She is not my mother

"There's no need, because she's not my mother."

Rhea almost didn't believe her ears. What…?

She stared at Oliver, her mind struggling to process what he had just said. She didn't know which statement was worse— I want a divorce or she is not my mother.

Her hands trembled at her sides as she took a shaky breath. "What… do you mean Willow is not your mother?"

Oliver smirked at her reaction, his amusement making her stomach churn. He had always wondered how she would react if she ever learned the truth, and now that the moment had come, it was… satisfying.

He shrugged, he set it down and said, "It's exactly as I said, Rhea. She's not my mother."

Rhea felt her knees weaken. No. That can't be true.

"Why are you saying this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "She is your mother. You introduced us immediately after we got married!"

Oliver chuckled darkly. "I suppose I should explain everything to you, shouldn't I? Why I started all this. Why I married you in the first place."

Her heartbeat quickened, an uneasy feeling creeping into her chest. Something inside her screamed at her to leave. She didn't know why, but she felt that whatever he was about to say would shatter every last bit of hope she had left. But her feet wouldn't move.

She clenched her hands into fists, forcing them to stop shaking. Oliver's lips curled into a mocking smirk. "Good girl. You decided to stay."

Good girl.

Once upon a time, those words would have made her heart flutter. Now, they made her want to vomit.

His voice was calm as he continued, "A long time ago, there was a very wealthy man. One of the richest in the country. He had a wife… and two sons. But you know men can never stay loyal. It's in our nature."

"And so," Oliver went on, "that man slept with a prostitute. She got pregnant. Had a son. But of course, no one would want to accept a child born from such filth. So the man did what rich men do—he paid the woman off, told her to take the money, get rid of the baby and disappear."

Rhea swallowed hard, her pulse roaring in her ears. She didn't like where this was going.

"But she was smart. She took the money, but she didn't disappear. She kept the child, thinking she could use him to get more from the man. And when the boy got older, she did try to use him. She thought she could threaten the man, force him to acknowledge the boy."

He leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly. "But a man like that? He doesn't get threatened."

"What happened to the woman?" she asked, dreading the answer.

Oliver smirked. "She died."

"And the son?"

Oliver's eyes darkened. "He adapted. He learned how to play the game. How to survive. Years later, when he was building his campaign, he realized something. If he wanted sympathy, if he wanted the love of the people, he needed a family. A story that would make the public adore him. So he found an old woman in the hospital, one that no one needed, no one cared about and claimed her as his mother."

"The next step?" Oliver smirked. "He needed a wife. A naive, obedient little thing. Someone who would make him look like a devoted husband. A family man."

Her breath came in shallow gasps. This couldn't be happening. No… impossible… Oliver watched her, his smirk widening.

"Tell me, Rhea," he said, his voice almost gentle. "Do you know who that man is?"

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

"And do you know who the naive fool is?"

Tears blurred her vision. She didn't have to answer. She already knew. Rhea's hand shot out, gripping the wall for support.

God… all this time…all this fucking time. She was nothing more than a puppet in his game.

Her body trembled, a storm of emotions crashing inside her—rage, sorrow, betrayal. She felt bad for herself, but she felt even worse for Willow. They had both been nothing more than pawns. Used and discarded when they had outlived their purpose.

Oliver sat back, waiting for her reaction. Would she storm toward him and slap him? Would she scream at him, curse him, demand answers? But what he didn't understand was that when a woman reached her breaking point…she would no longer know how to react.

She didn't do any of those things. She simply turned around. With shaky steps, she walked to the door and left.

She didn't remember how she got outside, didn't remember getting into a taxi, didn't remember checking into a hotel. But when she stepped into the dimly lit room and shut the door behind her, everything crashed down at once.

Her knees buckled, and then, just like that, she snapped. And for the first time today, she finally allowed herself to cry. The pain hit her so violently that it stole the air from her lungs. She clutched her chest, gasping. It hurts. It fucking hurts.

Everything he had ever said or done was a lie. She had given everything to him. Her love, her trust and her future. And he had used her, then discarded her like she was nothing.

She felt like a piece of meat. Something he had consumed and thrown away without a second thought.

Tears streamed down her face as she stared blankly ahead. She could have been a lawyer. She could have lived the life she wanted. She could have been happy.

But now it was too late. She would never be able to stand up again. And the worst part of it all?

She could have avoided this. She could have ignored his lies. She could have never believed that he could love her. But she didn't. And now, it was over for her.