My Husband Demanded Divorce After Mom Won the Lottery

The apartment reeked of stale air—a nauseating blend of takeout containers left to rot for God knows how long and the sour stench of alcohol. I pulled out a mask and put it on, making no move to wake Clement. Instead, I called building security.

By the time they arrived, it took several guards to haul Clement upright before he finally stirred awake. He squinted at me through bleary eyes, rubbing them with both hands, looking again to make sure I was real.

Then he shook off the guards and dropped to his knees with a heavy thud.

He crawled toward me, sobbing. "Baby, you finally came back! I missed you so much!"

I stepped back, pulling free of his grasp. "Clement, we're divorced."

He acted like he hadn't heard a word, shamelessly pressing on. "No, we're not divorced. Please don't leave me, baby."

I kicked him away. "Clement, stop. This is pathetic."

Something I said must have set him off. He shot to his feet, face flushed crimson, eyes bulging with rage. "You did this on purpose, didn't you?"

"Zelda, I knew it—you're a scheming bitch. You deliberately hid that your mom won the lottery. You were afraid I'd spend your family's money. You wanted this divorce all along, didn't you?"

His conviction was almost laughable.

"Afraid you'd spend my family's money? As if you haven't already?"

The house we lived in? My parents bought it. His salary was three thousand a month, yet he was always promising he'd be rich someday, convinced he was a diamond in the rough.

He wasn't even like those typical gold-diggers you read about online.

His excuse was that he needed a nice car to meet clients—never mind that his job didn't involve meeting clients at all. He said he needed a car for his commute. When my parents asked what kind, he said a Porsche.

I shut that down and got him a basic sedan instead.

But he never let it go. Every holiday, big or small, he'd bring it up whenever he visited my parents. Mom remembered. When she won the lottery, the first thing she wanted to do was buy him that car.

"What money of yours have I spent? I told you—when I make it big, I'll pay you back double! Everything I spent was basically my own money!"

I stared at him, speechless.

Before I could respond, he threw himself onto the couch, crossed his legs, and jabbed a finger at the stunned security guards.

"What are you standing around for? Get out! This is my house!"

I'd had enough. I stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face.

"You must be drunk out of your mind! Fifteen more days and the cooling-off period ends. We. Are. Divorced."

The slap didn't sober him up. He froze for a moment.

Then he looked at me, eyes bloodshot, like a viper coiling to strike.

I kept my expression cold, but my heart was pounding as he advanced toward me, step by step.

One punch landed. Then another.

The security guards finally snapped out of it and pulled him back.

I called the police.

When the officers arrived and learned we weren't technically divorced yet, they exchanged a look.

"Ma'am, you should get your injuries documented," one said. "But honestly, couples fight. It's normal. Calling the police over every little thing wastes resources."

When he saw I wasn't backing down, he added, "Besides, didn't you hit him too? You want me to take you both in?"

I said nothing. I watched Clement flash them a grin as he walked them to the door.

Then he turned back to me, smirking, waving his fists.

Fine.

I smiled slowly and walked toward him.

Left hook. Right hook. Every blow landed solid.

Clement howled like a wounded animal.

I'm an only child. My parents made sure I'd never be anyone's victim.

Growing up, my dad enrolled me in every martial art that looked useful for self-defense—taekwondo, kung fu, Muay Thai. If it was featured on TV as effective, I was signed up the next week.

My training was scattered, sure, but it was more than enough to handle Clement.