My Cheating Wife Regretted After I Revealed My Identity

I saw through their little act, but I didn’t call it out.

To avoid unnecessary trouble, I simply bowed slightly and said with a calm smile,

“Thank you, Mr. Donovan.”

Russ curled his lips in smug satisfaction.

“Then drink it.”

I kept my polite smile.

“I’m on duty, sir. I’m not allowed to drink while working. I appreciate your generosity, but you should enjoy this wine yourself.”

Rich’s face instantly darkened.

“Mr. Donovan is showing you respect, and you’re turning it down?”

He leaned forward, his tone sharp with menace.

“Do you even know what it means to not give Mr. Donovan face?”

Russ' expression chilled. His smile faded into something darker, colder.

“So I don’t have enough face now?” he sneered.

“A lowly bar waiter dares to look down on me, Russel?”

Only then did I learn his full name—Russel.

The atmosphere in the private room shifted in an instant.

All the chatter and laughter died, and the room fell so silent you could hear the ice settle in the glasses. One by one, their gazes turned toward me—curious, gleeful, hostile. Like spectators circling prey.

Then came the crash of a wine glass shattering against the floor.

Rich stood up, pointing at me, face flushed with anger.

“Damn it, you really don’t know your place!”

“You’re drinking this wine today, whether you like it or not!”

I almost laughed. So this is what it had come to.

I’d kept my head down for so long, played the role of the humble nobody, that even trash like Rich thought he could bark orders at me.

Enough.

I slowly straightened, letting the subservient mask fall away. My posture shifted. Calm, composed. Controlled.

I met their eyes, one by one. They were filled with amusement, anticipation. Waiting for me to grovel, to panic. Waiting to be entertained.

Second-generation parasites. This was their playground.

I raised an eyebrow and looked Rich dead in the eye.

“And what if I refuse to drink?”

His face contorted with rage.

“Ha! You really think you're something? You’re just a spineless son-in-law! You don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as us!”

Son-in-law.

The word hit differently.

So that’s what this was about. He’d recognized me. This wasn’t random. It was a calculated move—a chance for Rich to show off in front of Russ, maybe earn some points by humiliating me.

“What?” someone in the room whispered, catching the word.

“Son-in-law? Wait… you mean that son-in-law?”

“The one from the Hanson Family?”

Now the murmurs began in earnest, eyes darting between me and each other in realization.

“There’s only one man in Sundown City everyone calls the son-in-law…”

“The Hanson Family’s useless live-in son-in-law… Jim.”

And just like that, the mockery reached new heights.

Three years ago, Francine Hanson—the so-called most beautiful woman in Sundown City—married me, a nobody with no money, no influence, no prospects. A complete joke.

The city laughed. Her friends vanished. She locked herself in our house for months out of shame.

That was the beginning of the ice between us.

Now, in this room, the laughter wasn’t just cruel—it was dismissive. These men weren’t just mocking me. They were sure I was beneath them.

But I didn’t flinch. I stood as still as a mountain.

Let them laugh.