My Husband Chose His Ex-Wife Again

Four years ago, I met Joseph in a bar. I was a singer by night and a waitress by day, taking whatever shifts I could get after my parents died within months of each other—an accident and an illness that left me orphaned and drowning in debt before I even understood how cruel the world could be.

The bar was loud, expensive, and unforgiving in ways only money could afford. Crystal glasses clinked beneath low golden lights, and the music was just soft enough to invite secrets.

Men flirted without fear of rejection. Women judged with smiles sharpened by diamonds. Everyone wanted something.

It wasn’t a place meant for girls like me. But the owner was my godfather.

He’d taken me in after my parents died.

Joseph came in every night for weeks. He sat at the far end of the counter, nursing glass after glass, eyes hollow, grief clinging to him like a shadow. He didn’t flirt. Didn’t smile. Just drank.

Eventually, he talked. He told me his wife had left him. Danica. Said her name like it still burned. Said she’d betrayed him. Said he didn’t know how to breathe without her.

I listened.

I was still a virgin then—naive, careful, untouched in ways I didn’t even realize were rare. When Joseph started waiting for my shifts, walking me home, bringing me food because he said I looked too thin, I thought it was love.

When he held my hand, I shook.

When he kissed me, I believed.

A year later, when he asked me to marry him, I said yes because I thought I had finally been chosen.

He gave me everything—or so I thought.

A house. Clothes. Security. A name.

What I didn’t know was that I was a plan.

A placeholder. Someone to occupy the space until Danica came back.

The marriage was fake.

So now, lying in a hospital bed with my body stitched together and my son taken from me, I asked myself the only question that mattered.

Where would I go?

I had no family. No protection. No allies.

And they were going to kill me.

The thought didn’t make me cry.

It made something inside me snap.

They could take my dignity. My marriage. My body.

But they would not take my son.

My gaze drifted to the television mounted on the wall, the volume low. A familiar face filled the screen—sharp suit, cold eyes, a headline scrolling beneath.

MAXON BLACKWELL — HEIR TO BLACKWELL CORPORATION

My breath caught.

An acquaintance. A dangerous one.

Years ago, before Joseph, Maxon had offered me marriage—not out of love, but power. I’d been terrified. I’d said no.

Now, I realized something with terrifying clarity.

I needed him.

My hand shook as I grabbed my phone and dialed the number I’d never deleted.

He answered on the second ring.

“Paula?” His voice was amused. “You’re finally calling me back, huh? What—regretting marrying him instead of me?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “So how about you marry me in five days?”

Silence.

Then a soft chuckle. “That sounds nice. Only if you do something for me.”

My heart pounded. “What?”

“Steal Joseph’s proposal,” Maxon said calmly. “That multibillion-dollar pitch he’s been working on. Get me the details, and then we’ll talk.”

I swallowed. “Deal.”

I ended the call—and froze.

Joseph was standing in the doorway.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “What deal? Who were you talking to?”

I forced a shaky smile. “The bar manager. He asked if I could sing again.”

His face darkened instantly.

“No,” he snapped. “You will not sing.”

“I—”

“What would people say if they learned my wife was a singer in a bar?” he shouted. “Are you insane? Didn’t I tell you not to do it? What else do you need when I am giving you everything? Or is this about fucking other guys?”

Something broke in me.

“I only ever fucked you!” I screamed. “What about you? You’ve been fucking your ex-wife since she came back!”

The slap echoed.

I collapsed against the bed, sobbing.

The door opened again. Danica walked in holding flowers.

“Joseph?” she said softly. “Are you insane? Why would you slap your wife?”

She came closer, feigning concern. “I’m sorry,” she murmured sweetly. “I came to apologize. I didn’t mean for him to leave you when you were dying… but I just have no one else, so I called him.”

She thrust the bouquet into my arms.

The flowers were white like for a funeral.

“I don’t need your apology,” I said hoarsely, shoving them away.

Jana stormed in. “Enough! How rude can you be when she is apologizing?” She turned to Joseph. “Lock her in. Don’t let her see the child until she learns how to be nice.”

“No—please,” I begged. “My son—”

The door slammed.

Locked. I tried to get up. The pain was unbearable. I collapsed, crying until my throat burned.

Joseph returned later, soft again, his voice suddenly gentle enough to make my skin crawl.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stroking my hair as if he hadn’t shattered me hours earlier. “I didn’t mean it. I was just mad because you’re working again when you don’t need to.”

I stayed still. Silent. Watching.

He set a tray on my lap—food arranged too neatly, water poured and waiting.

“Eat,” he said calmly. “Then I’ll let you see the baby.”

My chest tightened. “My baby?”

“Finish this,” he replied, nudging the glass closer.

My fingers closed around it—and I noticed everything. The faint bitter smell beneath the antiseptic scent of the room. The way the water wasn’t cold, even though it should have been. The way Joseph didn’t drink from it first.

And the memory came back, sharp and undeniable.

So how long will it take for her to die once you administer the pills in her drink?

My pulse thundered. I lifted the glass halfway, my hand trembling, my breath shallow. I needed him to believe I would comply. I needed him close.

Then my grip loosened.

The glass slipped from my fingers and shattered against the floor.

Water splashed everywhere, soaking the sheets, the tray, my gown.

For a split second, Joseph just stared.

Then his face twisted—rage breaking through the mask.

“Damn it,” he snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

“I—I’m sorry,” I whispered, shrinking back, clutching my stomach like a reflex. “My hands—”

He stood abruptly, jaw clenched, eyes dark with frustration.

“You’re useless,” he spat.

Then before I could say a word, someone screamed Danica’s name outside, and then he left me again. Alone.