He Let Me Drown, So I Divorced Him

During the variety show, both my sister and I fell into the water.

Without a moment's hesitation, my husband, Damien Hale, jumped in—to save my sister.

He carried her out with a tense, anxious expression, never once looking back.

By the time the staff pulled me from the water, I was on the verge of drowning.

The next day, I handed him the divorce papers.

His expression darkened. “Callie can’t swim. I had to save her first. Are you seriously jealous over that?”

I met his gaze calmly. “Just sign it.”

——

We went through the divorce formalities without drama. Damien furrowed his perfect brows the entire time, but it no longer stirred anything in me.

He slipped his ID into his pocket. “I’ll take you home.”

I shook my head. “No need.”

He frowned, clearly displeased. “Serena, don’t be like this. We were married for three years. Divorce doesn’t mean we’ll never see each other again.”

I blinked, surprised he’d say something like that. Now that Callie was back, I thought he’d be thrilled I was stepping aside without fuss.

“Mr. Hale,” I said softly, “to me, divorce is divorce. We’re neither relatives nor friends.”

“You—”

“Besides, we don’t have children. There’s no reason to stay in contact.”

I must have struck a nerve. He turned and walked away without another word.

I watched his retreating back and sighed.

Then I checked the balance on my bank card—and instantly felt better.

Although I was the Sutton family’s biological daughter, I never received a cent from them. Ironically, it was the divorce that finally made me a wealthy woman.

Knowing the Hale family would never agree to an equal split, I asked my lawyer to settle for 20 million. Damien agreed—and added two luxury apartments in New York and L.A., three properties in Hawaii, and six commercial units in prime locations.

It was more than enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life.

Staring at those cold, hard numbers, I couldn’t help but laugh.

Finally, I could live for myself.

The very next day, I moved into a downtown apartment already transferred to my name. For the first time, I felt a sense of real security.

I thought leaving Damien would crush me. After all, I did love him during our three-year marriage.

But to my surprise, I slept soundly that night. So soundly, I didn’t wake until noon the next day.

Our marriage had always been a business arrangement. Damien and I got married because our grandfathers—war buddies who had survived life and death together—wanted to bind the families through marriage.

But the one meant to marry Damien was Callie, the so-called rose the Sutton family had nurtured for eighteen years.

I, on the other hand, was the true daughter—switched at birth, raised in an orphanage.

Damien and I were never meant to cross paths, let alone fall in love.

I was eighteen when the Sutton family finally found me. They cried, saying I was their real daughter—that a nurse’s mistake had torn us apart.

Back then, I lived in poverty. Seeing their luxury cars, I naively thought my life was about to change. At the very least, I wouldn’t have to collect trash to pay school fees anymore. The orphanage was poor. Not every child could even afford to attend school.

But what awaited me wasn’t love or compensation—only cold indifference.

Still, I told myself: as long as I could go to school, it was enough.

They claimed the fake daughter’s adoptive parents had died, so they wouldn’t send her away. But the difference in how they treated us was glaring.

I wasn’t treated like the second daughter of the family—but more like the nanny’s child.