He Chose His Mistress's Son Over His Own

My husband doesn't love me, and he certainly doesn't love our son.

On the day Toby was born, Graham didn't even look at him before tossing him into my arms.

For seven years, he kept our marriage a secret and strictly forbade our boy from calling him "Dad."

Then, his first love returned.

The usually cold and distant billionaire came to our rundown cabin dead drunk, a rare, tender smile on his face, and actually pulled our seven-year-old into his arms.

Toby's eyes lit up with pure joy. He excitedly hugged the man's neck and whispered to me, "Mom, what's wrong with Uncle Graham? He's hugging me!"

I knelt down, pulled my son away from the man who smelled of her perfume, and forced back my tears.

"Uncle's favorite person just came back, sweetie. So we shouldn't bother him anymore. We're moving away."

I secretly made a vow: I would give Graham exactly three chances.

That night, watching my son's heartbroken face, I silently made a vow.

Three chances. I would give Graham exactly three more chances to choose us.

The countdown has started. Once his three chances are up, he won't just lose his family—he will watch his entire legacy burn to the ground.

September in Napa Valley. The air was heavy with the sweet, intoxicating scent of ripe berries and aging oak barrels.

It marked the seventh year of my marriage to Graham Blackwood—and the seventh year since we separated, leaving me and our son, Toby, to live in this small cabin on the very edge of the winery.

"Mom, look! I peeled all the Cabernet grapes perfectly clean! Uncle promised he'd come back today to help me make my own mini-batch of grape juice. He's gonna love it, right?"

Seven-year-old Toby crouched on the porch steps, his tiny hands stained a deep purplish-red from the juice. His eyes sparkled with excitement. Beside him sat a small glass fermentation jar he’d finally bought after saving his allowance for months.

Hearing the word Uncle slip so naturally from his lips, I froze.

In our seven years of marriage, Graham had never once allowed his own flesh and blood to call him "Dad."

When Toby was two, Graham took him to the grocery store and bumped into an acquaintance. Just because Toby excitedly babbled "Daddy" in front of them, Graham coldly set the toddler down on the pavement and forced him to walk all the way home. By the time they reached the estate, Toby had tripped so many times that his tiny knees and palms were scraped raw and bleeding.

When Toby was four, he begged for months until Graham finally agreed to take him to the amusement park. Once again, because of one accidental "Daddy" escaping Toby's lips, Graham simply let go of his hand. He abandoned a four-year-old boy in a surging sea of strangers. By the time security found him hours later, Toby was huddled deep inside a bush, crying so hard he was practically hyperventilating.

Since that day, my son learned his lesson. He learned to call his own father "Uncle."

And this so-called family of ours officially became a pathetic, suffocating joke.

Watching his earnest little face now, a heavy lump formed in my throat. I forced a smile and ruffled his hair. "Yeah, sweetie. Uncle promised. He'll definitely be here."

A black Maybach crunched over the gravel driveway just outside the vineyard, coming to a smooth stop by the fountain in front of the main house.

Toby let out a cheer. Grabbing his bowl of prepped grapes, he sprinted toward the main house. My chest tightened, and I hurried after him.

But when the doors of the main house swung open, the scene I walked into wasn't Graham rushing to greet our son.

Graham, dressed in an impeccably tailored bespoke suit, was looking down with a tender smile at a boy who looked about eight years old. And standing right beside Graham was a woman in a flowing white dress, her smile radiant.

It was Elaine Smith—the one woman Graham had always kept locked deep in his heart. His first love. She had returned from abroad, and she’d brought her son, Leo, with her.

"Uncle!" Toby ran up to them, his eyes brimming with hope, still clutching his bowl. "You're back! Can we start making the grape juice now?"

He had run so fast that a single crushed grape tumbled over the edge of the bowl. It landed squarely on Graham’s handcrafted leather shoe, its dark purple juice instantly bleeding into the pristine Persian rug beneath them.

Graham jerked his foot back, his voice dripping with undisguised disgust. "Tiffany! How the hell are you raising him? Letting him run into the main house covered in filth! This Persian rug is Elaine’s favorite!"

I opened my mouth, but the words died in my throat. What was I supposed to say?

They were both just children. Yet Leo, dressed in a spotless miniature suit, was being protectively shielded behind Graham. Meanwhile, Graham’s own flesh and blood, Toby—who had stained his hands with juice just to prepare the winemaking ingredients for the man he looked up to—was being treated like garbage.

"Graham, don't be so hard on the boy," Elaine chimed in at the perfect moment, her tone sickeningly sweet. "Leo actually happens to be interested in winemaking too. Why doesn't Toby just give those ingredients to Leo to play with?"

At her words, Graham’s expression softened immediately. But when he turned back to Toby, his tone was purely authoritative. "Give the bowl to Leo, then go back to your cabin. I don’t have time to play house with you today. I need to give Leo a tour of the wine cellar."

Toby froze. He looked down at his little hands, prune-like from being soaked in grape juice, and then back up at Graham. His eyes instantly welled with tears.

"But... you promised me last month," Toby whispered, his tiny voice trembling. "You said if I was good and memorized all the grape varieties, you'd help me make my very first batch."

"I said I don’t have time!" Graham snapped, cutting him off impatiently. "Leo just got back to the States. He’s not familiar with the estate, so I need to accompany him. Be mature about this and stop throwing tantrums over nothing."

Throwing tantrums over nothing.

Seven years of marriage, and he had never once allowed our identities to be made public. To the outside world, the Blackwood Estate merely employed a single mother who lived in the groundskeeper's cabin. No one knew I was his legal, wedded wife. To protect his image, and to give Toby the illusion of a complete family, I had swallowed my pride and endured it all for seven long years.

Once upon a time, this family was the happiness I craved most. Now, looking at them, it all just felt like a sick joke.

I stepped forward. I didn’t scream, and I didn’t become hysterical. I simply took the bowl from Toby’s hands and gently grasped his trembling fingers.

"Mr. Blackwood is right. We shouldn't disturb his esteemed guests," I said. I raised my eyes to meet Graham’s. The desperate longing that used to live in my gaze was gone, replaced by a cold, dead stillness.

Graham stiffened at being called "Mr. Blackwood." His brow furrowed deeper, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something, but I had already turned my back on him, leading Toby away.

Back in the cramped cabin, Toby didn't shed a single tear. He just numbly dumped his bowl of carefully peeled grapes into the trash can. Then, he stood by the sink, scrubbing his little hands over and over again.

"Mommy..." he whispered. "Is it because I'm still not good enough? Is that why Uncle doesn't like me?"

Hearing his innocent, overly mature words felt like a knife twisting brutally in my chest. It was a pathetic illusion—a lie I had maintained through agonizing pain just to protect him. But now? I was done playing pretend.

I stared out the window at the dazzling, warm lights glowing from the main house, and made a silent vow.

Graham Blackwood. I am giving you exactly three more chances.

Today was the first.

After the third, my son and I will vanish from your world forever. And you will never, ever have a place in our lives again.