The Last Mistress's Wife

PAIGE

It is said that my husband has six mistresses. All from six different cities.

And the last one happens to be his favorite.

Everyone who lives in the city knows this. Wherever I go, I hear the whispers and feel the pitiful glances thrown at me.

The prominent women in the society stand by and mutter inaudible, mocking statements about my husband's infidelity.

Even the guards lower their eyes whenever he drives out at night, pretending not to have an idea of where he is going.

At the beginning, I try to endure, hoping that, maybe, just maybe, he would come back to me one day.

But then it goes from the first to the second, the third, and currently, the sixth mistress, all for a son.

He always wanted a male child. An heir apparent to his mega businesses.

However, my first two kids turn out to be daughters. And ever since then, Richard saw me as a misfortune, a bad wife, and a mistake that shouldn't have happened.

“A man with no son leaves no legacy.” He would say with a forced smile that doesn't reach his eyes, while I lock myself in and weep my eyes out.

But on this day, I am standing at the balcony, watching as Richard's black car zooms out of the gates like other times.

He doesn't bother telling where he is heading. He just climbs in and drives out.

Even so, he doesn't have to inform me, for I already know. I sigh and watch the security men lock back the gates.

“My lady, you should rest. It's not good for you to be standing like this. It is late at night.”

A soft voice speaks behind me.

It is Martha, my oldest maid. At least, she is the only person in the house who gazes upon me with real concern and love.

She's been here since our wedding day and has seen how my joyful moments in the early times of our marriage faded into sadness and hatred.

Plastering a fake smile, I turn to her. “I'll sleep soon, Matha.”

She frowns, coming to tap my shoulder like I'm a little child. “Don't stay up looking and thinking, dear. It is better you look after yourself first.”

It is better I look myself first.

Her words ring in my memory, and I nod subconsciously.

“True. I needed this encouragement. I need to sleep. Have you laid the kids in bed?” I yawn, following right behind her.

“Yes, My Lady. I have done so.” Martha replies and leads me up to the doorstep of my bedroom.

Ever since Richard realized I will not be producing an heir anytime soon, he sent me packing right from our matrimonial space into one of the rooms on the second floor.

That spot became the place for our future irregular sexual intercourse.

Something that would later be referred to as a ‘once in a blue moon’ event.

He even goes further to pick a specific date for our sexual intercourse, which is done once a month.

“Goodnight, My Lady.” Martha closes the door behind her as she waves the last time.

I smile a little, leaning my back against the door and staring into space.

Other times, a tear would have dropped off my face knowing my husband's keeping a fellow woman warm.

But now, all I feel is nothing. Absolutely nothing. All the hurt, pain, and continuous disgrace in the last few years have certainly vanished.

I plop into the bed, allowing sleep to take over me.

Richard doesn't come home the next morning.

And I have to eat breakfast and lunch all alone under the prying eyes of the homeworkers.

This wasn't what I bargained for when I married him six years ago.

Richard, at that time, was seemingly indifferent about our marriage and togetherness because he chased after his childhood friend and lover.

Every supposed romantic date, proposal, gesture, gift, present, and up to the public declaration was all done by me.

That was how desperate I was.

But I was disregarded.

My marriage to him only lasted for a while.

Martha comes and clears off the table. And in the next seven to eight hours, I stay indoors repeating routines.

He arrives home at the peak of the evening time. Perfectly groomed with a blank face that masks the hidden expression on his face.

I stand at the end of the stairs, watching him step through the gigantic entrance doors, and walking to my direction.

He glances at me just for a second and then warns me beforehand. “Get out of my way, woman! Don't go asking where I spent the night.”

The last times I asked to know his whereabouts ended in tears for me.

He would either ignore or remind me of my inability to bear a male child.

He would brag about the certainty of birthing a son from one of his multiple mistresses.

I would cry and weep, asking heavens to grant my wishes to satisfy my husband.

But right now, I just stare at him indifferently as though he is a total stranger and a complete fool to my face.

“I said, pave way! Have you also gone deaf besides your incapability?” He storms fiercely in my direction.

I feel an urge to grab him by the chest and push till he staggers.

However, in reality, I step down and allow him to have the stairs.

He walks past me, climbing up and grunting beneath his breath.

His presence leaves loads of sadness in me, so I stare into the empty space while his sharp footsteps echo in my ears.

Letting out a long breath, I face the direction of the kitchen.

Leaning by the entrance of the kitchen, I call out the head of the maidservants. The one who listens whenever I'm in distress.

“Martha.”

She appears from the midst of others, wiping her hands on the apron.

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Arrange the spices. I'll make dinner tonight.”

She looks surprised, her jaw nearly drops to the marble floor.

There are few things Richard stopped me from doing the moment I conceived my first child. That was before the ultrasound test was carried out.

One of them was: Do not cook.