The homeroom teacher sneered with indifference:
“This is an elite private kindergarten. Every child here comes from wealth and privilege. A mistress’s illegitimate daughter staying here would only corrupt our school’s reputation.”
My expression darkened, and I said coldly:
“You’d better investigate clearly who the real mistress is—and who the illegitimate child truly is.”
The words had barely left my mouth when Chloe Davis suddenly strode up to me. With a sharp crack, she slapped me hard across the face.
“You filthy mistress, how dare you act arrogant in front of me, the legal wife?” she spat.
“Did you really think giving birth to some bastard child would be enough to steal my place as the billionaire’s wife?”
Other parents quickly joined in, pointing fingers and jeering at me:
“Look at you—acting all prim and proper, but what do you end up doing? Spreading your legs for another woman’s husband to bear his child?”
“Some women pretend to be decent, but behind closed doors they’re nothing but sluts. The moment they see a wealthy man, they go into heat like animals!”
“A mistress is the shame of all women—and her child deserves even worse!”
Their accusations drew a larger crowd. Strangers pointed and gossiped, their faces twisted in contempt. Some took out their phones, filming me, while others spat at me.
I slipped off my coat and tossed it into the trash, then turned to face Chloe directly.
“First you incited your son to torment my daughter, and now you strike me in public. Who gave you the courage to act so lawlessly?”
Chloe raised her chin with arrogance:
“A legal wife disciplining a mistress—it’s only natural. Besides, I am the billionaire’s wife, the queen of New York City. What’s the big deal if I not only beat you and your daughter, but even take your lives?”
Parents echoed her words:
“If you hadn’t been a mistress, would Chloe need to hit you? You brought this on yourself.”
“Running into the real wife and not tucking your tail between your legs, still daring to provoke her—you’re lucky it was only one slap!”
“Exactly. Sluts like you get addicted to playing the victim, acting innocent for sympathy. But we’re not those men blinded by lust!”
Even the onlookers chimed in, their curses growing harsher with every shout.
Chloe, emboldened by the crowd, turned her glare toward my car, fury flashing in her eyes.
“A lowlife mistress like you, driving a car bought with my husband’s money—aren’t you ashamed?” she shrieked.
“Today, I’ll make sure you cough up every penny you’ve stolen!”
She snatched up a brick from the roadside and smashed it into my car, targeting the windows, headlights, and hood without restraint.
“She’s the billionaire’s wife! We can’t let a mistress like her be bullied!” someone in the crowd yelled.
That was all it took. Parents grabbed whatever they could find—sticks, stones, tools—and joined in, striking my car in a frenzy.
But my vehicle was no ordinary car. Outfitted with bulletproof protection, their assault left nothing more than scratches on the surface.
Frustrated, they shouted:
“What kind of car is this? Why is it so damn tough?”
I fixed them with a steady, icy gaze.
“You’d better stop now. This isn’t just any car. Damaging it won’t be solved with money alone.”
My warning only made Chloe more furious.
“Just a cheap domestic piece of junk,” she sneered.
“I’ll smash it however I want—what can you do about it?”
The next second, she and several others yanked open the doors, climbed inside, and began tearing at the seats and scraping the interior with sharp objects.
In moments, the once pristine cabin was shredded into tatters.
