His Mistress Threatened The Wrong Woman Chapter 1

The day Harrison’s mistress came to destroy me, I was twelve weeks pregnant.

In my first life, she threw an envelope of glossy photographs into my face, her painted lips curving into a smirk that was as youthful as it was vicious.

“What’s the point of clinging to the title of Mrs. Prescott?” she had purred, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Harrison told me he’s divorcing you. That thing in your belly? It’s just collateral to keep his parents happy until he takes over the board.”

My hands had trembled with an uncontrollable, sickening rage. We argued at the top of the stairs, and in a flurry of manicured hands and sharp elbows, she shoved me. Hard.

As the cold marble claimed my bones and warmth bloomed between my thighs, I lay paralyzed at the bottom of the grand staircase, listening to her frantic call to Harrison.

“Harrison, I didn't mean to! She slipped, she lost her footing—”

A beat of heavy silence from the receiver. Then, his low, measured voice: “Don’t panic. Stay put. I’ll make sure it’s handled cleanly.”

When I opened my eyes again, the morning light was pouring across our master bedroom. It was that very same Tuesday.

I looked down at my stomach, still flat beneath the silk of my robe. My fingers curled inward, digging into the fabric until my knuckles turned white.

Then I picked up my phone and dialed my mother-in-law.

“Mom,” I said, letting a faint tremor seep into my voice. “I’m not feeling well today. Could you come over and sit with me for a little while?”

Eleanor Prescott arrived thirty minutes later.

When the doorbell rang, our housekeeper, Martha, opened the door to reveal Eleanor holding an insulated carrier filled with homemade broths. At fifty-four, Eleanor looked barely late thirties—impeccably tailored, her silver-streaked dark hair swept up, her skin glowing with the quiet discipline of old East Coast money. Walking down Fifth Avenue together, strangers routinely mistook us for sisters rather than mother- and daughter-in-law.

The moment she crossed the foyer, she reached for both of my hands. Seeing only the staff around, she frowned. “Where’s Harrison?”

“Early meeting at the firm,” I said softly. “He left before seven.”

Eleanor’s expression cooled. “You’re in your first trimester, and he’s acting like he’s chained to the office.”

I didn’t defend him.

In my past life, I had always defended him. I had manufactured excuses for his late nights, his sudden weekend retreats, his phantom board dinners. I had believed every single word that slid out of his handsome mouth.

It wasn't until Hailey Brooks threw those hotel receipts and candid photos in my face that I learned the truth: Harrison wasn't chained to his desk. He was busy curating diamond tennis bracelets, sitting through private couture fittings, and spending long, secluded weekends in a private cabin in upstate New York.

I guided Eleanor gently toward the living room sofa. “Don’t be angry, Mom. His schedule is intense. I understand.”

Eleanor unlatched the container, releasing the aroma of slow-simmered, herb-infused chicken broth. “You’re far too accommodating, Paige. Pregnancy takes an immense toll on a woman. If a husband doesn't know how to cherish his wife during this time, he has no conscience.”

She pulled out her phone and dialed Harrison on speaker.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded the second the line connected. “Your wife is carrying your child, and you can’t even spare a morning? I want you home early today. No excuses.”

Harrison muttered a tight, dutiful agreement and hung up. Seconds later, my phone vibrated in my palm.

Paige, can you stop stirring up drama out of thin air?

Can you do anything besides running to my mother like a child?

I’m in the middle of closing a deal. Stop sabotaging me.

I stared at the screen without answering. A slow, bitter smile touched my lips.

Eleanor handed me a delicate porcelain bowl, steam rising between us. “I made this from scratch at dawn. Drink it while it’s warm.”

Holding the bowl, my vision blurred slightly. Since the day I married into the Prescott family, Eleanor had treated me with a fierce, protective warmth. She knew I had grown up with distant, neglectful parents, and she had stepped into the void, remembering every holiday, selecting thoughtful gifts, and checking on me with genuine maternal care. When I told her I was expecting, she had cried with joy, keeping Harrison at the family estate for three hours the following evening just to drill him on how to care for me.

After lunch, Eleanor insisted I go upstairs to rest. “Go on, lie down for an hour. I’ll read my journal down here.”

I nodded obediently. But once inside the master suite, I locked the door, pulled out my phone, and opened the live feed from the living room security camera.

At 2:17 PM, the doorbell rang.

Eleanor was sitting on the sectional, an architectural magazine resting on her lap. Martha went to answer the door.

On the screen, Hailey Brooks stood on the limestone porch.

Martha looked at her with mild confusion. “May I help you, miss?”

Hailey slipped off her designer sunglasses, peering past Martha into the grand foyer. “I’m here to see Paige.”

Hearing the voice, Eleanor set her magazine aside and walked toward the entrance.

When Hailey caught sight of Eleanor, she visibly faltered for a fraction of a second. She clearly hadn’t expected “Mrs. Prescott” to look so youthful, so radiant, so completely poised.

But the hesitation vanished almost instantly, replaced by a dark, simmering malice. She swept her eyes over Eleanor from head to toe and let out a sharp, derogatory chuckle.

“So you’re Paige?”

Eleanor’s brow furrowed. Her tone was sharp. “And who are you?”

Hailey shoved past Martha without an ounce of hesitation, the sharp clicks of her red-soled heels echoing off the marble floor.

“Who am I? Why don't you ask Harrison?”

Eleanor’s face shifted, an arctic chill settling into her features.