy.”
The viewer count shot up.
The live comments were all insults.
Get out of San Antonio.
Trash.
Homewrecker.
By the time the stream ended, I felt like something inside me had been hollowed out.
Sylvia pulled out several thick stacks of cash and, with a careless flick of her hand, scattered them on the floor.
“Oh no,” she said lightly. “My hand slipped. Pick them up yourself.”
Bills fluttered everywhere.
“Sylvia, don’t push it,” I said, taking a step forward.
Two security guards immediately grabbed me and forced me down.
One of them kicked the back of my knee.
Pain shot through my leg and I dropped to the ground.
As I struggled, someone shoved my head downward. In front of the cameras and everyone in that room, I was forced into a bow at Sylvia’s feet.
Laughter broke out around me.
Phone cameras lifted from every direction.
Sylvia grabbed my hair and smiled.
“Take the money and disappear. Don’t ever dream of challenging me again.”
Then she turned and called Bert, her voice turning sweet as syrup.
“Honey, it’s handled. Praise me.”
On the other end, Bert’s answer was gentle.
“You’ve worked hard, sweetheart.”
I knelt there on the floor, picking up the bills one by one.
It was my father’s life I was gathering in my hands.
After the crowd finally scattered, a pair of polished black military boots stopped in front of me.
“Shari,” Bert said, his voice low. “Are you really that desperate for money? Desperate enough to kneel and pick it up?”
He grabbed my wrist, dragged me downstairs, and shoved a bank card into my hand.
“If you need money, ask me. Don’t degrade yourself like this.”
He drove me back to my temporary apartment himself. On the way, his tone softened.
“I bought you a condo in the suburbs. You can move in tomorrow. After things calm down, I’ll arrange a job for you. Then we won’t have to be long-distance anymore.”
I didn’t answer.
I just quietly counted the cash in my lap.
When I got out of the car, he suddenly pulled me into a hug and kissed my forehead.
“Shari, you’ve suffered these five years. I’ll make it up to you from now on. Sylvia went a little too far today. Don’t take it to heart.”
Two hours later, I dragged my suitcase into the airport.
My phone pushed a news alert.
Bert and Sylvia had appeared together at a military celebration gala, praised online as a model power couple.
And me?
I was still the mistress the whole internet despised.
Before boarding, Bert sent me the address of the new apartment.
I replied without hesitation.
Bert, we’re done.
Then I blocked him everywhere.
No accusations.
No more tears.
The five-year lie was over.