Escaping My Toxic Husband and Claiming My Revenge

The camera flashes were blinding. A relentless, flashing white wall of light. Amber clung to my arm. She wore a pale silk gown.

"We're so sorry for your loss, David," a board member whispered. He squeezed my shoulder as we walked past the ice sculptures.

"Thank you, Richard," I muttered.

Amber leaned into my side. She soaked up the pity of the city’s elite, playing the brave, grieving victim flawlessly.

But I felt sick.

A gnawing, sickening unease twisted in my gut.

I pulled my phone from my tuxedo pocket. Again.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls.

My guards were supposed to message me the second Scarlet broke.

I wanted her to scream. I wanted her to bang her fists against the heavy iron door of the wine cellar. I wanted her to beg for mercy.

But there was only dead silence.

I couldn't stop thinking about her face in the freezing dark. She hadn't cried. She hadn't fought back.

She had just signed the papers. Her eyes were dead. Her hands were perfectly calm.

It made my skin crawl.

"David?" Amber whispered, her voice trembling perfectly. "It's time."

I swallowed hard. I detached her hand.

I walked up the carpeted steps to the podium.

This was it.

I was going to publicly announce my separation from Scarlet. I was going to declare my absolute loyalty to Amber.

I gripped the edges of the podium. The microphone hummed. I looked out at the sea of reporters. Their lenses focused entirely on me.

My chest tightened. An invisible vice gripped my ribs.

Scarlet is a monster, I reminded myself. She pushed Amber. She killed your child.

I opened my mouth.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I started. My voice sounded hollow.

The room fell silent.

"Tonight, I stand before you to announce a separation. My wife, Scarlet..."

I tried to force the words out. But the words turned to ash in my mouth. My tongue felt like lead.

Before I could speak another syllable, a deafening crash echoed through the room.

The heavy, gold-leafed double doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open.

Every head in the room snapped around.

My mother, Eleanor, stood in the doorway. She wore a sharp, blood-red pantsuit. Her posture was rigid. Her face was a mask of absolute, terrifying fury.

I braced myself. I expected her to march to the stage and scold me for the public spectacle.

She didn't even look at me.

She bypassed the stage entirely. She marched straight down the center aisle toward Amber.

Amber put on a teary-eyed smile. "Eleanor, I'm so glad—"

My mother lunged.

She grabbed a fistful of Amber’s perfectly styled hair and yanked her backward.

Amber let out a piercing shriek. Eleanor raised her hand and slapped her.

The crack echoed like a gunshot over the silent crowd.

Amber collapsed onto the polished marble floor in a tangled heap of silk.

"Mother!" I roared into the microphone.

I vaulted off the stage. I sprinted to Amber and threw myself in front of her, shielding her trembling body.

"Stop!" I yelled, my blood boiling. "Have you completely lost your mind?!"

Eleanor glared down at me. Her eyes were ice.

"Scarlet pushed her down the stairs!" I screamed. "Amber lost her baby today! She lost her uterus because of that psycho!"

Eleanor froze. She looked at me. Her eyes widened.

Then, she laughed.

It was a dark, mocking sound that chilled me straight to the bone.

"A baby?" Eleanor sneered. Her voice dripped with venomous mockery.

She reached into her designer clutch. She pulled out a thick, yellowed medical file and violently shoved it directly into my chest.

"You arrogant, blind fool!" Eleanor's voice shook the crystal chandeliers. "I funded the charity that paid for her tumor surgery fifteen years ago! She had her uterus removed when she was twelve years old! She was never pregnant!"

I froze. The heavy folder hit my chest and spilled open. Papers scattered across the polished marble floor.

I stared down at the undeniable proof.

The hospital logos. The surgical notes. The dates.

Patient: Amber Hayes. Procedure: Total Hysterectomy. Age: 12.

"David, no!" Amber stuttered. She scrambled backward on the floor, her pale silk dress dragging over the scattered records. "It's a lie! It's a forgery! Scarlet paid her to—"

Suddenly, a deafening burst of static hissed through the ballroom speakers.