The moment those words left his mouth, the livestream chat exploded with roses.
Rows upon rows of "99" flooded the screen.
The glare of it seared my eyes.
A swarm of reporters burst through the door, cameras thrust in my face, shutters clicking in a deafening frenzy.
"Mrs. Sanchez! So you're the homewrecker in this story?"
"Mrs. Sanchez! You were a nobody before this marriage. Care to share what tactics you used to claw your way into the Sanchez family?"
"Breaking up a golden couple just to marry rich—don't you feel any guilt?"
Camera flashes strobed across my face like an assault.
They were practically branding me—homewrecker, slut, gold-digger—searing every slur into my skin with their accusations.
Through the jostling crowd, I caught a glimpse of Ruth's face.
She was smiling.
A smile of pure, triumphant malice.
I lifted my head slightly, and a reporter—catching some unspoken signal—swung his camera toward the nurse's arms, firing off shot after shot of my daughter.
"Holy shit, this is the bastard kid? Ugly little thing. Mrs. Sanchez really isn't picky about whose bed she crawls into."