I bit my lip until I tasted blood—metallic and sharp.

Jordan’s voice came through the earpiece, unnervingly gentle. "What could she possibly know? That orphan would be nothing without me. Dumb as a post. If my bastard rival hadn’t snatched her all those years ago and left her broken, would I have wasted years keeping her? If I hadn’t married her and she’d died, what would everyone think of Jordan?"

"She’s just a pet. Kept at home to keep up appearances. Don’t think about her, sweetheart. Everyone knows I only touch clean girls."

A wave of raucous laughter followed, broken by Jennifer’s coy, playful scolding.

"Jordan, you’re terrible…"

"Terrible? You haven’t seen anything yet…"

What came next was worse. Like a blunt, poisoned knife, it carved slowly through eight years of trust—through everything I’d believed was love.

Curled tight on the sofa, my whole body went cold, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

So it was all a lie. The “addiction.” The “restraint.” The “fear of hurting me.”

He could—he just thought I was tainted.

Those clusters of needle marks on his arm weren’t to suppress desire. They were boosters, for when the fun outside wasn’t enough.

His love? Pity. Charity. A prop for his “devoted husband” act.

And me? The genius doctor, the youngest PhD in the field, locked in a gilded cage like a worthless trinket… For eight years, I’d been his fool.

My phone buzzed. A message from Jordan.

*Margaret, where are you? The food’s getting cold. Are you feeling unwell again? Be good—I’ll wrap things up here and come home to you.*

I stared at the hollow words on the screen and laughed until tears streaked my face.

Slowly, I typed out a reply, one deliberate character at a time.

*Jordan, I want a divorce.*

After I sent the message, Jordan never replied.

I sat alone through the night, until the first hint of dawn crept in and the sound of the keypad unlocking echoed through the villa’s front door.

Jordan was back. He reeked of alcohol and a strange perfume—the exact scent Jennifer had worn the day before. His suit jacket was draped carelessly over his arm, his tie pulled loose and crooked. Handsome as he was, his face carried the weary look of a hangover.

Seeing me on the sofa, he paused, then frowned, his tone thick with displeasure. “Why are you still up? Pouting all night?”

He walked over and stood above me, looking down as if I were a petulant child.

“Divorce? Margaret, do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

He tugged at his tie and scoffed. “Because I missed our anniversary? How old are you, playing these childish games?”

I lifted my head and met his searching gaze calmly. “I’m perfectly clear-headed. Jordan, I’ll have my lawyer draw up the divorce papers. You can choose to walk away with nothing or split the assets fifty-fifty. It’s up to you.”

He looked like he’d just heard the world’s biggest joke. Leaning down, he gripped my chin, his fingers digging in painfully.

“Say that again.”

His eyes turned to ice—a look so cold and sharp it felt physical. “Margaret, have you forgotten who gave you everything? Your job, your reputation, this house you live in—which of them didn’t come from me? Without me, what are you?”

“What am I?”

I looked at him, my gaze utterly dead. “I’m the fool you’ve deceived for eight years. The doll you find disgusting but still use as a prop in your loving-husband act. Jordan, if it makes you sick, it makes me sick too.”

His expression shifted instantly. His grip on my chin tightened sharply. “You heard?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I wrenched my face free, stood up, and faced him.

“Yes. I heard.”

I went on, voice flat. “‘Used up.’ ‘Looks like death warmed over.’ ‘Dumber than a box of rocks.’ I heard it all. Mr. Jordan, your acting is truly masterful. I’m in awe.”

A flicker of panic crossed Jordan’s eyes, quickly replaced by fury.

He probably never expected the wife he saw as weak, obedient, and compliant to speak in such a cold tone.

“You followed me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“The watch you gave me works too well. The GPS never lies.”

I curled my lips into a sarcastic smile. “Mr. Jordan, drop the act. If you’re not tired of it, I am. Nine a.m. tomorrow, at the civil affairs office.”

With that, I turned to go upstairs.

But he grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it felt like he might crush the bone.

“I don’t agree!” he growled, eyes bloodshot. “Margaret, you’re not leaving me! You’ll stay by my side for the rest of your life, as Mrs. Jordan!”

I struggled with all my strength but couldn’t break free.

Old trauma triggered an instinctive resistance, a deep fear of male touch. My stomach churned violently, and I couldn’t hold back a dry heave.

Seeing my reaction, the anger in his eyes flared hotter—as if my disgust had wounded his ridiculous pride.

“What are you pretending for?” he sneered. “Playing the innocent with me, but what about with other men? Margaret, can you honestly say you haven’t thought about a man in these eight years? That body of yours—who else would want it besides me?”

His venomous words were like poisoned needles, stabbing straight into my heart.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Jordan let go of me impatiently and went to answer it.

Standing at the door was Jennifer, wearing flawless makeup and a Chanel suit.

She held a box in her hands. Seeing me inside, she feigned surprise, covering her mouth. “Oh, Margaret, I… I didn’t mean to intrude. Jordan left his watch at my place last night. I thought it might be important, so I brought it right over.”

She handed the jewelry box I’d given him to Jordan, but her gaze settled challengingly on me.

I stared coldly at her, and at Jordan, whose expression grew darker as he took the box.

What a perfectly staged scene.

“Miss Jennifer,” I said, my voice quiet but clear enough to carry across the living room. “As a doctor, let me offer some friendly advice. The hymen is fragile tissue. Repeated repairs don’t just risk infection—they can cause necrosis. You’ve had two this month. Keep it up, and not even a miracle will fix it.”

Jennifer’s face went pale in an instant.

Jordan whipped his head around, eyes shooting daggers at me. “Margaret, shut up!”

“Why would I?”

I met his gaze and walked step by step toward Jennifer, looking into her panicked eyes. “Mr. Jordan, aren’t ‘clean’ girls your favorite? I’m just helping you verify how ‘clean’ your new fling really is. Nine procedures, Miss Jennifer. Your dedication is impressive.”

“You… you’re lying!” Jennifer trembled with rage, tears springing to her eyes on cue as she hid pitifully behind Jordan. “Jordan, I haven’t! She’s slandering me!”

Jordan shielded her behind him, looking at me with disgust. “Enough! Margaret, what’s happened to you? So bitter and sharp-tongued, like some shrew!”

I laughed, so hard tears nearly spilled.

“What I’ve become—isn’t it all thanks to you?”

I pointed toward the door. “Take your ‘clean’ girl and get out of my house.”

“Your house?” Jordan laughed in furious disbelief. “My name is on the deed! You’re the one who should leave!”

“Fine.”

I nodded and turned to walk out.

I took nothing with me—not even bothering to change out of my slippers.

As I reached the doorway, Jordan grabbed me again. His voice held a trace of suppressed panic. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t look back, answering coldly, “Somewhere you aren’t. To breathe fresh air.”

I really left.

Clad in nothing but a thin nightgown, I had neither my phone nor my wallet.

Jordan didn’t come after me. To him, this was surely just another petty game of mine—another sad attempt to play hard to get.

He was certain that without him, I couldn’t take a single step.

I wandered aimlessly in the cold morning wind until my feet went numb.

Eventually, I sank onto the steps outside a 24-hour convenience store.

An older woman in a city worker’s uniform handed me a hot steamed bun.

“Family troubles, dear?” she asked kindly. “Here, eat this. Don’t go hungry.”

I took the warm bun, and the tears finally broke free.

I thought I might die that morning. But I didn’t.

After dawn, I used a payphone to call the only friend I had left—my colleague, Anna.

When Anna arrived and saw the state I was in, she nearly had a heart attack.

Without a word, she took me back to her place, found me some clothes, and made me a bowl of hot ginger tea.

“Margaret… what happened with Jordan?” she asked carefully.

I told her everything.

Anna slammed the table in fury. “That bastard! That absolute scum! Margaret, you should have left him years ago! I always knew something was off. What kind of normal man doesn’t touch his wife for eight years? So he’s been fooling around this whole time!”

For the next few days, I stayed at Anna’s, my phone switched off, completely cut off from the world.

I had a lawyer draft divorce papers and sent them to Jordan Group.

Naively, I thought that once it was all out in the open, even if Jordan was unwilling, he’d sign just to save face.

But I underestimated his shamelessness—and his need for control.

A week later, my name suddenly splashed across the front pages of every media outlet in Rivermouth.

The headlines were horrifying: *Society Wife’s Heart of Stone: Jealousy Drives Her to Hire Thugs to Murder Rising Star Jennifer.*

The article featured a photo of Jennifer lying in a hospital bed, her head bandaged, weeping artfully as she accused me of hiring men to stage a car accident—all because I was jealous of her closeness with Jordan.

It even included a grainy surveillance video showing a woman with a figure like mine handing a wad of cash to a few shady-looking men.

Then they dug up my past—the kidnapping from my university days—and laid it bare. Even some unspeakable, blurred-out photos began to circulate.

The court of public opinion condemned me. They called me an ungrateful viper, damaged goods, utterly unworthy of Jordan.

The hospital called, too, politely informing me that due to the “negative impact,” I was being suspended.

I was finished.

I knew. This was all Jordan’s doing.

He wanted to destroy me. To back me into a corner until my only way out was to crawl back to him and resume my role as his obedient pet.

Anna was frantic. “What do we do? This is pure slander! We’ll go to the police!”

“It’s no use,” I said calmly. “He controls all the evidence, the whole narrative. Going to the police will only humiliate me further.”

Sure enough, not long after, the butler from the villa showed up at Anna’s place.

He addressed me with practiced deference. “Madam, Mr. Jordan requests your return.”

I looked at him and smiled. “Tell Jordan I’ll go back only when I’m dead.”

The butler left, looking troubled.

That night, Jordan came himself.

He kicked Anna’s door open, stormed in like an enraged lion, and dragged me up from the sofa.

“Margaret, do you have to push me this far?” His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on me. “Come home! Withdraw the divorce papers, and I’ll pretend none of this ever happened!”

“No.”

I met his gaze, enunciating each word. “Jordan, give it up.”

“Fine. Just fine!” He laughed, a sound of pure fury, and began dragging me toward the door.

Anna rushed to stop him. He shoved her aside, sending her crashing against the wall.

He threw me roughly into his car and sped all the way to the hospital.

In Jennifer’s private suite, I saw the woman who made my skin crawl.

She was leaning weakly against the pillows. When she saw Jordan dragging me in, a flash of triumph lit her eyes.

“Jordan…” she whispered, her voice frail.

Jordan ignored her. He shoved me toward the bed and addressed the doctor. “She’s lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion. Use hers.”

The doctor looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Jordan, this lady…”

“She’s my wife. I decide.”

Jordan cut him off impatiently.

I stared at him in disbelief.

He knew. He knew I had severe hereditary anemia. I couldn’t donate blood.

“Jordan, are you trying to kill me?” My voice trembled.

He looked at me coldly, not a shred of warmth in his eyes. “You said you wanted to die. I’m granting your wish. We stop when you come to your senses.”

So this was how he had “loved” me for eight years.

I closed my eyes and laughed—a sound of utter despair.

A nurse approached with a syringe. I didn’t resist.

Just as the needle was about to pierce my skin, Jordan suddenly grabbed the nurse’s wrist.

He stared at my pale face. A flicker of struggle crossed his eyes before he pushed the nurse away.

The words were ground out between his teeth. “Draw it! Draw it until she begs!”

In the end, he still couldn’t bear to let me die.

Maybe he was afraid that if I died, there’d be no one left for him to play the devoted husband to.

But I didn’t beg.

I just watched him coldly, watched as my blood was drawn, drop by drop, and fed into Jennifer’s veins.

Until my vision darkened, and I lost consciousness completely.

Before blacking out, I saw a moment of sheer panic flash across Jordan’s face.

How laughable.

At the climax of this torture, Jennifer’s attending physician stepped forward. He held a report and said to Jordan, “Mr. Jordan, Miss Jennifer only sustained superficial injuries. Her blood loss is negligible. A transfusion is completely unnecessary. Furthermore, Dr. Margaret’s blood type is incompatible with hers.”

Jordan’s face turned deathly pale.