Betrayed by My Husband A Wife's Final Revenge

He kissed her forehead, patting her back like she was a child.

"Don't be scared. I'm here."

Then he shot me an icy glare, his voice dripping with impatience.

"What are you waiting for? Get her out of here!"

Madame Rose rushed forward and grabbed me.

My mother lunged to stop her, but Rupert's bodyguards seized her and dragged her aside.

Just like that, Rupert had me hauled to the club.

Thrown into a private room.

My knees slammed into the marble floor. The pain exploded half a second later.

Madame Rose pressed down on my shoulders, forcing me to sit.

"Mrs. Sanchez, don't blame me. Blame yourself for crossing Mr. Sanchez."

Soon, the door opened.

Several men walked in.

"Well, well."

The man in front spotted me and laughed.

His voice sounded familiar.

I lifted my head. In the dim light, I made out his face—and my heart plummeted.

Clarence Whitney.

Rupert's fiercest rival.

Clarence lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing as he studied me. "Never thought I'd see Mrs. Sanchez like this."

The others in the room laughed too.

The sound was oily. Nauseating.

Madame Rose forced a smile. "You know her, Mr. Whitney?"

"Know her?" He exhaled a ring of smoke. "Rupert Sanchez's precious wife. Last time we met, she was so high and mighty she wouldn't even let me touch her hand."

"What happened? A few days later, and you've fallen to this?"

I stared at him. No words came.

Clarence threw his head back and laughed, turning to the others. "How useless is Rupert Sanchez that he can't even keep his own wife?"

Someone egged him on.

"Come on, Mr. Whitney. Give her a try. See what Rupert Sanchez's woman tastes like."

Clarence pulled out his phone and snapped several photos of me.

"Of course I will."

"Take her."

Madame Rose panicked. "Mr. Whitney, this isn't how things are done—"

Clarence glanced at her. "Did Rupert Sanchez follow the rules when he dumped her here?"

Madame Rose shut her mouth instantly.

Only then did Clarence let out a low chuckle.

"Tonight's going to be fun."

The car drove for a long time.

I was thrown in the back seat, wrists and ankles bound with Clarence's tie.

He stayed on his phone the entire ride, repeating the same words.

Rupert Sanchez's wife is with me.

Want to come?

Each time he said it, the laughter on the other end grew louder.

Finally, the car stopped.

A suburban villa.

I was dragged out of the car. Dragged inside.

The living room was already occupied—several men, all strangers.

Clarence ripped the tape off my mouth.

"Gentlemen. Inspect the goods."

One of them immediately grabbed my chin, forcing my head up.

"It really is Rupert Sanchez's wife."

"He actually gave her up."

Clarence smiled faintly.

"She's just a slut."

"When you're bored with one, you get another. So this time, it's our turn to have some fun..."

Everyone understood.

Raucous laughter erupted.

Soon, I was shoved onto the carpet.

Someone yanked my hair. Someone else tore at what remained of my clothes.

The sound of fabric ripping came from every direction.

I clenched my teeth, refusing to make a sound.

But the pain was too real.

My skin scraped against the carpet, burning.

Clarence crouched in front of me, phone recording.

"Smile for the camera, Mrs. Sanchez."

I didn't move.

He kicked me hard—right in the ribs.

The agony made me curl into myself, dry heaving uncontrollably.

"Drop the act."

"Rupert Sanchez threw you away. You belong to me now. I'll do whatever I want with you."