You Replaced Me, Now Beg

Beatrice’s POV

On our sixth wedding anniversary, my husband Jonathan brought his dead ex-girlfriend's sister into our home — despite my objections.

"Beatrice, are you even human? You can't even show compassion to a dying woman! How could someone so cold-hearted be a role model for Oliver!"

My son — the boy I'd raised for six years — swung his little fists at me and screamed: "Beatrice! If you don't let Isadora stay, I'll never speak to you again!"

That was the moment my heart turned to stone.

I signed the divorce papers and walked straight back into the courtroom — clawing my way back to the top.

Then they discovered her lies. Every. Single. One.

Jonathan fell to his knees before me, eyes red and brimming with tears: "Beatrice, do six years of marriage mean nothing to you anymore?"

My son clung to my legs, sobbing: "Mommy! Mommy, don't go! I know I was wrong! Mommy—"

I looked down at them. I felt nothing.

"Now take your mistress and your son — and get out of my life."

I turned and walked away without looking back.

Six years of marriage, and my husband brought home his dead ex-girlfriend's sister over my objections.

"Beatrice, Isadora's condition is serious. I've decided she'll stay with us."

I lowered my gaze. Across from the dinner I'd spent hours preparing lay a leukemia diagnosis.

This was Jonathan's gift to me for our sixth wedding anniversary.

Seeing my expression darken, Isadora nestled against him, her voice so fragile a breeze might scatter it.

"Jonathan, forget it. I can tell Beatrice doesn't want me here."

"Besides, I probably don't have long anyway... the same disease that took my sister... just leave me be."

"Don't talk like that, Isadora. You're going to be fine." Jonathan turned to me, his eyes cold as slate. "Beatrice, what's wrong with you? You can't even show compassion to a dying woman? How can someone so heartless be a role model for Oliver?"

Oliver, our ten-year-old son, leaped off the couch the moment he heard his father's words, his small fists pounding against my leg.

"Beatrice! If you don't let Isadora stay, I'll never speak to you again!"

The steak on the table had gone cold. Just like my heart.

One was the man I'd loved for six years. The other was the child I'd raised for six years—the boy I'd saved with my own bone marrow.

Through all those nights Jonathan never came home, if I had any reason left to stay, it was Oliver.

Once upon a time, he'd clung to me like a little koala, his small arms wrapped tight around my neck, whispering in my ear: "Mommy, I love you most."

Now, for another woman, he was ready to throw me away without a second thought.

In that moment, the disappointment cut deeper than the anger.

I let out a bitter laugh and turned to go to my room, but Jonathan stopped me. "Beatrice, pack your things. You're moving to the guest room."

I froze mid-step but didn't turn around.

"Isadora is sick. I'm worried that seeing us share a room might remind her of her sister and make her condition worse."

He said it like he was commenting on the weather.

I took a deep breath, walked straight to our bedroom, and with trembling hands, dialed a number I hadn't called in years.

"Vivian, I want to come back to work."

The voice on the other end erupted with joy. "Really? Beatrice, you've finally come to your senses!"

"Giving up your career for that family was the legal profession's loss! Welcome back, Courtroom Queen!"

I managed a hollow agreement and immediately booked a flight for the following week.

As I was putting away my phone, I noticed Isadora had posted something new on social media.

In the photo, Jonathan pushed a shopping cart overflowing with gifts. Oliver trailed behind them. Isadora beamed, holding Oliver's hand.

The caption read: Got so many presents today. Someone's spoiling me~

They had always despised shopping. Every time I suggested going out, Jonathan would frown and call it a waste of time. Oliver would tug impatiently at my sleeve, whining that he was bored.

Turns out they didn't hate shopping. They just hated shopping with me.

I saw a comment from Jonathan's friend Sebastian: Jonathan, aren't you worried Beatrice will get mad? Careful she doesn't walk out on you!

Jonathan's reply was three words: She wouldn't dare.

Years ago, I'd believed Jonathan's promise to love me forever. I'd quit my career. Donating marrow to Oliver had left me permanently unable to have children. After six years as a housewife, I had nothing but them. All I could do was tilt my head back and blink furiously, refusing to let the tears fall.

The door swung open. Jonathan walked in holding a gift bag.

"Here. I remember you used to love buying necklaces." He thrust the box toward me like he was handing out charity.

I opened it. Inside lay a cheap, dated silver chain. Stamped on the inside of the box: COMPLIMENTARY GIFT—it wasn't even purchased. It was a freebie.

Bags and bags of presents for Isadora. For our anniversary, I got the promotional giveaway.

I raised my hand and dropped the box straight into the trash.

Jonathan's face contorted with rage. He grabbed my wrist. "Beatrice, what the hell is wrong with you!"

"Taking out the garbage."

"I went out of my way to get you something, and this is how you act?" His voice shook with fury. "I remembered our anniversary. I brought you a gift. And you're this ungrateful?"

"That's right. I'm ungrateful." I met his eyes. "And I'm telling you now—every piece of garbage you give me, I'm throwing away."