That’s Your 100th Mistress, Time to Leave You Novel – That’s Your 100th Mistress, Time to Leave You That’s Your 100th Mistress, Time to Leave You In five years of our marriage, my husband, Vincent Blackthorne had taken ninety-nine mistresses home. At our anniversary party, he allowed the hundredth one to get me drunk. I’m allergic to alcohol. I ended up in the hospital with anaphylactic shock. And still, he said to me, “Stop playing weak, Andrea. Sable’s craving barbecue ribs.
Drag your pathetic weak self home and make them.” Then came the warehouse fire. He didn’t hesitate for a second—he carried his mistress out, leaving me behind. The flames swallowed my cries for help. My right leg was permanently damaged in the fire. When I woke up in the hospital, he was pressing the doctor to graft skin on Sable’s arm, which had only been scraped in the commotion. Something inside me finally died. “Vincent, I want a divorce.” “Divorce? How dare you bring that up? You don’t care about your brother’s life anymore?” He scoffed. “Doesn’t your precious little brother still need his medical treatments?” His mistress burst out laughing.
She even started a betting pool in their private chat group. [Come on, place your bets! How long will Andrea last this time after filing for divorce? One day? Or forever?] Without missing a beat, Vincent placed his bet—one day—and threw in ten million. I quietly bet one dollar on forever. Ignoring their ridicule and sneers flooding the chat, I left the group. Then, I made a call—to Vincent’s greatest rival. “Damian. I’m getting a divorce.
You once said you’d take me away if I asked. Does that offer still stand?” “Of course it does! Where are you? I’ll come get you right now!” “No rush. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. Let’s meet in a month.” After hanging up, I headed straight for the law office. “Mr. Welch, I need you to draft two agreements for me: one divorce agreement and one for the transfer of shares.” Welch hesitated. “Does Mr. Blackthorne know you’re divorcing him?” I touched the bandage on my arm, still seeping blood. “He will.” One month later, the divorce agreement takes effect.
I packed my bags. Leave completely.And blocked his number. I once chose blind love and marriage. This time—I’m choosing me. —— In five years of our marriage, my husband, Vincent Blackthorne had taken ninety-nine mistresses home. At our anniversary party, he allowed the hundredth one to get me drunk. I’m allergic to alcohol. I ended up in the hospital with anaphylactic shock. And still, he said to me, “Stop playing weak, Andrea. Sable’s craving barbecue ribs. Drag your pathetic weak self home and make them.” Then came the warehouse fire.
He didn’t hesitate for a second—he carried his mistress out, leaving me behind. The flames swallowed my cries for help. My right leg was permanently damaged in the fire. When I woke up in the hospital, he was pressing the doctor to graft skin on Sable’s arm, which had only been scraped in the commotion. Something inside me finally died. “Vincent, I want a divorce.” “Divorce? How dare you bring that up? You don’t care about your brother’s life anymore?” He scoffed. “Doesn’t your precious little brother still need his medical treatments?” His mistress burst out laughing.
She even started a betting pool in their private chat group. [Come on, place your bets! How long will Andrea last this time after filing for divorce? One day? Or forever?] Without missing a beat, Vincent placed his bet—one day—and threw in ten million. I quietly bet one dollar on forever. Ignoring their ridicule and sneers flooding the chat, I left the group. Then, I made a call—to Vincent’s greatest rival. “Damian. I’m getting a divorce. You once said you’d take me away if I asked.
Does that offer still stand?” “Of course it does! Where are you? I’ll come get you right now!” “No rush. I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up. Let’s meet in a month.” After hanging up, I headed straight for the law office. “Mr. Welch, I need you to draft two agreements for me: one divorce agreement and one for the transfer of shares.” Welch hesitated. “Does Mr. Blackthorne know you’re divorcing him?” I touched the bandage on my arm, still seeping blood. “He will.” For now, he was probably busy with Sable Frost. That afternoon, Vincent and I arrived home one after another.