My Son Thanked The Mistress

The lights were blinding. On stage, my six-year-old son, Asher, clutched his Best Child Actor statuette, thanking everyone.

“First, I have to thank my dad. Without all his hard work and the great life he gives me, I definitely wouldn’t be here today.”

“And next, I have to thank my dearest, dearest Sera-Mom. She doesn’t just teach me how to act, she takes care of me like a real mother.”

“When I get sick, she goes with me to get shots, she gives me my medicine. On-screen and off, she’s the best mom I could ever have!”

A reporter’s voice cut through the applause, sharp and playfully mocking. “So, you don’t have any thanks for your biological mom, then?”

Asher Easton, the child I carried for ten agonizing months and nearly died giving birth to, just scoffed. He stared into the camera with utter disdain.

“She’s just a housewife. What does she do besides waste Dad’s money?”

“What right does she have to be compared to Sera-Mom, who is already an Oscar-winning actress?”

“Plus, she always smells like gross cooking grease. Not like Sera-Mom, who smells fresh and expensive. Really, really good.”

I was scrolling through the social media clip when I immediately called Rhys Easton.

He was at a post-ceremony gala with Asher and Seraphina Lowe. He didn’t try to soften the blow—he just laughed, cold and dismissive, when he heard my complaint.

“Did Asher say anything that wasn’t true, Eliza?”

“An aimless housewife, perpetually smelling of the kitchen.”

“Do you think Asher is the only one who doesn’t want to come home anymore?”

I hung up, stunned, and stared at the impeccably clean house, the prepared dinner cooling on the counter. I realized, in that stark, quiet moment, that for years I had only existed as Mrs. Easton or Asher’s Mother.

I had completely forgotten that I was, simply, Eliza Stone.

My own person.

1

The front door rattled just after midnight. It was the familiar, heavy pounding I was used to, but this time, I didn’t rush to open it. I sat quietly on the sofa, slowly closing the photo album I’d just unearthed.

Thirty seconds later, a key scraped in the lock, and a cloud of heavy liquor rushed into the room. I started to rise, intending to help Rhys, but stopped short.

Standing in the doorway, supporting him, was Seraphina Lowe, still in her backless, strapless designer gown. Guarding her side like a tiny sentinel was Asher.

Seraphina gently eased Rhys onto the sofa, pulling a lace handkerchief from her clutch to dab the sweat from his brow. She didn’t spare me a glance, issuing a casual order into the room. “Eliza, can you get Rhys some warm water? Add just a little honey. Don’t use too much—he doesn’t like it overly sweet these days.”

I stayed rooted to the spot, my gaze locked on her hand, which Rhys was holding—so tightly, yet so tenderly. He held her as if he wanted to dissolve her into his very bone marrow, yet was terrified of causing her any discomfort.

The next second, Asher’s small body slammed into mine, shoving me aside. His voice, still bearing the high pitch of a child, was laced with entitlement and open fury.

“Are you deaf? Go get Dad his honey water, now!”

“Sera-Mom works so hard taking care of Dad outside the house, and all you do is hide in here being lazy! You didn’t even open the door, and now you won’t get the water. What good are you, honestly?”

His strength was negligible, but the surprise of the push threw me off balance. My abdomen slammed into the sharp corner of the coffee table. The pain took my breath away.

It was a cruel twist of fate that the spot where I hit was the angry, jagged scar left by the emergency C-section, the result of a near-fatal hemorrhage when I gave birth to him.

Biting back a gasp, I straightened up. Seraphina, already impatient with my delay, had poured the honey water herself and was delicately feeding it to Rhys, who sipped obediently. Asher stood guard beside them.

My eyes finally landed on the television screen, still on from the day’s coverage. It was looping a scene from their award-winning film. In the clip, they were staged just like this: the devoted, gentle wife and the understanding child caring for the exhausted father, a perfect, heartwarming family of three.

I glanced down at the old family portrait peeking from the photo album—a stiff, formal picture taken when Asher was six months old. A single, desolate tear traced a path down my cheek.

The coffee table was more than a piece of furniture; it was a chasm. On the other side, a picture of domestic bliss. On my side, only a solitary, isolated woman.

My phone buzzed with texts from my friend, Jenna.

“Liz, this French director has been following your early work for years. She’s seriously interested.”

“This screen test is a huge opportunity, and she specifically asked me to reach out. You can’t miss it.”

“I know you worry about the family, but Asher is old enough, and Rhys is right here. Seriously, are you even considering it?”

I scrolled back through years of texts, realizing how many similar opportunities I had rejected—all for Rhys, and for this house.

But this time, I couldn’t find a single reason left to say no.

2

I quietly retrieved the album and returned to my room, choosing not to “interrupt” them further.

Passing the walk-in closet, I stopped. My reflection was a study in neglect: tired eyes, hair that needed attention, the dull uniform of a woman who had given up on herself. Then I glanced at the wall, where a stunning woman in a custom silk bridal gown smiled radiantly in a photograph.

I hadn’t realized how much I had changed.

The date stamped on the wedding photo read: June 2015.

In the image, Rhys wasn’t looking at the camera; he was gazing at me—at the goofy face I was deliberately making—his mouth curved in a smile of pure, undisguised adoration.

Ten years ago, I was at the peak of my career, the undisputed queen of the new generation of Hollywood darlings. And he was utterly infatuated with me.

For me, he’d fought his family, his friends, even risked being cut off from the Easton fortune. But whenever we were together, he’d smile like that—tender, wild, and utterly consumed.

My career was on fire, but growing up, I’d been an orphan, and my early life in the industry was mostly exploitation. I had never experienced such a deep, visceral love.

Falling for him was inevitable.

The story was textbook: the starlet and the wealthy heir overcame all obstacles. Things only seemed to improve after Asher was born; even Rhys’s cold, judgmental parents softened toward me.

Everything was moving toward a perfect future.

Except for my marriage to Rhys.

3

I sat up until the early hours. Rhys never came into our room.

When I finally crept out, the living room was empty. But the light was still on in the guest suite. And Seraphina’s small, jeweled heels were neatly placed outside the door.

I drew a long, shaky breath, a familiar, pinprick pain spreading across my chest. The bottle of anti-ulcer medication, which Rhys needed nightly for his stress-related stomach issues, crinkled in my hand.

I was about to turn back, pretend nothing happened, and seek the refuge of the master bedroom, when the guest suite door suddenly opened.

Seraphina, wearing my silk slip nightgown and with her hair still damp, walked out to get a glass of water. Seeing me standing awkwardly in the living room, a thin, knowing smile touched her lips.

“Oh, still awake, Liz? You know, women who don’t get enough sleep age faster. Kind of… like you look now.”

“You don’t have to worry. I’ve settled Rhys down. I mean, I was the one who traveled with him and took care of him on location for years, right? I’m much more experienced at handling him than you are.”

“But then again, I’m not like you. I didn’t give up my career to marry into money. And now… well, now you’re paying the price.”

She dismissed me with a cool sweep of her eyes, her gaze filled with undisguised contempt.

I simply watched her. My voice was steady and flat. “Even so, I at least have the title.”

“What do you have, Sera?”

Seraphina’s smile instantly froze.

I didn’t want the useless sparring. I just wanted to go to bed.

But as I turned, I saw them: Rhys and Asher, one large, one small, wearing the matching designer loungewear I had bought them, standing stone-faced in the guest suite doorway.

Asher immediately ran to Seraphina’s side, wrapping his small arms around her protectively. He glared at me, his voice a low, furious snarl. “Stop bullying Sera-Mom, you mean woman!”

My heart, already numb from pain, fractured completely under the weight of Rhys’s look of raw distaste.

“Eliza Stone, don’t think for a second that being Mrs. Easton gives you any leverage.”

“Seraphina is ten years younger than you, and she’s already an international award winner. You? What have you done in the ten years since you married into this family? Besides becoming a slovenly, unkempt woman who smells like the kitchen, what have you accomplished?”

“Besides flaunting your title, what can you actually boast about?”

He seemed to be barely controlling his rage, pulling a visibly tearful Seraphina into his arms and shielding her. But when he looked at me, his gaze was pure, naked disgust.

“I’m letting this go only because you are Asher’s biological mother.”

“But if you ever bully Sera again, I swear, you’ll regret it.”

His words pierced my eardrums. Asher, meanwhile, was clutching Seraphina’s hand, staring at me with repulsion. “If I could choose, I’d pick Sera-Mom to be my mother!”

“Who would want you, you bad woman? You’re an embarrassment! You never should have walked through the front door of this house!”

The pain of a thousand cuts left me dizzy. I looked at the father and son I had devoted a decade to, who now despised me.

And I laughed.

My palm opened. Rhys’s stomach medication and Asher’s emergency asthma inhaler both clattered onto the polished marble floor, the sound echoing harshly through the hall.

I looked at the two of them.

Just as they turned, preparing to escort Seraphina back into the guest suite, I spoke, my voice deceptively calm.

“Rhys. Let’s get a divorce.”

4

The guest suite door closed.

Rhys and Asher had completely ignored me, treating my calm, agonizing declaration as nothing more than air.

I didn’t care. I went back to my room, pulled out my laptop, and emailed my lawyer about the divorce proceedings.

The lawyer was apologetic and straightforward: even if I divorced, my share of the assets would be limited. Fighting for primary custody of Asher was a fantasy.

I paused, my finger slipping as I scrolled down to Seraphina’s newly updated social media post.

The photo showed her and Rhys tucked into a bed, gently watching a sleeping Asher. The caption read: “A warm family… is there anything better? When will I get a family of my own?”

The comments section was flooded with fans.

“Rhys and Sera together again! Are they co-starring, or are we seeing a real family? I’m obsessed!”

“Sera is so gentle and sweet. I want a soft, wonderful mom like her.”

“Little Asher is definitely having fun. Can I be Sera-Mom’s kid for a day?”

“Obsessed with this scandalous-but-real-life pairing. Sera and Rhys are so much better together than Eliza Stone.”

“The ultimate power couple!”

I scrolled down. When the page refreshed, Rhys’s comment was pinned at the top.

He wrote: “Am I chopped liver?”

He even added a playful, dog-face emoji.

Ten years of marriage, and this was the first time I had ever seen him use a cute emoji in a casual conversation. This was the man who once hated playfulness, who would coldly tell me to stop being “so childish” if I used an ellipsis or an exclamation mark in a text.

Now, for another woman, he was breaking his own self-imposed rules again and again.

I smiled faintly, wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, and typed a single thought into my laptop: “I don’t want it anymore.”

Him. The child. The money.

I only wanted freedom.

5

The next morning, I woke up to an empty house.

Only the messy, abandoned breakfast setting on the dining table proved that anyone had been home at all.

I clenched my fists, noticing my silk nightgown—the one Seraphina had worn—tossed casually into the trash can. The pain was sharp, but I swallowed it down.

With the draft of the divorce papers from the lawyer in my bag, I hailed a cab to the Easton family estate.

Since marrying Rhys, I rarely visited the mansion. I knew his parents didn’t like me; they tolerated me only because of him.

I arrived at a terrible time.

Pushing open the heavy mahogany doors, I saw the main hall filled with high-profile guests, clinking glasses and mingling. Rhys, dressed in an immaculate suit, had his arm securely around a radiant Seraphina in a sweeping red gown. He was laughing, socializing with a director, and constantly shooting tender glances her way.

My arrival brought the buzzing hall to a dead, sudden silence.

Rhys’s face instantly darkened.

Seraphina glanced disdainfully at my plain, orange cotton t-shirt and smiled a mocking, knowing smile.

Asher started to open his mouth to demand I be removed, but Rhys’s gesture to the head butler was faster. The butler approached me with a patronizing tone. “Delivery person, right? You have the wrong address.”

“We’re hosting a very important event. You need to leave, now, and not disturb our guests.”

When I stood my ground, he lowered his voice and frowned in sharp reprimand. “Ma’am, please. Can’t you see the Master is busy? There’s a limit to how much you can disrupt things. Do you really think this is the place for someone like you?”

A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I kept my eyes fixed on Rhys, whose expression was pure thunder.

After a long moment, I spoke softly. “I have a company document here. Mr. Easton needs to sign it.”

The guests collectively breathed a sigh of relief and resumed their careless mingling.

Rhys patted Seraphina’s shoulder, offering her an assuring smile. He then stalked over to me, ignoring the document I held, pulling out his own pen, and scribbling his signature with practiced ease.

He glared at me, issuing a low-voiced threat. “Eliza Stone, take your drama home. This is not the place for your hysterics.”

“There are major investors here interested in Sera. If you screw this up, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.”

Asher sidled up, his eyes wide and spiteful. “Go home, you filthy woman! You smell like cooking oil! This isn’t a place for a gross housekeeper who just cooks all day! Everyone else is beautiful and classy, and you’re old and ugly. Are you trying to embarrass Dad and me?”

A single tear slipped from my eye. I looked at the son I had endured a twenty-four-hour labor to bring into the world. “But Asher,” I whispered, “I used to be like them.”

“Before I married your father, I was a top actress. I wore dresses even more beautiful than hers.”

“What exactly made me the ‘slob’ and the ‘housekeeper’ you despise? Do you two truly not know?”

Rhys and Asher exchanged a quick look, a flicker of guilt passing between them.

But Rhys was too seasoned for shame. He sneered, his sharp gaze falling on my wrinkled shirt like a scalpel. The disgust was palpable.

“You made your choice, Eliza. You wanted the easy life, the money, the title. You can’t regret it now.”

“Besides, did I ever deny you anything? You didn’t want to work—that’s on you. Now get out!”

He took Asher’s hand and turned away.

The grand hall doors slowly closed, a heavy finality, separating his world from mine. In my last glance, I saw him hold Seraphina’s hand like a prince. Through the small gap before the doors fully shut, I saw Seraphina give me a victorious, chilling smile.

It didn’t matter anymore.

I stared at the paper in my hand—the divorce agreement, signed in his own, careless handwriting.

I thought: It’s time to go.

6

Back at the house, I found servants moving furniture and belongings.

Seeing me, they looked away guiltily. Only the old butler, who had always treated me with a measure of respect, sighed apologetically. “Ma’am, the Master said he needs to prepare for his new role. He’s having Miss Lowe stay here for a while.”

“He said… to make the feeling more authentic, they’ll be pretending to be a married couple. So he needs Miss Lowe in the master suite, and you’ll be in the guest room for a few days.”

I nodded calmly and walked to the master bedroom to pack my things.

When I was finished, I realized that all my possessions didn’t even fill a single suitcase.

The wall where my wedding photo had been proudly displayed now held a massive, framed photo of Rhys and Seraphina from a movie—a staged wedding scene. His smile was still bright and joyous, but it was no longer for me.

I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. I dragged the suitcase out of the cage that had held me for ten years.

Before I left, I placed a second copy of the signed divorce agreement on the master bed pillow.

On the way to the airport, my phone rang. Rhys.

His tone was just as cold as ever. “Have the butler take you shopping later. You need an outfit for an important gala tomorrow.”

“Because of your stunt today, there are already rumors flying about Sera. You need to publicly clarify that you two have a great relationship and that our living situation is just for the film.”

“Sera’s career is at a critical juncture. She can’t have any scandal. Of course, I’ll transfer money to you as compensation after you’ve done your job.”

I started to laugh, a loud, tearing sound that made the cab driver jump.

“Rhys, have you forgotten why my career stopped in the first place?”

“Why I was so quick to retire?”

Rhys fell silent, and I answered for him.

“Because right after we got married, you were in a terrible car accident, and your leg was shattered.”

“I retired to take care of you.”

“Five years of my life went into your recovery. In return, I was completely cut off from the world.”

“You and Asher look down on me as a ‘slob’ and a ‘housewife,’ but who created this situation? Don’t you know?”

“Eliza Stone!” Rhys spat my name. “What exactly do you want?”

I didn’t speak.

At that moment, the airport announcement echoed through the cab’s speakers.

“Passengers for flight CA989 to Paris, your flight is now boarding…”

Suddenly, the coldness in Rhys’s voice was replaced by a flicker of panic.

“Eliza Stone, where are you going?”

“Even if you don’t want me, are you abandoning your son too?”

A gasp of raw, desolate laughter escaped me. “Haven’t you realized yet, Rhys, what it was you just signed?”

“What are you talking about?!” he roared.

I ended the call.