The video was crystal clear: that afternoon, George had driven my car away. A few hours later, he came back by taxi, but the car never reappeared.

I stood before the empty parking spot, my blood running cold. With shaking hands, I dialed his number. "George, where is my car?"

After what felt like an eternity, he showed up, rubbing his hands nervously. "I scratched it by accident and sent it to the dealership for repairs."

I watched his lousy performance, then showed him the vehicle's location interface on my phone. "Which part of your story can I still believe? You took my car and gave it to Ross without even discussing it with me?"

His face twisted with feigned grievance. "What's the fuss? Ross is family, and he needs a car for work, so I lent it to him. Besides, if we hadn't shifted the $20,000 Mom and Dad saved for his car to our wedding expenses, he'd have had one long ago. We owe him."

His tone dripped with dissatisfaction, and I could hardly believe my ears. Even at this point, he framed the wedding funds as me shortchanging Ross.

Rage surged through me like electricity. "Whose family is he? Not mine. I'll say this one once more: I want a divorce. And if my car isn't back tonight, I'll go to the police first thing tomorrow and report you for illegal possession."

Ignoring his contorted expression, I hailed a taxi and headed straight to my parents' place. Once there, I poured out all the grievances I'd been carrying in my heart for these years, along with everything that happened today.

My mom listened, her eyes filling with tears. She drew me into a tight hug. "You silly child, why did you shoulder this alone for so long?"

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

Opening it revealed George and his mother, Hilda Serrano, her face plastered with a forced smile. "Miriam, why run home over a little spat? We can talk it out. I brought George to apologize."

George reached for my hand. "Honey, I was wrong. Come home with me."

My gaze was frigid. "I said I wanted a divorce. And return my car immediately."

His expression soured, impatience flashing. "All you care about is that stupid car. I never saw how cold and selfish you were before. It's freezing outside, and Ross is having trouble getting to work. What is wrong with letting him use it for a while? Isn't that what family does?"

Hilda chimed in, "That's right, Miriam. You two are doing well; Ross can't keep up. That car sits idle most days anyway, so why not transfer it to him? He's thinking about buying one, and your car fits perfectly. Saves him the trouble of picking."

I froze, stunned by the sheer audacity of their words.

George nodded in agreement. "Exactly. Ross said your car is second-hand, but it drives fine. Just gift it to him."

My dad, who'd been holding back his anger, couldn't take it anymore. He rushed forward and landed a solid punch on George's face.

"Get out, you bloodsucking leeches! Scram!" Clifford Reyes yelled, slamming the door shut.

Outside, Hilda's furious shrieks and George's mumbled gripes gradually faded away. I slumped against the door frame, a bone-deep chill seeping through me.

My mom wiped her tears while my dad glowered. "This marriage has to end. We'll contact a lawyer tomorrow!"

...

We hadn't even contacted a lawyer yet when George showed up again.

As my parents and I stepped out of the apartment, he lunged forward and grabbed me. His voice rose to a piercing wail that echoed through the entire complex. "Honey, I messed up. Please don't divorce me. My parents raised me; they're country folks living through hardships. I just want to give them a bit for living expenses. Can we discuss this?"

The abrupt spectacle pinned me in place. Revulsion coursed through me, making my skin crawl as I shook violently to free myself. "Let go of me and drop the act! It's revolting!"

The neighbors were startled and started poking their heads out to watch.

Emboldened by the audience, George amped up the drama. "Everyone, help me reason with my wife. I really don't want a divorce. But my parents raised me; paying them back is only right."

The neighbors' eyes widened. "Not letting her husband support his parents? What kind of wife is that? We've watched her grow up, but we never pegged her for this. Mean and ungrateful."

I never thought George would twist the facts like this. Anger got the better of me, and I was momentarily lost for words.

"He's lying. That's not how it is at all," I managed.

George pressed on. "Honey, I'm sorry. You have every reason to be mad about my downplaying my salary, but I have to support my parents. Please forgive me. I can't lose you."

His words set off the crowd. Soon people were pointing and whispering loudly. A guy shouted, "Shame on you!"

Then came someone's leftover fries and a half-empty soda can that splashed at our feet. Others joined in.

My parents tried to shield me, but they were caught in the crossfire, left smeared and disheveled.

Amid the barrage of insults, we fled back inside, utterly humiliated. But the nightmare didn't end there. The incident had been filmed and uploaded online.

The caption read: [Rural Husband Blamed by Snobbish Wife for Supporting Parents.]

The internet erupted in hatred toward me.

[How disgusting!]

[People like her deserve to be condemned.]

[When she's a mom, I hope her kids treat her the same way.]

Somehow, my phone number got leaked. Strangers called daily to hurl abuse, and private messages flooded me on every platform. I didn't dare to read them.

Even our home address got exposed. Packages arrived: dead rats, blood-smeared photos, malicious letters, and so on. We called the police, but without proof of who sent them, there was little they could do.

We became prisoners in our home. Venturing out meant stares, whispers, outright ambushes, and verbal assaults.

Meanwhile, the orchestrator of this chaos lounged in anonymity, launching livestreams and profiting off our suffering.

Watching George live, his face full of fake grievance, I clenched my fists until my knuckles whitened. Fine! If he wanted to play dirty, I'd respond in kind.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. "I've got explosive headline material here. Interested in exclusive first-hand details?"