I Left My Husband After He Chose His Ex-Wife’s Child

Jasmine's POV

Through the doorway gap, I glimpsed his phone screen. The incoming call was from his ex-wife.

Within three seconds of answering, Quentin's face flashed with panic.

"Vicky said someone's trying to pry open their door. She and Zoey are both helpless. I need to go check on them."

His tone wasn't a discussion, but a notification.

At that, I clenched my fists and, for the first time, finally said everything I'd kept bottled up.

"What, 911 doesn't exist anymore? You think you can fly across the country faster than a local cop can arrive? If there's real danger, it'll already be too late by the time you get there. Besides, she has a boyfriend. Why isn't she calling him? Why is she calling you, Quentin?"

I took a step closer, my voice low and sharp. "You are my husband. Your daughter, your real, legal daughter, is in the hospital right now, in critical condition. And you're running off to play hero for a woman you have zero legal obligation to anymore? Do you not see how outrageous that is?"

But Quentin looked at me like I'd said something completely unreasonable. His gaze was disappointed, as though I'd let him down.

"Jasmine, do you even have a conscience?" he shot back. "They're in danger. I don't care if they're on the other side of the world, I have to go."

And with that, he turned and headed for the door.

I called out one last time, my voice cold. "If you walk out now, you will regret it."

But all I received in return was the loud bang of the door slamming shut.

I slowly inhaled, held my breath, then exhaled with trembling fingers.

After that, I dialed an international number across the ocean.

"Scott," I said quietly, "help me file for a divorce from Quentin. Also, pull all Watson Estate investments and resources from Linwood Holdings."

If Quentin were to see his ex-wife and her daughter, he would not deserve anything I gave him.

Right then, my brother's voice was tight with concern. "Did he hurt you? Did something happen?"

Once I confirmed it, he paused for just a second before responding.

"It's done. The divorce certificate's been processed. I also arranged your passports. You'll have them in two weeks. When they're ready, I'll come get you both myself."

For context, I met Quentin three years ago through a mutual friend. He was wealthy, handsome, thoughtful, and knew how to maintain boundaries with women.

In many people's eyes, he was the ideal husband.

His only flaw? He had been divorced and had a daughter with his ex-wife, who had custody.

At first, I didn't plan to marry him. Until one night, the apartment building I lived in caught fire. Flames engulfed my room so fiercely that even the rescue team said I had no chance of making it out alive.

But Quentin stormed through the smoke, wrapped in a soaking-wet blanket. Even when a beam came down and hit him square in the back, he never let go of me.

He held me close, shielded me, and brought me out safely.

That night, he stole my heart.

I married him without hesitation.

It wasn't until after the wedding that I realized his shining qualities were all shaped by his ex-wife.

I had fallen for someone's completed work. And completed works are always the easiest to reclaim.

When his ex-wife returned to the country six months ago, Quentin visited them constantly.

I cried, begged, and fought.

None of it mattered.

To him, I was just a foolish woman who didn't understand his 'duty' as a father.

And those very qualities I once admired in him—his decency, his sense of responsibility—became weapons turned against me. Everyone around us said I was overreacting and that a man like him would never cheat.

But he never came home, not even when our daughter recovered and was discharged from the hospital.

His ex-wife did, though. She walked into our home, casually looked around, and said with a half-smile:

"Wow, it's been so many years, and nothing's changed. The furniture layout is the same. I remember designing all this myself back when we got married."

Her words were like invisible needles: no context, no explanation, just a quiet stab.

And suddenly I understood.

All these years, Quentin had never agreed to redecorate because Vicky had designed everything in this house.

I didn't react. My face gave nothing away.

"What are you doing here?" I asked coolly.

She handed over a few gift bags.

"There's been a creep hanging around my neighborhood, trying to break in. When Quentin went to catch him, he got injured. He's still in the hospital. I just came to let you know he's safe."