Divorced the CEO After His Mistress Killed My MomChapter 1

After Otis Sanchez cheated on me, I wanted revenge.

So over the next six months, I went through no fewer than ten boyfriends.

The same night I ended things with number ten, I asked Otis for a divorce.

"Mrs. Sanchez." He didn't even look up from his phone. "How many times does this make now?"

He finally finished his message and raised his eyes to meet mine.

"What, not satisfied with the latest boyfriend?" A smirk played at his lips. "Must be serious if it's got the unflappable Mrs. Sanchez storming in here to make a scene."

He reached for his jacket, still smiling.

"But I don't have time for this tonight, Mrs. Sanchez. I have plans."

I watched him, still unable to understand. How did men compartmentalize so easily—love in one box, sex in another, neither touching?

"Otis." I stepped into his path, holding up the divorce papers. My voice was calm. "I'm serious this time. Let's set each other free."

1.

"Mrs. Sanchez." His expression remained carelessly indifferent. "I really don't have time to play along with your little drama."

He opened WeChat and waved the screen in front of my face.

"My girl's getting impatient."

"You should understand—" His tone carried a hint of laughter, his features softening in a way I hadn't seen directed at me in years. "She's very hard to coax when she's upset, Mrs. Sanchez."

On the screen was a matching profile picture. A couple's avatar. Hers paired with his.

The chat showed her latest messages:

[How much longer are you going to babysit that old hag?]

[You said she has her own boyfriends anyway. Or what—you decided you like older women now? Finally ready to get back together with your geriatric wife?]

She mocked my age without a shred of shame.

And Otis? He found it adorable. His reply made my stomach turn:

[Someone's jealous over nothing.]

A video call came through.

The sudden ringtone shattered the tension between us. Otis gestured at the screen apologetically. "You see, Mrs. Sanchez? I really am busy."

He answered it right in front of me.

Her voice poured out—syrupy, petulant, dripping with the confidence of a woman who knew she'd already won.

"Otis."

"I'm already outside your gate."

"You have three seconds."

"If you don't come out—"

"We're done!"

I listened to her ultimatum, watched Otis's expression flicker with something like panic before smoothing into indulgent warmth.

"You little tyrant."