Rebirth Pampered by My Children and Husband

Abandoned Ex-Wife: Now Untouchable

Tao Yaoyao

My five-year-old daughter was dying in the ICU, her heartbeat replaced by the continuous, electronic scream of a flatline. I gripped her cold hand, my throat sealed shut by a terror so absolute I couldn't even cry out. I dialed my husband Grayson's private number, the one reserved only for me and his assistants. He declined the call instantly. A second later, a text buzzed against my palm: "In a meeting. Do not disturb. Stop calling." Five miles away, Grayson was at a luxury gala, adjusting his silk tie and laughing with Belle Escobar. He told her I was just being "dramatic" and using our daughter's "fever" as an excuse to avoid the event. He had no idea Effie's heart had already stopped. When I finally reached our penthouse, soaked from the rain and carrying Effie's small socks in a plastic bag, Grayson didn't even look at me. He snapped at me for ruining the hardwood floors and asked if I'd left Effie with the nanny just to "feel sorry for myself." Three days later, while I buried our daughter in a small, lonely ceremony, Grayson was at the Hamptons. Belle posted a photo of him golfing with the caption: "A mental health day with the boys." He didn't even attend the funeral, but he returned home demanding I clear out Effie's room to make a study for Belle's son. The injustice burned through me until there was nothing left. I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills, desperate to join my daughter. But instead of the darkness, I woke up to blinding lights and the scent of Grayson's expensive cologne. I was standing in a ballroom, wearing a blue silk dress I had already burned. Above me, a banner read: "Happy 5th Birthday Kaiden & Effie." I was back, exactly one year before the tragedy. This time, I wasn't going to be the grieving wife. I was going to be their worst nightmare.

Modern Parenting Ex-wife Drama

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Slap! A crisp slap echoed through the room.

Tracy, dressed in a mini skirt, teetering on fifteen-centimeter-high heels, and wearing heavy yet artful makeup, crossed her arms and looked down with an air of superiority.

Cathy, standing in front of her in a simple white wedding dress, hadn't even figured out what had just happened.

"Why did you slap me?"

Tracy stared at Cathy's bare, porcelain-like skin-smooth and flawless, even without makeup. That face drove her insane with jealousy.

"I just wanted to remind you-though I can't marry Roderick, you're nothing more than a mere shield for us. Your marriage is fake, so don't even think about getting any funny ideas!"

Being slapped for no reason, Cathy stared coldly at the woman in front of her, who looked as smug as a hen that had just laid an egg.

No matter how furious she was, she had taken the money, and now she had to deal with the trouble that came with it.

Taking a deep breath, Cathy silently reminded herself to endure-to hold back.

"Miss White, I'm fully aware that this is merely a contractual arrangement. Besides, I already have someone I love, and it's not Roderick. Once the contract ends, I will leave Roderick cleanly, with no lingering ties."

Even though Cathy had reassured her, no woman could feel secure seeing such a face by her man's side.

"Good. Consider this slap a warning-so you don't forget your place. A woman like you, who would do anything for money... who knows what you might try to pull..."

Tracy was about to continue her mockery when a knock on the door interrupted her.

"Miss Turner, are you ready?"

The deep, clear male voice belonged to Roderick. Tracy shot Cathy a glare.

"I don't want Roderick hearing anything unnecessary. Remember your role-you're nothing but a paid actress."

Cathy clenched the fabric of her dress, forcing herself to maintain the grace she was expected to uphold.

"Miss White, I don't have the habit of gossiping."

"Good. Touch up your left cheek so no one notices."

With that, Tracy strutted away on her high heels, swaying her hips seductively.

The door opened, and in an instant, Tracy's voice softened, turning sweet and gentle.

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