After I Married the Femme Fatale, My Ex Cried

Suddenly, Angelo shoved one of the babies into my arms.

The warm weight, carrying a faint scent of milk, made my entire body stiffen.

But in the next second, the child slipped from my arms and fell heavily to the floor, letting out a heart-wrenching cry.

The sharp sound of the baby’s wails pierced the air as Kimberly rushed in and shoved me aside.

I staggered back, watching as she scooped the baby into her arms, her expression was full of anguish.

She looked at me with a complex expression. It felt like she had spoken a thousand words without saying a single one.

Angelo stood off to the side, his voice choked with emotion. “President White, I just wanted Mr. Vasquez to hold the baby... How could I have known he would—”

Kimberly’s voice was cold as ice. “Gavin, I’m being discharged tomorrow. Since you can’t accept the child, you should move to the West Hill villa for now.”

Clenching my fist, I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood before finally letting go.

I hadn’t brought much with me when I went off to retreat in the mountains. It was even easier now—everything I owned fit into a single suitcase.

I sat alone in the echoing emptiness of the villa, from nightfall until dawn.

Maybe it was better this way. At least I didn’t have to watch them playing house, a picture-perfect family of four.

Suddenly, the memories surged like a tide.

Kimberly and I had grown up together. We were childhood sweethearts, and married for eight years. The kind of couple people envied.

That first time, she’d been drugged by a business rival and ended up sleeping with a college student. As soon as she came to her senses, she’d called me, voice trembling.

“Gavin, I was set up! I gave him hush money, and he won’t show up again!”

I believed her.

But it wasn’t long before that man—Angelo—showed up again. His parents had died, and he came begging the drunk Kimberly for help. That was the second time. The first could be chalked up to an accident, but what about the second time?

Later, Kimberly went on a business trip to the southern country, where she was caught in an earthquake. Angelo dug her out of the rubble with his bare hands to save her.

With her life saved by him—and a child growing in her womb—Kimberly couldn’t leave him any longer.

She knelt before me, sobbing uncontrollably—and at that moment, I laid out my conditions.

“Kimberly, either we get divorced.”

“Or you make him leave.”

“I won’t divorce you!” she cried, eyes red as she clung to me. “But I owe him something... I have to take responsibility.”

She didn’t want a divorce, and she refused to send Angelo away.

So I left and went to Beacon Mountain to seek peace.

When the children were born, her parents ordered me to return.

Now, alone in the dim silence of the villa, I finally typed out the message I should have sent long ago.

[Let’s get a divorce.]

Less than ten minutes later, the door burst open.

Kimberly rushed in, sweat still beading her forehead.

“Gavin! I don’t agree with a divorce!”

I sat quietly on the sofa, letting out a weary sigh. “Let it go, Kimberly. I’m tired.”

“I told you—he would never come between us!” she cried, voice shaking with desperation.

Just then, her phone rang.

Angelo’s voice came through the speaker, half-sobbing. “President White! The baby—he fell, and now he’s running a fever. The doctor says he might have to go to the ICU!”

Her expression changed in an instant.

She looked at me, then on her phone. And finally, after a long hesitation, she spoke in a strained voice.

“Gavin, I... I need to check on him.”

I watched her back as she fled the room—and I laughed.

So this was my marriage.

Even divorce had to wait in line behind another man and her child.

I smiled bitterly and said softly, “Go. The child needs you.”

She hurried away, the breeze from her movement brushing against my cheek—as if she had never truly been there at all.

I sat alone in the darkness. Silent tears slipped down my face.

I knew—maybe she would never marry Angelo. But she would always be called away over again.

And this kind of life—if we didn’t get divorced—how much longer could I endure it?

A lifetime?