The BOSS’ Wife — Night of Reckoning

The day after his first love accused me of hitting her with a car, iron lamps were roaring and hot oil was rolling in the Moscato family’s warehouse. My husband and our two sons had actually hung my younger brother over a gigantic vat of boiling oil, threatening to fry him alive.

I lunged forward like a madwoman, but two Soldiers clamped down on my arms.

“Have you learned your lesson?” Lydon stood to the side, immaculate in a suit, features cold. “Will you dare hurt Agnes again?”

“I didn’t hit her!” I cried, struggling. “Lydon, let Roger go! He’s only eighteen—he just got into college!”

Kay, five years old, folded his arms, his little face icy. “The evidence is conclusive. Why are you still denying it?”

Fouryearold Chuck nodded obediently, his tone innocent yet cruel: “Mom, if you’re scared Uncle is going to die, then you shouldn’t have hit Aunt Agnes. She is our treasure.”

My heart seized all at once.

Agnes was their treasure. And me? What was I worth?

I looked to Lydon, hoping he would at least spare Roger for the sake of our years as husband and wife.

But he only stared at me, cold, as if looking at a stranger.

I suddenly laughed, while tears pounded down uncontrollably.

So, after all these years, he still only loved Agnes.

The memories cut into my heart like knives.

The three of us had grown up as nextdoor childhood companions. I liked Lydon, but he had eyes only for Agnes. All I could do was bless them in silence, even help him plan his confession to her.

But on the eve of his confession, the plane Agnes was crashed, and no remains were found.

After that, Lydon drowned himself in liquor and ruined himself. I stayed with him and kept watch; when he was dead drunk, I cooked him hangover soup; when his stomach bled, I sat up all night to look after him.

One night, blind drunk, he grabbed my wrist, murmured “Agnes,” and pressed me beneath him.

I could have pushed him away—but I loved him. I loved him enough to be a standin.

The next morning, he stared at the blood on the sheet for a long time and, after a silence, only said, “I’ll take responsibility.”

So, we married.

After the wedding, I did my utmost to be good to him. His stomach was weak, so I got up early to simmer porridge; his workload was heavy, so I learned to help with files; he had nightmares, so I stayed up through the dark to keep him company.

Little by little, the way he looked at me changed. He began to remember my favorite flavors; when I had my period, he personally brewed me brownsugar tea; when I slept, he would brush a kiss across my brow.

Later, we had Kay and Chuck. The boys clung to me, and Lydon would often laugh as he pulled me into his arms: “Thank you for everything.” Those five years were the happiest of my life.

Until—Agnes ‘came back from the dead’ and stood in front of him again.

She was taken straight from the airport to the top floor of our family hospital—you needed a special keycard for the elevator; Lydon assigned Soldiers to stand guard in shifts.

I saw it clearly: light burst in Lydon’s eyes.

Worse, my two sons very quickly leaned to her side.

“Aunt Agnes is so much gentler than Mom!” “Aunt Agnes plays with us—Mom only takes care of us!” “Daddy, can we make Aunt Agnes our mom?”

Every time, he would only glance at me blandly, rub their heads, and say, “Don’t talk nonsense,” never once refuting them.

I became a bystander to my own life, watching the five years of happiness I had ‘stolen’ shatter the instant she returned.

And then, by cruelty, they forced me to admit to a crime I had not committed.

"I didn't hit it!" " I suddenly withdrew from my memories, my voice trembling. "Lydon, let him go!"

His eyes were cold: "The stubborn and unyielding will know the admonition of blood." He raised his hand - made a gesture to Soldier, and Soldier immediately cut the rope!

"No --!" I watched helplessly as the rope broke and my younger brother's figure plunged straight into the boiling oil pan. I lunged forward like a madman, but was firmly held down and could only scream in despair: "Lydon!" You killed him! You killed him!"

I was in excruciating pain and suddenly a mouthful of blood gushed up. Seeing this, Kay impatiently pursed her lips and said, "Alright, that's not my uncle at all. It's just a dummy." Mom, do you really need to be so excited?

Chuck also snorted: "Just to scare you. Who let you hurt Aunt Agnes?" I was completely exhausted and slumped heavily to the ground, as if my heart had stopped beating.

Lydon looked down from above: "Remember this feeling." Agnes came back to life. I can't lose her a second time. He paused for a moment, his tone as gentle as a charity: "I know what you're worried about." Since I have married you, I will take on the responsibilities of a husband and a father and will not divorce you. So, don't try every possible way to get rid of Agnes anymore. I trembled and looked up.

But I'm already preparing for a divorce... I don't want Agnes' husband and son who are so partial to her anymore. I was just about to speak when his mobile phone rang. "Agnes?" " He picked up the phone and his tone instantly softened. "It hurts again?" Ok. I'll be there right away. After hanging up the phone, he didn't even glance at me and left quickly with Kay and Chuck. The factory was instantly empty, leaving only me kneeling on the ground, with tears falling one by one into the dust.

I wiped away my tears and was about to get up when my phone suddenly vibrated. A message from Agnes popped up - "Blanca, I had that dummy replaced. The one being fried in the oil now is your own brother."

The blood all over my body seemed to freeze instantly. I staggered to the edge of the oil pan. The scalding steam hit me in the face, burning my eyes painfully.

In the oil pan, Roger's body had been fried to a bloody mess, his skin charred black, and his limbs twisted. Only his eyes were still wide open, staring at me intently.

"Roger... "Roger!" I reached out like a madman, and the scalding oil splashed onto the back of my hand, instantly forming a blood blister.

I was shaking with pain, but still desperately tried to grab Roger's hand. He couldn't even make a sound anymore. Only his lips were trembling slightly, as if he wanted to call me "Blanca".

I must save him!

Even if there is only a glimmer of hope!

I dialed 112 with a trembling hand, then carried Roger out, hailed a taxi through tears, and rushed him to the ER—only to be told the Don had ordered all doctors to Agnes’s care. No one could treat my brother.

I was shaking all over and immediately dialed Lydon's number.

"Lydon!" Please... Please call the doctor to save Roger! He fell into the oil pan! He's dying!"

On the other end of the phone, his voice was a bit impatient: "Blanca, that's just a dummy." How long are you going to keep making a fuss? In the background, Kay and Chuck were still complaining,

"Why is Mom always being so unreasonable?"

"Dad, ignore her. Aunt Agnes is still waiting for you."

Lydon hung up directly. I knelt on the ground, desperately begging for help everywhere, but everyone tried to avoid me.

The doctors and security guards here all respect Don's face. Without permission, the operating room seemed to be locked by an invisible lock.

By the time I finally found a doctor willing to help, Roger’s body had already gone cold.

Dead—crushed in the crevice between “family law” and power; dead under the hand of the name I loved most and feared most.

……

Three days later, the cemetery.

I stood in front of Roger’s tombstone, bloodless.

For three days I had moved like the walking dead: obtaining the death certificate, sending him for cremation, then burying him with my own hands.

And in those three days, Lydon and our two sons did not show up even once.

I opened Agnes’s Instagram. The newest post was a photo of Lydon feeding her porridge, with the caption: [Someone insists on taking care of me himself. What am I going to do with him~]

Below were comments from Kay and Chuck:

[Aunt Agnes, get well soon! We want to go to the amusement park with you!]

[Aunt Agnes is much gentler than Mom. We like you best!]

I shut off my phone, my eyes going completely cold.

I walked out of the cemetery and did exactly two things.

First, I went to a law firm and had a divorce agreement drafted.

Second, I dialed 112. The operator transferred me to 17. After confirming my address, the police on duty had someone pick me up at the door and take me to the Préfecture de Police to file a report. My attorney arrived quickly and said the file would be submitted to the parquet de Paris; whether a formal case would be opened would depend on the prosecutor and the investigating magistrate.