My Husband Is Marrying Another Woman Without Divorcing Me

"You already said it yourself," I leaned closer, whispering, "between us, there's no divorce. Only death. If you can't kill me, I'll kill you both instead."

Blood dripped to the floor.

He finally noticed the cuts on my hand from smashing the glass. His grip slowly loosened.

"Good," he murmured. "I didn't want that child anyway."

He took my hand, carefully wiping away the blood. When he dabbed iodine onto the wound, he blew gently, the way he always did.

It was a habit born years ago, when I'd come home covered in bruises from my father's beatings. He hadn't had anything but alcohol to disinfect my wounds, and he'd always blown softly, as if it could ease the sting.

Now, even with proper medicine, he was still careful—still afraid of hurting me.

My bloodied palm struck his face.

"Enough. It's filthy."

His face tilted slightly to the side. He didn't ask whether I meant the blood was filthy—or he was.

Instead, he called for Uncle Johnson, the butler, and handed him the medical kit.

The girl's name was Penelope.

When I tried to dig deeper into her background, I found nothing. Derek had erased every trace of her. If I hadn't moved fast, I wouldn't have even learned her name.

I confronted him. "So you like her that much? You've even sealed off her information from me?"

He sighed. "Esther, what's the point of holding onto this?"

I slammed the divorce papers in front of him again. "Sign it, and I won't have a reason to hold on anymore."

The papers barely lasted two seconds in his hands before he ripped them to shreds.

With a flick of his wrist, the fragments scattered across the floor.

"I told you—between us, there's no divorce. Only death."

I laughed.

And the next second, a bottle smashed against his head.

Red liquid streamed down his face—I couldn't tell if it was wine or blood.

I grabbed the knife from the table and drove it forward.

He caught my wrist mid-strike, locking us in a deadly standoff.

"Derek." Our faces were less than an inch apart. "Do you really think I won't do it?"

Our hands trembled, neither yielding.

"Divorce," I hissed, "or one of us dies tonight."

The stalemate lasted only seconds. Then, with a soft laugh, he shifted his strength—guiding the blade into himself.

Pinned by his grip, I watched as the knife buried deep into his shoulder.

Blood splattered across my face.

"I told you," he whispered hoarsely, "I won't let you die before me."

"Derek!"

Grinding my teeth, I yanked the knife out.

He groaned, blood soaking us both, but when he looked at me, his eyes held only the same unwavering tenderness I remembered from years ago.

The coppery scent of blood dragged me back to that rain-soaked night in our final year of high school—when my father beat me half to death in the street.

I had collapsed then too, and it was Derek who caught me, who shielded me with his own body.

"Don't be afraid. It's okay. I'm here."

Even as glass bottles, chairs, and knives rained down on him, he grinned through the pain and said those same words.

We had once embraced in blood. Kissed in the storm.

But when love rots to its core, betrayal becomes monstrous.

I shoved him away. "Don't touch me."

Stumbling, I left that blood-soaked room behind.

For a while, we lived apart in uneasy silence.

He still protected the girl so carefully that I couldn't uncover a single trace.