Money Can't Buy Back a Dead Heart

Peter Crowley finds out that it's been three days since I last lodged a purchase request from him. Thinking that I've finally learned how to become a good wife, he decides to text me as a form of reward.

"I've already restored your adoptive mother's treatment privileges. You should be more docile from now on. Don't keep lying just to ask for more money from me.

"I know that it's tough, being from the bottom rung of the society and all, but I'm not a gullible idiot, you know."

What Peter doesn't know is that I've already finished drafting a divorce agreement by the time I receive his text.

Before leaving the manor, the only thing I can take with me is the white T-shirt and the jeans I wore when I first married into this family.

No one will ever believe that I, the glamorous and radiant Mrs. Crowley, don't have enough decent clothes to take up an entire closet.

Every cent meant for any private expenses needs to go through a corporate approval system. All of the fancy clothes and jewelry are locked up in a safe, too.

If I ever need money, I'll have to submit a request to Peter's secretary, Cara Harden.

This is all because Peter looks down on my background. He thinks that I'll somehow develop a bad habit of spending money excessively just because I've married rich.

But three days ago, my adoptive mother was in critical condition. I quickly put in a request for 200 thousand dollars for her surgical bills, only for Cara to drag out the approval system's procession. In the end, my adoptive mother died in the hospital.

Peter has no idea that the only reason why I can tolerate his behavior for so many years is for the sake of the medical resources that can cure my adoptive mother.

Now that my adoptive mother is dead, there's no need for me to continue staying in this marriage.

I brought up divorce to my husband, Peter Crowley, but he didn't agree to it.

"Don't be such a drama queen," he said coldly without even taking his eyes off the laptop screen.

It was as if he found those boring electronic data more interesting than talking to me.

I lowered my eyes and said firmly, "I'm being serious. I want a divorce."

Peter took a deep breath and stood, his expression icy.

"I was the one who agreed to suspend Mom's treatment. It had nothing to do with Cara. She was just carrying out orders. If you hadn't gone to the company and made a huge scene, I wouldn't have needed to teach you a lesson.

"I already had someone resume the treatment yesterday. My time is precious, so I don't have time to watch you throw a tantrum."

Without waiting for my reply, he turned and walked away.

He was certain that before long, I'd shamelessly submit and grovel, and continue to fawn over him just like before.

Even when he said to my face, "Don't be such a simp. It makes me sick," I'd just smile and say nothing, continuing to work like a tireless, uncomplaining maid.

But now, it no longer mattered whether the treatment was resumed.

If Peter had picked up my call three days ago, I might still be bowing and scraping, desperately trying to please him. But he was never patient enough to answer my calls.

At the time, I begged him not to hang up and to hear me out, but it was no match for a single word from Cara Harden.

"Could it be that Ada is upset because I reminded her to follow proper procedures earlier?" she asked Peter pitifully. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just didn't want her to keep that bad habit of having no plan at all, like she used to when she was just scraping by.

"That's why I enforced the process a bit more strictly—so that she'd learn her lesson and develop good habits."

Hearing this, Peter grew even more impatient with my call.

Ignoring my pleas, he ordered coldly, "Do as Cara says."

In the past, whenever I went to him for something, he would behave the same way.

"I'm busy. If you need something, go to Cara.

"Listen to Cara.

"Just do whatever Cara tells you to do."

I was his wife, yet I had not the slightest shred of dignity.

Not to mention going out normally—even for social engagements I was required to attend as his wife—I still had to submit an application for Cara's approval.

Every single time, Cara would smilingly reject these ridiculous applications with a light, dismissive attitude.

"Ada, the application description isn't detailed enough. Please rewrite it.

"The gala only goes until 10:00 pm tonight. How can you put it down at midnight?

"Ada, why do you always do this? Just look at what you wrote on the form. Didn't I say to submit it unless everything is in order?"