Chapter 3 · My Husband Came Back Too

Someone said: [Rachel, don't put yourself through this.]

Another echoed: [Some people sit there and do nothing. It's honestly so annoying.]

Someone else chimed in: [@Rachel, you deserve better.]

I started typing a reply.

My finger hovered over the send button for three seconds, then I erased everything.

Right after, someone else dropped a message. [Please, leave Rachel alone. She just recovered from her depression. Don't upset her.]

The chat kept blowing up.

Someone said: [Some people only bully the ones who never fight back.]

Another added: [Rachel went abroad back then to help her out.]

I left the group chat.

I took out my phone, popped out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it into a roadside trash can.

Then I walked into a print shop, had a fresh divorce agreement printed out, signed it, and arranged for a same-day courier.

The delivery address was Edward's private villa.

Less than twenty minutes after the courier showed the package had been delivered, my phone rang. It was the bank. "Hello, Mrs. Lane. This is your personal account manager.

"I'm sorry to let you know that all your additional cards have been frozen at the request of the primary cardholder. If you have any questions, please contact..."

I hung up.

I opened my wallet. Inside were three hundred-dollar bills and a few coins.

That was all the cash I had.

I hadn't worked in years.

Edward always said, "You don't need to work. We've got everything we need at home."

Back then, I believed him.

I believed him for five years, until I had to pinch money from the household budget to buy a box of sleeping pills.

I dragged my suitcase through the streets for ages, finally finding a budget hotel tucked away in a quiet alley on the west side of the city.

The front desk quoted me 40 dollars a night, no breakfast included.

I paid for two nights, leaving me with 20 dollars.

The room was on the fourth floor, and the window looked out onto a gray wall.

The heating hadn't kicked in yet, and the blanket was cold to the touch.

As I set my suitcase down, there was a knock at the door.

A hotel staff member stood there, holding a gourmet meal box, his smile almost too eager. "Hi, ma'am. Our hotel launched a VIP mystery box promo, and you lucked out, a free serving of nourishing oatmeal. Congrats."

I glanced at the logo on the meal box.

It was Willow & Crane Private Kitchen.

That private kitchen on the east side required a reservation three days in advance.

It was sugar-free oatmeal with dried figs & dried apricots.

Edward never liked oatmeal.

But Rachel loved it. As for how this oatmeal ended up here, honestly, I didn't even want to dig into it.

"Thanks, but I don't need it," I said.

"But it's free..." he called out.

I closed the door in his face.

He left the meal box at my door. I opened the door and dumped it by the trash can in the hallway.

*****

My stomach had been hurting since the afternoon.

I rushed out this morning and only had half a glass of cold water.

I sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, waiting for the pain to fade.

But it never did.

It kept getting worse, like someone was slowly twisting my insides.

I grabbed my room key and headed downstairs, making my way to the convenience store on the corner.

The painkillers were on the third shelf.

As I reached for them, someone suddenly burst out from behind the shelf next to mine and almost crashed into me.

It was Simon Clark, Edward's personal assistant.

He was drenched in sweat, clutching a box of stomach medicine, and breathing so hard it looked like he'd sprinted down the street.

Simon stammered, trying to sound calm. "Mrs. Lane.

"What a coincidence, I happened to be here. This... this medicine, it's really good. My stomach's not great, so I take it all the time. Thought I'd grab it for you while I was at it..."

"Simon," I said.

He immediately fell silent.

I glanced at the box of medicine in his hand.

It was imported, meant for stress-related stomach problems, and you could only get it with a prescription.

There's no way a convenience store would carry something like that.

"Did he send you here?" I asked.

Simon looked away, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

I swatted the box of medicine out of his hand. The plastic case hit the floor, bounced a couple times, and the pills scattered, rolling under the shelf. "Go back and tell him.

"Save his cheap sympathy. His signature is all that matters to me."

Simon crouched down to pick up the pills, fumbling around for ages before he finally managed to get back on his feet.

It wasn't until I'd paid and was about to leave that he finally fished a gold-embossed invitation out of his pocket and hurried after me. "Mrs. Lane, Mr. Lane insisted I give this to you.

"It's for the centennial anniversary dinner at your alma mater tomorrow night. Mr. Lane said you need to be there as Mrs. Lane, to keep the company's stock price steady."

Chapter 3

Someone said: [Rachel, don't put yourself through this.]

Another echoed: [Some people sit there and do nothing. It's honestly so annoying.]

Someone else chimed in: [@Rachel, you deserve better.]

I started typing a reply.

My finger hovered over the send button for three seconds, then I erased everything.

Right after, someone else dropped a message. [Please, leave Rachel alone. She just recovered from her depression. Don't upset her.]

The chat kept blowing up.

Someone said: [Some people only bully the ones who never fight back.]

Another added: [Rachel went abroad back then to help her out.]

I left the group chat.

I took out my phone, popped out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it into a roadside trash can.

Then I walked into a print shop, had a fresh divorce agreement printed out, signed it, and arranged for a same-day courier.

The delivery address was Edward's private villa.

Less than twenty minutes after the courier showed the package had been delivered, my phone rang. It was the bank. "Hello, Mrs. Lane. This is your personal account manager.

"I'm sorry to let you know that all your additional cards have been frozen at the request of the primary cardholder. If you have any questions, please contact..."

I hung up.

I opened my wallet. Inside were three hundred-dollar bills and a few coins.

That was all the cash I had.

I hadn't worked in years.

Edward always said, "You don't need to work. We've got everything we need at home."

Back then, I believed him.

I believed him for five years, until I had to pinch money from the household budget to buy a box of sleeping pills.

I dragged my suitcase through the streets for ages, finally finding a budget hotel tucked away in a quiet alley on the west side of the city.

The front desk quoted me 40 dollars a night, no breakfast included.

I paid for two nights, leaving me with 20 dollars.

The room was on the fourth floor, and the window looked out onto a gray wall.

The heating hadn't kicked in yet, and the blanket was cold to the touch.

As I set my suitcase down, there was a knock at the door.

I glanced at the logo on the meal box.

It was Willow & Crane Private Kitchen.

That private kitchen on the east side required a reservation three days in advance.

It was sugar-free oatmeal with dried figs & dried apricots.

Edward never liked oatmeal.

But Rachel loved it. As for how this oatmeal ended up here, honestly, I didn't even want to dig into it.

"Thanks, but I don't need it," I said.

"But it's free..." he called out.

I closed the door in his face.

He left the meal box at my door. I opened the door and dumped it by the trash can in the hallway.

*****

My stomach had been hurting since the afternoon.

I rushed out this morning and only had half a glass of cold water.

I sat hunched over on the edge of the bed, waiting for the pain to fade.

But it never did.

It kept getting worse, like someone was slowly twisting my insides.

I grabbed my room key and headed downstairs, making my way to the convenience store on the corner.

The painkillers were on the third shelf.

As I reached for them, someone suddenly burst out from behind the shelf next to mine and almost crashed into me.

It was Simon Clark, Edward's personal assistant.

He was drenched in sweat, clutching a box of stomach medicine, and breathing so hard it looked like he'd sprinted down the street.

Simon stammered, trying to sound calm. "Mrs. Lane.

"What a coincidence, I happened to be here. This... this medicine, it's really good. My stomach's not great, so I take it all the time. Thought I'd grab it for you while I was at it..."

"Simon," I said.

He immediately fell silent.

I glanced at the box of medicine in his hand.

It was imported, meant for stress-related stomach problems, and you could only get it with a prescription.

There's no way a convenience store would carry something like that.

"Did he send you here?" I asked.

Simon looked away, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

I swatted the box of medicine out of his hand. The plastic case hit the floor, bounced a couple times, and the pills scattered, rolling under the shelf. "Go back and tell him.

"Save his cheap sympathy. His signature is all that matters to me."

Simon crouched down to pick up the pills, fumbling around for ages before he finally managed to get back on his feet.

It wasn't until I'd paid and was about to leave that he finally fished a gold-embossed invitation out of his pocket and hurried after me. "Mrs. Lane, Mr. Lane insisted I give this to you.

"It's for the centennial anniversary dinner at your alma mater tomorrow night. Mr. Lane said you need to be there as Mrs. Lane, to keep the company's stock price steady."