His Neglected Wife Turns the Tables

The woman lifted the bucket of sulfuric acid and hurled it straight toward the three of them.

"Careful!"

In a heartbeat, Wilbert lunged forward—shielding Imogen beneath him.

Caught off guard, Solana was shoved violently aside—directly into the path of the acid.

"Ah—!"

The corrosive liquid splashed across half her body, searing into her skin with a burning agony so intense her nerves shrieked. She collapsed, trembling uncontrollably as pain tore through her.

Through the chaos, her fading vision caught what looked like Wilbert running toward her.

"W-Wilbert—" She reached out weakly, gathering every breath she had left to call his name.

But the next second, she watched him sprint right past her—stooping instead to scoop up a handmade doll behind her.

"Thank goodness... the doll Imogen knitted for me is fine!"

Solana's lips curled into a powerless, bitter smile.

So that was how little she mattered.

Even a five-dollar rag doll was more precious to him than her life.

She remembered their wedding day—how he had once smiled softly and said he would protect her forever.

What a joke.

When life hung by a thread, his eyes held only another woman. He didn't spare her even a glance.

As his figure retreated, carrying Imogen in his arms, Solana forced her fingers to move and dialed her family doctor.

"Uncle James... come save me..."

—

Back at the villa, her private doctor had just finished tending to her burns when a knock sounded at the door.

It was Wilbert.

He glanced at the pile of blood-soaked gauze scattered by Solana's feet, his brows faintly tightening.

"Sorry. I panicked back there. I forgot you were beside me." His voice was low, tinged with something like guilt.

Forgot?

Solana repeated the word silently—biting at its absurdity.

As if "forgetting" could erase the fact he abandoned her. As if "forgetting" could erase five years of coldness. As if "forgetting" could erase the acid still burning through her skin.

No.

She, Solana, was done degrading herself.

Taking a steady breath, she met his gaze. "Let's get a divorce."

Wilbert froze, irritation flaring beneath his eyes. "Solana, I already apologized. Don't start again."

A cold laugh slipped past her lips, but her tone was utterly serious. "You didn't care when you thought I slept with other men. Why pretend you care now that I'm asking for a divorce?"

His expression darkened. After a few seconds, he muttered, "You think I didn't know?"

Before she could react, he leaned in close, his breath brushing her ear. "Those men were just actors. You used them to get my attention—didn't you?"

Solana's eyes widened, her nails digging sharply into her palm.

So he knew.

He had always known—known how much she loved him, known how desperately she tried to make him look at her. Yet he stood by with that same icy indifference, watching her twist in pain.

If only he knew—the woman who once loved him to the bone now found him repulsive.

"Believe what you want," she said flatly. She took a document from her bag and held it out to him. "Sign it. And we're finished."

Wilbert's casual façade cracked, something dark gathering in his gaze.

After a long moment, he let out a low, humorless laugh. "You're serious?"

Solana nodded without hesitation.

His jaw tightened. He snatched the agreement, scribbled his signature, and slammed it onto the table.

"Fine. I'll play along. Let's see how long you can keep pretending. Don't come crawling back to me later."

Solana didn't bother replying—she was already calling someone to escort him out. But before she could speak—her phone rang.

A piercing mix of sirens and wailing voices bled through the speaker.

A frantic voice shouted, "Miss Scott—your mother was in a car accident on her way to see you! Her condition is critical—she may not survive the night!"