On the night before our engagement party, my fiancée went radio silent for five hours—just to buy her male assistant stomach medicine.

When she finally came back, I gave her two choices: fire him, or call off the wedding.

She disappeared for three full days.

The next time I saw her, she showed up at our doorstep soaking wet. She threw her arms around me and said, "I don't want anyone but you."

Then, on our wedding night, she vanished again.

I'm an ER doctor. I got called in for an emergency.

When I got to the hospital, I found out the patient was her assistant. He had a groin injury. My fiancée was standing by his bedside, disheveled, her clothes a mess.

I didn't raise my voice. I just looked at her and said, "Cut ties with him right now. We can still make this work."

Her eyes filled with conflict. She hesitated.

Then she reached down and took his hand.

My fiancée didn't look at me. Just kept her head down.

That gesture was more brutal than if she'd said, "I choose him."

I heard something inside me shatter.

"Fine."

I turned to the nurse who had just walked in. "Prep the OR. I'm doing the surgery."

Claire Bishop immediately grabbed my arm, panicked. "No! Ethan, you can't operate on him. Get another doctor. You have to get someone else."

I looked down at her hand gripping me and let out a cold laugh.

"You ran off with another man on our wedding night. You're not afraid of that.

"But now you're scared I'll do something to him on the operating table?"

I laughed again—bitter this time—and pulled my arm away.

"Don't worry. You might not have any ethics, but I still have mine. I'm a doctor, first and foremost. After this surgery, we're getting a divorce."

Claire's lips parted. Guilt washed over her face.

But before she could say anything, the guy in the bed—Noah Patterson—grabbed the hem of her coat.

"Claire, I'm scared," he whimpered. "I don't want him. Please. Not him."

He shrank back from me, his eyes full of fear.

Claire's guilt vanished. In its place, pure tenderness. She shoved me aside and planted herself in front of Noah like a shield.

"Get away from him! I'm demanding another doctor. Ethan, you are not doing this surgery."

She couldn't look me in the eye. Her voice dropped, soft and pleading.

"I know I've wronged you. I know that. When this is over, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

My heart turned to ice.

My life. My marriage. The betrayal and humiliation I'd suffered on my wedding night.

And in her eyes, all of it was just something she could compensate me for.

The scene unfolding outside the ER doors had become a full-blown spectacle. Everyone was watching.

"Wait, isn't that Dr. Anders? Isn't he supposed to be at his wedding today?"

"His wife ran off with another guy on their wedding night. To the hospital. Of all places."

"Think there's something wrong with him? You know, down there?"

Malice. Gossip. Pity. Contempt.

All of it wrapped around me like a net, choking me.

And my new wife—the woman who had just promised to love and cherish me—stood there defending another man, offering me up as public entertainment.

Claire got what she wanted. She threw a fit, and the department head caved.

The chief patted my shoulder. His eyes were complicated. Finally, all he said was, "Go take a break."

I didn't move.

I stood there and watched Claire carefully escort Noah into the operating room.

She didn't look back at me. Not once. All her focus, all her concern—it all belonged to him.

My colleagues wanted to say something comforting, but no one knew how. They just looked at me with those half-open mouths and pitying eyes.

I leaned against the cold wall and called my assistant.

"Put a freeze on all current projects and funding with the Bishop Group."

There was a pause on the other end. "All of them, sir? Some of these projects are already mid-execution."

"If we unilaterally terminate, we might have to absorb some of the losses," my assistant said.

"All of it. I don't care about the losses," I insisted.

"Got it, Mr. Anders. I'll review the contract details right away. The whole process will take about a week."

A week.

That was fine. It would give me just enough time to make the divorce settlement as airtight as possible.

I had given her countless chances.

What Claire and I had started as a calculated business merger. A marriage of convenience between two wealthy families.

But three years together changes things. I'm not made of stone. I actually grew to love her.

So when Noah became a problem, I made my feelings very clear.

She promised me she would handle it. She swore it would never affect our marriage.

Those words were still ringing in my ears.

She was the one who threw this marriage away.

So don't blame me for playing dirty.

…

The lawyer hadn't even finished drafting the divorce agreement when my parents started blowing up my phone.

My mom didn't even say hello. Just launched right in.

"Ethan! Why didn't you tell us you had a medical problem? And why haven't you seen a doctor about it?"

I frowned, completely lost. "Mom, I'm fine. I work out all the time. You see my annual physical every year."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Her voice was frantic. "I'm talking about the problem. The man problem.

"Are you misunderstanding something with Claire? She's a young woman who was humiliated on her wedding night. Instead of comforting her, you terminate all contracts with her company?"

Word after ridiculous word hit me like a truck. I couldn't even connect what she was saying to myself.

Then she sent a photo to my WhatsApp.

It was a medical report. Severe erectile dysfunction. And it had my name on it.

Claire had posted this in our extended family group chat first thing in the morning.

In the chat, she was crying, saying I wouldn't let her touch me, that I was constantly accusing her of cheating on me.

My parents were falling all over themselves apologizing to her. They sent her several large cash gifts to calm her down.

[Claire, don't be too hard on Ethan. He's just under a lot of pressure.]

[This is our fault. We didn't raise him right. You shouldn't have to deal with this.]

Then the aunts and uncles chimed in.

[Yeah, Claire, Ethan has always been stubborn. Just be patient with him.]

[Ethan, go see a doctor. Don't wait. These things are treatable if you catch them early.]

A few of my younger cousins jumped in with laughing emojis and jokes.

[So what's the deal, Ethan? How bad is it?]

[Don't worry, Claire. I know a great doctor. He specializes in this kind of thing.]

I was gripping my phone so hard my hands were shaking. Rage flooded my head. My vision went black at the edges.

Claire had the nerve to play the victim. To flip the whole story around.

I immediately opened our private chat.

[Claire. Is this really the game you want to play?]

A few seconds later—no private reply—she tagged me in the family group chat.

[I'm sorry, everyone. Please don't blame Ethan. He already yelled at me.]

[That report isn't real. I made it up. I lied.]

[Ethan doesn't have any problems. He's perfect. This is all my fault.]

And the more she "clarified," the more everyone believed her.

[Claire, you're too kind! You're still defending him after everything?]

[Ethan! Look at what you've done to her. Apologize. Now.]

Reading all those twisted versions of the truth, I felt sick to my stomach.

Then her private message popped up.

[Restore the funding and the business partnership. Immediately.]

[Otherwise, I don't mind sending that medical report to every media outlet in the city.]

Claire: [I think a news story about 'Anders Group Heir Suffers from Both Physical and Mental Disorders' would be a lot more interesting than the Bishop Group's funding crisis, don't you?]

I stared at Claire's message. My heart felt like it had been dunked in ice water.

Me: [That's fraud. It's slander.]

Claire: [Exactly.]

There was something reckless in her reply. A nothing-left-to-lose kind of boldness.

Claire: [You pushed me to this. I bought gifts today. I was going to come home and talk to you. Try to make things right.]

Claire: [But you know what you did? You cut off my money, Ethan. If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me.]

Claire: [We were always just a business arrangement. So why are you demanding loyalty from me?]

Suddenly, the woman on the other end of that screen felt like a stranger. A terrifying one.

Three years ago, when our two families first agreed to the merger, she said, "Ethan, an arranged marriage is miserable enough. I don't want our marriage to be full of affairs, secret love children, and constant fighting.

"We have to be loyal to each other. At least on the surface. We keep it clean. I don't want to be anyone's laughingstock."

She was the one who wanted a "clean" marriage. She was the one who swore there would never be any betrayal.

And now she was the one asking me why I expected loyalty.

Unbelievable.

Me: [Fine. I'll restore the funding to the Bishop Group.]

Claire: [That's more like it.]

What a smug reply.

Claire: [Oh, and one more thing. You need to apologize to Noah.]

My temple throbbed. [For what?]

Claire: [You were awful to him at the hospital. You scared him. You need to apologize in person. Properly.]

I sneered.

Me: [No.]

And Claire went right back to threatening me.

Claire: [Ethan, I'm warning you. Don't make me do something you'll regret.]

It was almost funny.

The only thing I regretted was agreeing to this marriage three years ago.

Back then, Claire only became the heir to the Bishop Group because of our engagement. She was incompetent and made terrible decisions. Without my help these past three years, she would have been pushed out long ago.

Now it was time to put her back where she belonged.

The Bishop family had an older son—Claire's half-brother, Julian Bishop. The first wife's child. He'd lost an eye in an accident years ago, so the family tossed him aside and left him to rot in a subsidiary company.

I thought Julian and I might have something to talk about.

It didn't take long to reach him through my connections. We set a time and place to meet.

I was just about to walk out the door when—

Whoosh.

A bucket of something foul hit me right in the face. Reeking, disgusting liquid burned my eyes. I gagged.

"You sick bastard!" a man's voice shouted. "You call yourself a doctor? Rich piece of trash with no morals!"

"Get him!" someone else yelled. "This is for every patient you've screwed over!"

Before I even understood what was happening, a fist slammed into my face. Then more fists. More boots. They came at me from every direction.

I tried to explain. Tried to fight back. But there were too many of them.

Then—a crack. A blinding flash of pain from my leg. I heard the snap of bone.

But they didn't stop.

…

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a hospital bed.

My leg was wrapped in a thick cast, hoisted up in the air.

Lying there under the harsh fluorescent lights, I finally understood what the paint and the beating had been about.

Number one on trending: a video about me.

The thumbnail was taken from the ER that night—our wedding night.

The video had been carefully edited. Spliced. Twisted.

The grainy footage showed only my face clearly. I was edited to look cold and aggressive. And they'd dubbed over it with new dialogue—none of it true.