My Husband was the Best Villain in our Marriage

From the day of my mom’s funeral, I had moved into a hotel—anything to keep Erving completely out of my life.

I blocked every way he could reach me, thinking that would finally sever the ties between us. But no matter how many times I cut him off, he always found new numbers to text me from. And every message carried the same pleading words.

[Mandy, I know I messed up. Please come back. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Just forgive me this once, okay?]

I didn’t even have the energy to open them. I would just glance at the preview, then turn off my phone.

Those delayed apologies had long since lost their meaning—buried along with my mom under the cold gravestone, scattered across countless sleepless nights when I tossed and turned, wondering how everything had gone so wrong.

A few days later, it was finally time for me to leave.

The hotel curtains were drawn tight, shutting out all sunlight. I went through my luggage one last time, carefully tucking my passport and plane ticket into my bag. When my fingers touched the unfamiliar destination printed on the ticket, a small, cautious sense of relief finally stirred inside me.

Then my phone vibrated again. A new number flashed on the screen. I didn’t need to look; I knew exactly who it was—Erving.

I took a deep breath, about to hit mute, when the door suddenly burst open with a deafening bang.

He stormed in, eyes bloodshot, his coat carrying the chill of the night. In one swift movement, he pinned me against the wall. His hand clamped hard around my throat, cutting off my air, while his hoarse, furious voice tore through the room.

“Anya’s been kidnapped! Did you do it?!”

I struggled to pry his fingers away, gasping, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t?” He laughed, sharp and bitter, as if I had just told the most absurd lie. Then he slammed his phone down in front of me.

The screen showed a video. A man pressed a knife to Anya’s face, shouting brutally, “Mandy sent us! She said to break your hands, slash your face—let’s see how you steal her man then!”

The clip ended in seconds, but Erving’s rage did not. He yanked me forward by the collar. His eyes were terrifyingly bloodshot, as if he wanted to devour me alive.

“Still pretending? If anything happens to Anya, I swear, Mandy, you’ll die with her!”

The hatred in his eyes was so absolute that my heart already full of countless wounds, gave up.

I summoned all my strength to retort, “Why would I kidnap her? Erving, after everything between us, do you really think I’d stoop that low? You actually believe her over me?”

“Who else am I supposed to believe?!”

He sneered, cold and humorless, and shoved me hard to the floor.

My back slammed against the corner of the table. Pain shot up my spine, stealing my breath. Tears stung my eyes, but not from the pain.

It was from the man standing before me—the man who once vowed to protect me for life—now refusing even to hear me.

He didn’t spare me a glance as he walked toward the door, threatening me. “I’m going to find Anya. If you even think about running, you won’t be able to handle the consequences!”

The door slammed shut behind him, and silence settled over the room again.

I lay on the cold floor, staring at the chandelier above. Tears rolled silently down my cheeks, soaking the carpet, leaving faint, dark stains.

That afternoon, two men in black suits burst into the room. Before I could react, they grabbed my arms and dragged me out.

I kicked, struggled, and begged. But they were far too strong. I was shoved into a car and driven back to the one place I swore I would never enter again: Erving’s villa.

As soon as I stepped in, I heard Anya’s tearful voice echoing from the living room.

Erving was sitting on the couch beside her, gently holding her hand. His thumb traced the band-aid on her wrist. His voice was soft and careful—like speaking too loudly might shatter her.

It was a tenderness I had never seen before.

“Does it hurt? The doctor said it’s just a scrape, thank God.”

When Anya looked up and saw me, her crying grew louder. “Erving, please don’t be mad at Mandy. I know she didn’t mean it…”

“Didn’t mean it?”

Erving’s head snapped toward me. The softness on his face and voice vanished instantly, replaced by a cold fury that cut straight through me.

“You were bold enough to do it, but now, you’re denying it?”

He nodded to the guards. Just like that, they pinned me to the floor. My knees hit the hardwood with a sharp crack, pain shooting up my legs until I went numb.

Erving picked up a solid wooden stick from beside him and walked step by step to me, his voice without any warmth.

“The kidnappers said you wanted to destroy Anya’s hands so she could never paint again. Maybe it’s time you learned what happens when you touch something you shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t!”

I looked at him, my eyes still holding the last shred of ridiculous hope.

“Erving! Can’t you believe me just once? Check the hotel security footage. Ask the staff. I haven’t left my room in days! You won’t even look for proof! Just based on that woman’s claims, you’re going to punish me?!”

He said nothing. He only lifted the stick.

The very next second, the wooden stick slammed down hard onto my right hand.

Pain exploded through my hand. My whole body shook. Sweat drenched my clothes. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. But I didn’t cry. I just stared at him, refusing to look away.

There was no hesitation in his face. No trace of pity, only deep coldness.

It was as if I were nothing more than an enemy, not the woman he once held like she was precious.

When he raised the stick again, Anya tugged on his sleeve. “Erving, stop. Please. If you keep hitting her, something terrible might happen…”

Finally, he lowered his hand. He tossed the stick aside and crouched in front of me.

“Remember this,” he warned. “If you ever hurt Anya again, I’ll make sure you lose your other hand, too.”

By the time I was taken to the hospital, my right hand was swollen twice its normal size. Every slight touch on the misaligned bones sent waves of agony.

The doctor quickly set my hand with a splint and was about to explain the follow-up treatment when Erving called, and I was whisked away.

He said Anya was too shaken to sleep and needed someone to watch over her through the night.

So the doctor left. The room fell silent again, so silent I could hear my own steady breaths.

With my uninjured left hand, I slowly pulled my bag from under the pillow. Inside were my passport and plane ticket—my only chance to escape.

My right hand throbbed with pain, each movement sending sharp jolts through my bones, but I forced myself to ignore it. Leaning on the wall for support, I pushed myself upright and took it step by step out of the hospital until eventually, I hailed a cab to the airport.

By the time I arrived, the sun was sinking, painting the sky in orange and red—a beauty so breathtaking it brought tears to my eyes.

I clutched my ticket and walked toward the gate. Before boarding, I glanced back at the city one last time.

This place had held five years of love. It had seen me rise from obscurity to stardom, where I’d earned everything I once took pride in. But more than that, it had left me scarred—full of pain I could never forget.

Soon, the boarding announcement sounded. I took a deep breath and stepped onto the plane.

From that moment on, Erving, Anya, and New York, the city that had hurt me so deeply—all became a past I would never return to.