Chapter 3

Early the next morning, I arrived at a law firm.

Once the divorce agreement was drafted, I sent a digital copy straight to Ethan.

Not even five minutes later, my phone blew up with his calls.

I ignored them all.

Then came a barrage of messages on Snapchat.

"Maya, are you seriously doing this?"

"Dumping all my stuff outside Chloe’s apartment—what the hell are you playing at? What will her neighbors think of her? Are you trying to drive a helpless widow into a corner?"

"Come take the bags back right now, and I won't hold it against you! We can pretend yesterday never happened!"

Staring at the screen, I scoffed at the sheer absurdity.

Even now, his primary concern was Chloe’s reputation, while still assuming I was just throwing a childish tantrum.

I tapped the voice message button:

"Ethan, did you read the agreement clearly? The house is mine, the car is mine, and the savings were earned almost entirely by me. Every dime of your salary went toward supporting that widow anyway, and I won't even bother clawing it back. Just sign the papers and spare me the disgust."

A long pause followed before Ethan sent back a lengthy voice note. In the background, Chloe’s faux-sympathetic whispers were faintly audible.

"Maya! Don't push your luck! Am I the one at fault here? I was saving lives! I’m a hero! If you divorce me, how will the public look at you? They’ll say you’re ungrateful! They’ll say you’re cold-blooded!"

"Besides, you don't even have a uterus anymore—you're a barren hen! Who else would ever want you? I didn't even abandon you for becoming damaged goods, and you want to leave me?"

"I’m only putting up with this because you just lost the baby and you're emotionally unstable. Don't bite the hand that feeds you!"

"A barren hen." Those words struck like icy needles.

This was the man who once pursued me with grand promises, swearing he would love me for a lifetime through thick and thin.

To him, I was merely a breeding vessel.

The moment the vessel broke, he genuinely believed it was pure charity that kept him from discarding me on the curb.

Infuriated to the point of laughter, my fingers flew across the keyboard:

"Ethan, have you forgotten how I ended up like this? Should I blast the rescue dispatch logs and my medical reports to your department's entire WhatsApp group? Let everyone see how our local hero sacrificed his own unborn child and rendered his wife permanently infertile just to 'avoid suspicion'!"

"And as for Chloe—whether that delicate little widow is truly as innocent and fragile as you claim—we’ll let the judge decide in court!"

After that, absolute silence settled over the chat.

I knew I had struck his Achilles' heel.

What Ethan cared about more than anything was his image—his carefully crafted persona of the selfless, noble hero.

If the truth came out, his career was finished.