Betrayed by My Husband Who Chose Mistress and Lies

I could not break free, so I gave up and stared blankly into the air.

In a voice only he and I could hear, I whispered, “It was you who said you would go to hell with me.”

At those words, Easton’s body went stiff.

The next day, Emma was gone without a trace. I went to see Easton at once and asked, “Where is she?”

He lowered his head, his voice heavy.

“Emma has already lost the child and carries nothing. We do not need to stain ourselves with another life or bring useless trouble.”

I remembered when a group of thugs mocked me as a shameless bastard, and Easton had broken their legs without pause, snapping their necks, his robe soaked in red.

So whether it was truly needless, or only that he could not bear it, he knew in his heart.

“Where is she really?” I asked again, my voice rising.

He stayed silent, and after a long pause, he finally said, “I will give you an answer.”

The bloodshot eyes he once had when standing for me seemed to overlap with this moment. I smashed everything in the hall to pieces.

My men searched for Emma, but Easton had hidden her too well and left no trace. That same night, his explanation arrived.

When I opened the box, I saw a small finger stained with blood. I knew it at once as his, for the finger still wore our wedding ring.

It was a rule I had made that if one made a mistake, cutting off a finger could serve as forgiveness.

He had used his own finger to save Emma, begging me to show mercy.

The box crashed hard to the ground, shards of glass scattering across the floor.

Yet Easton would never have thought that the woman he spared with all his strength would still come at me without fear.

Emma sent me a video.

“I heard you have been looking for me. I also want to see you. But Easton cannot bear to let me out; he has been tormenting me day and night.”

The video played like a cruel show. Easton no longer carried the cold restraint he once had. His face was red, his features filled with desire and haste, and beneath him lay a blushing Emma.

With every movement and rough sound, his robe and his so-called vows were torn apart, prayer beads scattering on the ground.

I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white. All those vows were nothing but lies.

We had known each other for more than ten years, and we had been married for four. Each time I lay on his body, he would turn cold, carefully pull my clothes back on, then disappear into the bathroom for the whole night.

“Easton told me about your condition, poor thing. But you cannot blame him for not touching you, after all, he fears catching dirty sickness.”

So he still saw me as dirty.

The boy who once held me and wept, swearing I was the purest, had only been wearing a mask.

He had always been trapped by that stain, and that was why he never touched me.

I stayed calm and said nothing, but in secret, I had people track Emma’s place through the video.

Just as I was about to lead my men over, a message froze me in place. That man was not dead.

[Tisha, that beast is in the hands of those across from us.]

Idiot. No wonder he faked his death; he had become another’s dog, crawling low to live.

That night, I led my brothers to surround the enemy’s ground.

Under a sky with no moon and heavy wind, I fought in the chaos, brushing shoulders with death, watching my brothers fall one by one, the pain cutting deep to the bone.

After three hours of bloodshed, the enemy was left in ruins.