At three in the morning, my daughter's preschool teacher called me, her tone smug. Jemma Kelley announced she was getting married the next day and insisted that every parent attend the ceremony. Because of my confidential job, I suppressed my grogginess and politely declined the invitation.

Moments later, she sent me an impatient message: "Ryleigh's mom, if you don't show up, you'll have to compensate me with a million-dollar wedding gift." I thought she was joking, so I explained myself again, publicly.

"Sorry, but my profession makes it inconvenient. Congratulations on your wedding."

The teacher immediately scoffed, "Unemployed, huh? What's inconvenient?"

"Or are you off to star in some films or working as a spa technician?"

"My husband is the wealthiest man around. Inviting you is a blessing for you and your ancestors. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth!"

She then triumphantly sent over an electronic invitation. Suspicious, I clicked on the wedding photo section and froze in shock. Wasn't that my husband, Mitchell West? Had he forgotten who the real wealthy one was in the family—me, Eleanora Wood?

Sleep vanished entirely. In the group chat, I wrote: "Fine, I'll not only be there tomorrow but also prepare a special gift for you, teacher!"

After typing those words, I crept out of bed and headed straight to my dressing table. Sure enough, the marriage certificate was still there. But the five-piece ruby set worth five billion dollars, intended as a wedding gift, was on the preschool teacher's dress in the wedding photos.

It seemed that after being married for so long, Mitchell West really thought he had secured his position as the kingpin. I chuckled coldly and immediately called my assistant, Baker Dean, instructing him to separate my assets from Mitchell West's overnight.

By the time everything was done, dawn was breaking. Seeing my daughter wake, I gently suggested changing preschools. Ryleigh's little face scrunched up, and she asked, "Mommy, can I say goodbye to my friends?"

Her words softened my heart. Assuming Jemma would be occupied with her wedding today and wouldn't be at the preschool, I decided to fulfill Ryleigh's wish. Driving back, I vaguely heard the teacher on the phone mentioning "Jemma...flower girl..." but didn't think much of it and continued toward our destination.

After touching up my lipstick, I received a message from my husband, Mitchell:

"Darling, when are you taking a break? I've been traveling, and I miss you so much."

"Is the plot of land on the east side a sound investment? I want to give you and our daughter a better life."

I raised an eyebrow and glanced at the groom's standee at the entrance, which boldly displayed "Mitchell West" in large letters. It was clear yet laughable. I replied, word by word: "I've checked; it's a sound investment. Go all in so you can soon become the nation's wealthiest."

The call got abruptly cut off. Ignoring the calls, I canceled Mitchell's transportation arrangements just before the wedding convoy was set to depart.

Getting out of the car, I saw Jemma at the center, being fawned over by the crowd. Raising her eyebrows, the parents from the committee immediately rallied for her.

"Isn't this Ryleigh's mom, the unemployed one? She pretended she couldn't come last night."

"Can't even afford a wedding gift, right? Should we start a group fund to pitch in for her?"

Jemma cast me a sidelong glance, noticing my gift box adorned with the word "condolences." Her face turned pallid, and she sharply inquired, "Ryleigh's mom, what's the meaning of this?"

"Broke or not, but coming here bearing such ominous things? Can't stand seeing others happy, can you?"

Others pushed forward to rip apart the gift, but when I sidestepped, they all tumbled like dominoes.

Jemma pointed at me, "Who do you think you are, daring to provoke me? Do you even know who my husband is?"

"Take your worthless stuff and get out!"

I chuckled, "Indeed, what's inside isn't worth much, just $9.99."

Without waiting for her reply, I opened the box to reveal two glaringly obvious marriage certificates. And the groom's name was Mitchell West.

"But the one who should leave is you."

The surrounding parents hesitated. Jemma, upon seeing this, laughed instead of getting angry.

I had already come across an obsessive fan online who fantasized about my husband all day and even went so far as to photoshop a marriage certificate.

Initially, I thought about letting it go for the sake of Ryleigh, but you've sunk to a new low that's just disgraceful.

I took out my phone and showed a screenshot.

It was a social media account using my name, with my daughter's school photo as the profile picture. The content was filled with explicit fantasies about Mitchell.

The most outrageous post claimed that as long as Mitchell spent a night with me, I'd be willing to degrade myself in every possible way.

"Would your daughter and husband still want you if they knew how shameless you are?"

Hearing these false accusations made me tremble with rage. But given the sensitive nature of my job, I knew it was best not to engage in a public scene.

I forced myself to calm down and opened my phone to clear my name by showing my own social media account. Just as I was about to do so, Jemma swatted it away.

"You've managed to snag such a wealthy husband; no wonder you’re holding on tight," she sneered. "No wonder you claim your job is inconvenient; turns out, you’re just the mistress."

She jabbed her finger into my forehead, pressing hard. "If you don’t admit you're the mistress, I’ll bring out more evidence."

She led the way to the luxury car I arrived in. Other parents, misunderstanding her intentions, started throwing insults.

"Even if Mr. West had a lapse of judgment, it doesn’t mean he’s interested in you," one scoffed.

"Exactly! Why else would the car be a model no one's ever seen? It just proves you're out of your league."

"Could it be a fake car? Brought here just to show off and ended up embarrassing yourself."

The vehicle was a custom design, waterproof, bulletproof, and explosion-proof. As the crowd belittled me, I was about to defend myself when Jemma suddenly slapped me across the face.

I dodged quickly, but she still managed to scratch my skin.

Staring wide-eyed, she shouted indignantly, “This car is real because it’s mine! The license plate letters ‘M’ and ‘J’ stand for my husband Mitchell and me, Jemma.”

I frowned, recalling how Mitchell had mentioned swapping all-zero plates for ones with his and my initials. It seemed he had found a convenient excuse to appease his mistress.

Unwilling to engage further, I went to retrieve the vehicle registration. But Jemma tore it to shreds as soon as I opened it.

"You witch, don’t think you can fool me," she growled, raising her hand to slap me again. This time, I was ready. I grabbed her wrist and flung it aside.

Caught off guard, Jemma fell to the ground, tearing the hem of her Victorian-style dress. Trembling with anger, she pointed at me and screamed, "You home-wrecking tramp! Want to know what my husband says about you? He says you’re like a dog in heat, spreading your legs at the mere sight of him."

"But he finds you disgusting and wouldn’t touch you."

The surrounding parents quickly rallied to Jemma’s side, hurling insults at me.

I took off my coat, letting their verbal abuse roll off me and flinging it back into the crowd. Watching them scatter like clowns, I coldly spoke, "You accuse without knowing the facts?"

"Jemma, I'm formally letting you know: you're the mistress."

"Call off the wedding now, and you might still have a chance to redeem yourself."

Jemma, however, remained undeterred. "When my husband comes to get me, you’ll regret this."

Pointing to the car behind me, she continued smugly, "You hussy, I’m officially notifying you: wash the car immediately and compensate me five million for emotional damages."

I laughed in disbelief at the absurd demand.

"And why should I?" I asked.

Jemma narrowed her eyes and shifted to the side, her face filled with triumph.

"Why?" she taunted, "Because of her!"