Chapter 6: Showdown at The Humble Room

Marcus had a child late in life, and now his career is at its peak. Plenty of people want to curry favor with him.

Every event is a power play—politicians, CEOs, even a former NFL player sent a fruit basket. Our mailbox was overflowing with cards and tiny baby shoes from people who’d never met the kid.

The hundred-day party for the baby was supposed to be grand, but I suggested keeping it small, inviting only essential people for a private gathering.

I played it off as a desire for intimacy, but really, I wanted to control the narrative. A smaller crowd meant fewer wildcards.

Marcus didn’t object; he’s long tired of endless social events. In fact, he’s a true genius—most annoyed at having to explain his ideas to ordinary people, but now that he’s in management, he has to deal with all sorts of social obligations.

He grumbled about it, but I could tell he appreciated the escape. He hates small talk more than anyone I’ve ever known.

So, he fully supported my suggestion.

We agreed over a late dinner—just us, the way things used to be. For a moment, I felt like we were on the same team again.

I booked the party at The Humble Room. The owner gave Marcus respect and reserved the entire second floor for us. Even so, the guest list kept growing, and it was still packed. Distinguished guests, family harmony.

Walking through the entrance, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall—red dress, pearls, hair swept up. The picture of an American wife who had it all. For one night, at least, appearances were everything.

I knew, at times like this, it was hardest for Lillian. She knows that as long as she’s not the official wife, she can’t spend any formal holiday with Marcus. As long as she’s not official, Marcus can be called home by a family phone call at any time. As long as she’s not official, she must endure others’ cold looks and disdain.

I almost pitied her, watching from the sidelines—always the guest, never the family. In this country, holidays and milestones belong to the inner circle. Outsiders can knock, but they rarely get invited in.

She’s very patient, has endured for years, pretending to be generous and unbothered, accumulating Marcus’s guilt.

She wears her suffering like a badge of honor. The longer she waits, the more she can claim he owes her. I see the strategy, even if Marcus doesn’t.

In fact, I already found out she froze her eggs and convinced Marcus to get checked at a fertility center. I know Marcus is almost persuaded—no matter how nicely she puts it, just wanting a child with her surname when she’s old. But once that child is born, no matter the surname, they’ll inevitably take some of Marcus’s love and family resources. Marcus has even consulted a lawyer about divorce plans.

The day I found the fertility clinic paperwork in his briefcase, my hands shook so badly I dropped my phone. The thought of him starting over with someone else’s child made my vision blur with rage.

So, I can’t wait any longer.

It was now or never. Every day I hesitated, the gap widened. It was time to act, whatever the consequences.

On the day of the hundred-day party, I had Derek invite Lillian to dinner. I knew she’d go. People are strange—knowing it will hurt, but can’t help but look. Three years ago, at my mother-in-law’s birthday, she hid at the back door to watch. This time, she would come too.

There’s a particular brand of self-torture reserved for mistresses—hoping to glimpse a life they can’t claim, telling themselves it doesn’t matter. I counted on that curiosity.

What I didn’t expect was that she wore the same red dress as me.

I laughed when I saw her—same shade, same cut. It was like a standoff in a Western, only with lipstick instead of pistols. For a second, I wondered if she did it on purpose.

We locked eyes across the room, two women in the same red dress—like a showdown at high noon, only with lipstick and pearls.

Upstairs, I was toasting and laughing in glory. Downstairs, in the public dining area, I wondered what she felt as she ate.

Between speeches, I peeked over the balcony, wine glass in hand, catching a glimpse of her face. She looked composed, but her knuckles were white around her fork.

The last ceremony of the party was for all guests to share the ‘hundred-day cake.’ I had the kitchen make plenty and even gave some to the diners downstairs, to spread the joy.

It’s an old custom, but I made sure it had a modern twist—fondant icing, gluten-free options, even a tiny flag with our family crest. I wanted everyone to feel included, and no one to forget who was at the center of it all.

Through the listening device on Derek’s end, I heard Lillian say coldly, “I can’t stand this American custom—private family affairs have to be announced to the whole world.”

Her tone was acid—resentful, brittle. I pictured her dabbing at the corner of her mouth, trying to maintain her dignity. In that moment, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

I could feel Lillian’s bitterness flooding downstairs. The timing was right.

I watched the clock, waiting for the perfect moment. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

So I carried the baby and gracefully walked downstairs, found a quiet corner, opened my blouse, and began breastfeeding.

I’d practiced this in the mirror—making it look casual, maternal, unassailable. The baby nestled against me, and I draped a silk scarf just so. It was a statement, not just a necessity.

For the key part, I used a silk scarf to cover up, but everyone could tell I was nursing.

The scarf was more for show than function. Let them gossip. I was beyond shame at this point.

Maybe we’ve lived in so-called civilized society for too long. On the red carpet, a low neckline is called sexy and fashionable, but a mother breastfeeding is often considered indecent.

It’s a strange American hypocrisy—bare skin is fine until it’s functional, then suddenly it’s scandalous. I braced myself for the backlash.

So, a young waitress came over and said bluntly, “Ma’am, could you please cover up? This is a family restaurant.”

Her voice was tight, rehearsed, like she’d had this argument before. I met her eyes, refusing to blink.

“But my child is hungry. I have to feed him.”

I said it gently, but there was steel underneath. I wasn’t going to be shamed for doing what mothers have done since the dawn of time.

“You can feed your child in the restroom. This is a restaurant; doing this here isn’t proper.”

The suggestion made my blood boil. Feed my child in a bathroom? Would she eat her dinner in a restroom stall?

“Why don’t you eat in the restroom? What’s wrong with this being a restaurant? Can’t a child eat here?”

I raised my voice so everyone could hear. A few heads turned, forks paused mid-air. The battle lines were being drawn.

“You’re being unreasonable. Your behavior has made our guests uncomfortable. Please leave quickly.”

The waitress’s cheeks flushed. She clutched her order pad like a shield, clearly unprepared for a fight.

I became furious: “How does me breastfeeding bother you? Weren’t you born of your mother? Didn’t you drink milk as a child? How is this uncomfortable? Who’s uncomfortable? Show me!”

My words echoed in the room, bouncing off polished marble and crystal chandeliers. People started whispering, some nodding in agreement, others shaking their heads.

My voice was loud, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

The room shifted—some people averted their gaze, others leaned in, hungry for drama. I could feel the tide turning in my favor.

Well-mannered men usually avoided looking at me and instead stared at the waitress. The women looked at me with complex expressions—sympathy, helplessness.

One woman caught my eye—she gave a small, encouraging nod. I felt a surge of gratitude. Maybe not everyone was against me.

The waitress raised her voice and retorted, “We only asked you to leave because a customer complained. Please have some self-respect and leave.”

She was digging in, but I could see the cracks in her composure. She wasn’t expecting resistance.

“Who? Who is so uncultured as to complain about a breastfeeding mother?”

I scanned the crowd, daring anyone to step forward. For a second, no one spoke.

The waitress turned pale and was momentarily speechless.

Her jaw worked, but no words came out. The silence was deafening.

At this moment, Lillian stood up: “I complained. So what? Who’s uncultured? In broad daylight, in public, exposing your breasts—you’re the uncultured hick!”

She spat the words out, voice trembling with emotion. The crowd gasped. I felt the energy in the room shift, sharp as broken glass.

“Someone like you deserves…”

She didn’t finish, because Marcus came downstairs.

He moved fast, suit jacket unbuttoned, face carved in stone. The chatter died instantly. All eyes turned to us.

I guess Marcus had never seen this side of Lillian and was stunned on the spot. But after years of self-discipline, he quickly recovered, took off his jacket, and draped it over me and the baby.

His hands were gentle, but I could feel the tension vibrating through his body. He looked at me with something like regret, and I let myself lean into the moment.

Seeing his gloomy face, I whispered, “Upstairs is too smoky, and the baby was hungry. I had no choice.”

My voice was small, vulnerable. I wasn’t faking it—exhaustion made the words raw.

I don’t know what moved him at that moment, but he gently leaned in and said, “It’s my fault. I didn’t take good care of you.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair from my forehead, his touch unexpectedly tender. For a split second, we were back where we started—just a man and a woman trying to build a life.

Then he turned to the owner of The Humble Room and said, “Sorry, Mr. West. My wife needs to breastfeed. Could you prepare a screen for her?”

Mr. West appeared instantly, apologizing profusely. The power of Marcus’s reputation was on full display—one word from him, and the staff scrambled.

Mr. West slapped his forehead, saying, “Oh dear, my hospitality was lacking. Ma’am and young man, you’ve been wronged. This meal is on me—please give me a chance to make up for it.”

He bowed low, gesturing for the staff to bring over an ornate wooden screen from a private room. The message was clear: in this place, Marcus’s family came first.

By now, the previously aggressive waitress had vanished.

I spotted her ducking into the kitchen, eyes wide with panic. I felt a pang of guilt—she’d just been following orders, caught in the crossfire.

I knew she’d lose her job for this, so I slipped her a wad of cash up front—hush money, hazard pay, call it what you want. I also put just enough anxiety med into the hundred-day cake I had her give to Lillian—not much, just enough to tip her off balance.

It wasn’t my proudest moment, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The envelope of cash was tucked discreetly in her purse, and the kitchen staff never suspected a thing.

Marcus protected me, which further agitated Lillian. Under the drug’s influence, she kicked down the screen.

The crash was louder than I expected—plates rattled, a glass shattered somewhere nearby. Conversation died instantly.

The loud crash scared the baby into crying. I hurriedly hugged the child and shrank into a corner.

My heart hammered as I tried to comfort him, whispering nonsense words, rocking him back and forth. My hands shook.

“Stop pretending! At your age, you’re still acting like some innocent little flower. Breastfeeding in public—aren’t you ashamed? Look at yourself—are any of the men in this hall even looking at you?”

Her words sliced through the room, raw and ugly. A few people looked away, uncomfortable. Others leaned in, relishing the spectacle.

This was the first time in my life I’d heard such ugly words, and I never expected them from the always gentle Lillian.

Her voice was wild, unhinged. The mask had slipped, revealing something feral underneath. I almost didn’t recognize her.

Even more unbelievable, before I could cry, she started crying first, pointing at Marcus and scolding, “Look at you, treating this trash like treasure. You dress her in gold and silver, but she’s just a useless parasite—does she deserve it?”

Her mascara ran in dark streaks. She shook with sobs, but her words hit harder than any slap. I felt my own tears threaten, but forced them back.

I couldn’t see Marcus’s face, but he was clearly furious. His back, shielding me, was trembling. Guests from upstairs came down to watch the scene.

A wave of whispers swept through the room. I heard my mother-in-law’s voice calling for someone to call 911, and my sister-in-law’s shrill tone trying to restore order. It was chaos, and I was at the center of it.

I really wanted Marcus to slap Lillian, but after all, she’s a woman he’s loved for years, so he couldn’t do it. He just said to the owner, “Mr. West, have someone take this crazy woman out. Sorry for the trouble.”

His voice was cold, final. The look he gave Lillian was the one he reserved for failed business deals—a door slamming shut.

But Lillian was already half-crazed, her eyes red as she lunged at Marcus. Two security guards struggled to drag her out.

She clawed at his sleeve, screaming incoherently. The guards pulled her away, but not before she left a streak of foundation on his jacket.

“Marcus, how could you? Why protect her? What is she but a woman who’s given you a few kids? I can have kids too. Marcus, you heartless bastard, I waited for you for years, and you call me crazy? Treat me like this? Marcus, don’t think I can’t live without you—there are plenty of men after me…”

Her voice echoed down the hallway, growing fainter with each step. No one moved to help her. The drama was over, but the fallout had just begun.

This… the drug was too strong. I remember I didn’t use that much. Not that I’m so kind, but I was afraid if I used too much, Lillian would notice something was off.

A cold sweat prickled my skin. Had I gone too far? I glanced around, searching for Derek, for any sign that he’d intervened.

Glancing at Derek swirling his wine in the corner—damn, with alcohol, the drug’s effect would be stronger. Then I saw Derek quietly pour his wine into a flowerpot—did he give Lillian something too?

He caught my eye and gave the slightest shake of his head. For the first time, I wondered if I was in over my head.

Better not let anything fatal happen. I quickly signaled Derek to go take care of Lillian.

He nodded, slipping out the back door as quietly as he’d arrived. I breathed a little easier, but the knot in my stomach wouldn’t go away.

Meanwhile, Marcus’s face was utterly disgraced. Worse, my mother-in-law fainted from anger, and my sister-in-law frantically pinched her upper lip and called for an ambulance.

The room spun. I tried to hold it together, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The paramedics arrived within minutes, lights flashing outside. The party was well and truly over.

The onlookers dispersed, but the secretly filmed videos would keep them entertained for a long time.

I could already picture the headlines—‘Mistress Meltdown at Wall Street Power Couple’s Bash.’ In this city, gossip spreads faster than wildfire.