My Husband Is Marrying Another Woman Without Divorcing Me

When I was eighteen, Derek stormed into my house and stabbed my father eighteen times.

As the police hauled him away, he met the cameras with a calm, almost proud smile. “Why should I regret it?” he said. “No beast will ever hide behind the name of family to hurt her again. From this day on, Esther is free.”

Years later, when he got out of prison, I had nothing—no money in my pockets, no job offers.

He stubbed out his cigarette, threw himself into the ruthless circles of the capital, and clawed his way up until everyone called him President Vazquez.

After we got married, every password of his was set to my birthday. And yet, as I scrolled through his photo albums, all I saw were pictures of another woman—over thousands of them but not a single one of mine.

It was only then that he seemed to realize.

Without a word, he deleted all those photos, tossed his phone aside, and said flatly, “It’s all in the past. Pretend you never saw it.”

I slid the divorce papers across the table and intoned coldly, "I told you. Sign it."

He dropped the pen and squinted his eyes. "And I told you as well—between us, there's no divorce. Only death."

——

Derek didn't sign.

"Between us, there had only ever been widowhood, never divorce." Those had been his words on our wedding day.

He didn't even glance at the papers before slamming the door and leaving.

Not long after, a voice message popped up from an unfamiliar number.

"You must be Esther, right? You should've seen it by now—he's been saving my photos since I was still in school. Derek loves me, not you. If you don't step aside, he'll make sure you regret it!"

Her voice was young, naive, seemingly untouched by the filth of the world—or maybe Derek had simply shielded her too well.

Before I could reply, a string of photos came through.

Her figure was flawless, a delicate chain resting around her slim waist.And that hand resting on her skin—the same hand that sometimes forgot to remove our wedding ring—was splayed carelessly across her skin. Only when her belly began to swell did that chain disappear.

"Esther, you've been married to Derek for three years and never carried his child. But he let me carry his baby. Don't you get it? What's the point of clinging on? If you won’t give up, I’ll move into your home myself. Let’s see whose side Derek takes then—yours or mine."

When Derek came home, he found the shattered glass ornaments scattered across the floor—and me standing there with the phone in hand.

He only raised a brow as he said, "Don't you have anything to say?"

My ragged breathing mingled with the smoke from his cigar.

He chuckled softly, exhaled a ring of smoke, and sighed. "She's just a girl. Why bother lowering yourself to her level?"

His tone was light as if all the bloodshed he endured in the capital had been for her, not me.

"Yes, she's young and foolish." I tossed a medical report onto the table.

His body stiffened instantly.

"She was pregnant," I said flatly. "So I taught her a lesson and made her grow up."

"Esther!"

His hands clamped down on my shoulders so hard it felt like my bones would snap. My back hit the wall. I curled my lips, savoring the redness burning in his eyes.

In this lifetime, he'd only bled anger from his eyes twice.

Once, in our final year of high school—when he saw my father drag me half-naked by the hair into the street, trying to drown me in the river. That was the night he stabbed my father eighteen times.

The second time was now—over a girl's miscarriage.

He crushed my shoulders, demanding to know my "cruelty."

"How rare," I sneered, "to see President Vazquez actually lose control."

"You're a woman too! How could you do this to her?" he thundered.