Strings Muffled by the Fog

I really left.

Clad in nothing but a thin nightgown, I had neither my phone nor my wallet.

Jordan didn’t come after me. To him, this was surely just another petty game of mine—another sad attempt to play hard to get.

He was certain that without him, I couldn’t take a single step.

I wandered aimlessly in the cold morning wind until my feet went numb.

Eventually, I sank onto the steps outside a 24-hour convenience store.

An older woman in a city worker’s uniform handed me a hot steamed bun.

“Family troubles, dear?” she asked kindly. “Here, eat this. Don’t go hungry.”

I took the warm bun, and the tears finally broke free.

I thought I might die that morning. But I didn’t.

After dawn, I used a payphone to call the only friend I had left—my colleague, Anna.

When Anna arrived and saw the state I was in, she nearly had a heart attack.

Without a word, she took me back to her place, found me some clothes, and made me a bowl of hot ginger tea.

“Margaret… what happened with Jordan?” she asked carefully.

I told her everything.

Anna slammed the table in fury. “That bastard! That absolute scum! Margaret, you should have left him years ago! I always knew something was off. What kind of normal man doesn’t touch his wife for eight years? So he’s been fooling around this whole time!”

For the next few days, I stayed at Anna’s, my phone switched off, completely cut off from the world.

I had a lawyer draft divorce papers and sent them to Jordan Group.

Naively, I thought that once it was all out in the open, even if Jordan was unwilling, he’d sign just to save face.

But I underestimated his shamelessness—and his need for control.

A week later, my name suddenly splashed across the front pages of every media outlet in Rivermouth.

The headlines were horrifying: *Society Wife’s Heart of Stone: Jealousy Drives Her to Hire Thugs to Murder Rising Star Jennifer.*

The article featured a photo of Jennifer lying in a hospital bed, her head bandaged, weeping artfully as she accused me of hiring men to stage a car accident—all because I was jealous of her closeness with Jordan.

It even included a grainy surveillance video showing a woman with a figure like mine handing a wad of cash to a few shady-looking men.

Then they dug up my past—the kidnapping from my university days—and laid it bare. Even some unspeakable, blurred-out photos began to circulate.

The court of public opinion condemned me. They called me an ungrateful viper, damaged goods, utterly unworthy of Jordan.

The hospital called, too, politely informing me that due to the “negative impact,” I was being suspended.

I was finished.

I knew. This was all Jordan’s doing.

He wanted to destroy me. To back me into a corner until my only way out was to crawl back to him and resume my role as his obedient pet.

Anna was frantic. “What do we do? This is pure slander! We’ll go to the police!”

“It’s no use,” I said calmly. “He controls all the evidence, the whole narrative. Going to the police will only humiliate me further.”

Sure enough, not long after, the butler from the villa showed up at Anna’s place.

He addressed me with practiced deference. “Madam, Mr. Jordan requests your return.”

I looked at him and smiled. “Tell Jordan I’ll go back only when I’m dead.”

The butler left, looking troubled.

That night, Jordan came himself.

He kicked Anna’s door open, stormed in like an enraged lion, and dragged me up from the sofa.

“Margaret, do you have to push me this far?” His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on me. “Come home! Withdraw the divorce papers, and I’ll pretend none of this ever happened!”

“No.”

I met his gaze, enunciating each word. “Jordan, give it up.”

“Fine. Just fine!” He laughed, a sound of pure fury, and began dragging me toward the door.

Anna rushed to stop him. He shoved her aside, sending her crashing against the wall.

He threw me roughly into his car and sped all the way to the hospital.

In Jennifer’s private suite, I saw the woman who made my skin crawl.

She was leaning weakly against the pillows. When she saw Jordan dragging me in, a flash of triumph lit her eyes.

“Jordan…” she whispered, her voice frail.

Jordan ignored her. He shoved me toward the bed and addressed the doctor. “She’s lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion. Use hers.”

The doctor looked uncomfortable. “Mr. Jordan, this lady…”

“She’s my wife. I decide.”

Jordan cut him off impatiently.

I stared at him in disbelief.

He knew. He knew I had severe hereditary anemia. I couldn’t donate blood.

“Jordan, are you trying to kill me?” My voice trembled.

He looked at me coldly, not a shred of warmth in his eyes. “You said you wanted to die. I’m granting your wish. We stop when you come to your senses.”

So this was how he had “loved” me for eight years.

I closed my eyes and laughed—a sound of utter despair.

A nurse approached with a syringe. I didn’t resist.

Just as the needle was about to pierce my skin, Jordan suddenly grabbed the nurse’s wrist.

He stared at my pale face. A flicker of struggle crossed his eyes before he pushed the nurse away.

The words were ground out between his teeth. “Draw it! Draw it until she begs!”

In the end, he still couldn’t bear to let me die.

Maybe he was afraid that if I died, there’d be no one left for him to play the devoted husband to.

But I didn’t beg.

I just watched him coldly, watched as my blood was drawn, drop by drop, and fed into Jennifer’s veins.

Until my vision darkened, and I lost consciousness completely.

Before blacking out, I saw a moment of sheer panic flash across Jordan’s face.

How laughable.

At the climax of this torture, Jennifer’s attending physician stepped forward. He held a report and said to Jordan, “Mr. Jordan, Miss Jennifer only sustained superficial injuries. Her blood loss is negligible. A transfusion is completely unnecessary. Furthermore, Dr. Margaret’s blood type is incompatible with hers.”

Jordan’s face turned deathly pale.