Chapter 1

Every wedding anniversary, Edward Foster ensured I received a gift I'd never forget.

On the night of our tenth anniversary, he paraded into the ballroom with a hostess dressed in risqué lingerie.

"Claire, can't you see that our guest feels cold? Take off your dress for her now," he snapped.

Wanting to humiliate me further, he pressed on. "Swap your lingerie with hers, too. She likes them."

I clutched my collar and retreated.

But he caught the fabric and tore it right down my chest. "Don't put on airs now. You were far from being this prim when your father dropped you off in my bed for money. I still remember how eager you were."

The crowd watched, hungry for the spectacle. True to form, I gave them what they wanted and demanded a divorce.

Edward simply laughed, then scattered a stack of photos onto the table—they were shots of me, covered in hickeys, curled up on the bed.

He said, "Claire, you cry for a divorce every time, but you always end up crawling right back to my side.

"Now, what do you think would happen if these photos went viral? Would your vegetative mother still be resting easy in her hospital bed?"

As soon as he finished talking, everyone erupted in laughter.

"Mr. Foster, why don't we start a bet? How long do you think she'll last before coming crawling back to you?" someone asked.

Another guy joined in, "I bet Claire will be back in Mr. Foster's bed tonight, begging for forgiveness on her knees!"

"Count me in. With her vegetative mom's hefty hospital bills, she won't even be able to afford a cremation if she divorces Mr. Foster," one exclaimed.

The hostess in Edward's arms made sure I saw the flashy ring on her finger before saying in a coquettish voice, "I'm broke, but I'll toss in 150 dollars, too. There's no way they're splitting up."

Staring at the ring on her finger, I let out a sudden laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

Ten years ago, he promised my father that he'd take good care of me.

Now, he gave our wedding ring to a hostess to humiliate me.

Chuckling, I shook my head and silently cursed myself for being pathetic. I let Edward hurt me for ten whole years before finally making up my mind to leave him.

"Edward, I've already signed the divorce papers. All you need to do is put your name on it," I said.

Over the years, I'd threatened divorce 999 times.

But this was the first time I'd actually put my signature on the papers.

I took off my wedding ring—the same one flaunted by the hostess—placed it squarely on top of the divorce papers, and handed them to him without a word.

Edward's face darkened, and he stared at me for a few seconds.

Maybe he found it hard to believe that a woman like me, who had been clinging to him and enduring every humiliation in silence like a simp, was suddenly willing to set him free.

With a mocking smile tugging at his lips, he snatched the papers and tore them to shreds right in front of me.

He spat, "Don't you ever get sick of playing these stupid tricks? You don't need to use divorce to threaten me—I've long been sick of this marriage and you."

I quietly lowered my eyes, then fished out another copy of the divorce papers from my bag.

"Since you're already sick of me, Mr. Foster, why not just sign your name on it?" I said lightly.

Edward abruptly shoved the hostess aside, eyes narrowing with rage as he yanked his tie loose.

"You belong to me," he snarled. "Even divorced, no man would touch someone like you. Without me, who's going to pay your mother's hospital bills? Who else are you going to drain dry?"

I kept quiet, letting him say whatever he wanted. Just as I turned away, ready to walk out, Edward yanked me and slammed me into a window nearby, and I cried out from the sharp pain.

The very next second, he slid his icy hand up my thigh right in front of all the guests.

I thrashed my arms in desperation and bit down hard on his arm.

Edward tilted his head at me, mocking, "Are you some kind of rabid dog?"

I stared him straight in the eye. "Don't touch me. You're filthy."

"Filthy?" Edward echoed with a chilling laugh.

He grabbed the divorce papers from my hand and signed his name with exaggerated flair.

Then, he turned to his assistant and ordered, "Cut off Mrs. Jensen's medical payments. Let Ms. Jensen see what being filthy really means."

The next moment, he said to me, "Your mom's latest medical payment will only last another week. Take that time to think—are you going to come crawling back to me and beg for forgiveness?"

He was smiling so smugly as though he was certain I'd never gamble with my mom's life.

But a few months back, when the nurses kept handing me notices about my mom's critical condition, I'd called Edward again and again, hoping for him to see her one last time.

Yet, when he answered the call, all he said was, "That old hag is dying? Is this another lie you cooked up? You don't have to curse your own mother just to have me come home."

That night, my mom passed away—the only person in this world who ever truly loved me was gone.

As such, Edward couldn't threaten me anymore.

Meeting his confident gaze, I said flatly, "Suit yourself. I'll see you at City Hall after the cooling-off period."

With that, I picked up the small luggage I'd packed in advance and left without looking back.