Divorcing My Scumbag Husband

I sneered and knocked the bowl of porridge out of his hand.

"How long has it been?" I asked coldly.

Owen lowered his head like a guilty child. "Not long. This was the third time."

The third time.

During my surgery, I’d naively thought: if it had been a one-time mistake—a drunken lapse—maybe I could forgive him. But now I realized how foolish I had been. This wasn’t a momentary weakness; it was a pattern.

The thought of it made me feel physically sick.

I wasn’t obsessed with cleanliness, but I couldn’t tolerate a relationship sullied like this.

"Alicia, I was wrong," he whispered.

I shook him off with all my strength, pulling the IV needle from my hand in the process.

Blood dripped from my hand, and the wound from my surgery had reopened, but I felt no physical pain. The emotional agony was so much worse.

Curling into a ball under the blanket, I sobbed uncontrollably. Owen didn’t dare touch me; he called a nurse to treat my wounds instead.

Owen had always been handsome—just over thirty, exuding charm and masculinity.

Before, looking at his face filled me with pride and affection. Now, all I felt was disgust.

“Be good, it won’t hurt anymore,” he murmured as he gently blew on my wound, his eyes glistening with emotion, trying to win me over.

I turned away, avoiding his gaze.

“Go pick up Allison,” I said flatly. I couldn’t stand the sight of him and just wanted him gone.

Seeing that I had finally spoken to him, his eyes lit up with relief. He leaned down to kiss my forehead before leaving.

The warmth of his lips lingered on my skin, but it only made me feel filthy.

I lay there in turmoil, my thoughts chaotic.

A few moments later, someone walked in from outside.

Long curly hair, a face like a social media influencer, and a curvy, statuesque figure wrapped in a tight business suit. It was her—the woman Owen had been cheating with.

Her name was Viviana, the HR manager at Owen’s company.

When did mistresses become so brazen? She had the audacity to show up at my hospital room, flaunting her triumph.

I stared at her, silent.

She carried a brand-new Louis Vuitton handbag, clearly uninterested in staying longer. Standing just next to the door, she looked down at me with disdain.

“I assume you already know who I am,” she said, her tone dripping with arrogance, as if she were the rightful wife.

Was this confidence purely from money? I knew her family owned a car dealership, and she had a well-connected uncle in government.

Did that give her the courage to demand I step aside for her?

“And who are you?” I asked flatly.

Her smug face twisted in irritation, clearly not expecting my calm and dismissive response.

She stepped closer. “I’m Viviana. Owen’s... lover.”

I almost laughed out loud. Lover? She had the audacity to use such a romantic term. Did she even understand what it meant?

“Alicia, I’m not here to waste time. Leave Owen, and I’ll give you one million dollars.”

I chuckled. “Then I’ll give you two million to leave Owen.”

She hadn’t expected me to push back. Clearly, she thought I was just a pitiful little housewife.

Sneering, she curled her red lips. “What a joke. All your money comes from Owen.”

I smiled faintly. “We’re still married.”

My tone was calm, but inside, my heart ached bitterly. Only the marriage certificate was left between Owen and me.

“Miss Smith, you want me to divorce Owen?” I asked, feigning curiosity.

She narrowed her eyes, obviously wary.

“But what if he doesn’t want a divorce?” I continued. “Maybe you should take some photos or videos the next time you’re in bed with him. Show me those, and I might finally give up.”

She froze, her face contorted in fury.

“You shameless woman!” she spat before storming out of the room.

Once she was gone, I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.