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The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife

Chapter 2 No.2

Word Count: 943    |    Released on: 13/01/2026

hrough the fabric of her trousers

pped to h

er left kneecap, but she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying

h commanded f

gan to

d relentless. Every movement was a struggle against the suction of the

le around a fresh grave. They were a sea

el the burning intensity of her glare. Beside her was Bird Villarreal, Clementine's you

d the edge o

ched by the mud. He grabbed Karen by the back of her soaking collar a

eal. Beloved Daugh

s a vice on the nape of her neck. "Apologize to he

e. Rainwater ran down the e

rted, her voice trembli

tightened. He for

logi

head against the ba

on. She tasted copper in her mouth. Warm blood trickled down h

owd. Her voice was shrill, hysterical

ched her cheek. Then another. Then a clod of dirt. The crowd wa

zy. The world

comfort the grieving sister. He left Karen knee

nd rain, her eyes locked onto an object s

rn painted with delicate gold vines. It hel

inside Kar

her husband. She had lost her freedom. She had lost her dignity. She was bleeding in the

onster, she would

shaking, covered in filth. She wasn't

's voice rang out. He had turne

s too

. The ceramic was cold and wet. It wa

toria, Bird, all of them. A smile twisted he

t you wanted

e urn high ab

h sprinted

rn down onto the ma

AC

ray cloud puffed up into the air-bone dust and ash-before the rain instantly ca

olute, horri

, ch

m into her. He didn't grab her; he kicked her. It was a refle

ground hard, curling into a

started

ing. It was a guttural, ugly sound that tore at her throat

n the distance,

s twisted into a mask of pure loathing. He looked dow

I will make sure you never see the sun ag

rabbed Karen, hauling her up from the mu

s clicked shut around her

ng back, the rain washing the blood from h

dead. The li

saiah," she

ing trails in the mud, right through

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The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife
The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife
“My husband stood by the window of his Manhattan office, his silhouette cutting through the storm like a blade. He didn't even look at me as he tossed the divorce papers onto the desk, his voice a cold baritone. "Sign it," Isaiah commanded, "or your brother's dialysis treatment ends today." He believed the lie that I had pushed his pregnant mistress down a flight of stairs in a jealous rage. To save my dying brother, I signed the confession and accepted the role of a murderer, trading my freedom for a life of disgrace. At the funeral, Isaiah forced me to crawl on my knees through the freezing mud to the grave while a mob of mourners spat on me and cursed my name. When I went to prison, his influence followed me into the showers, where inmates told me the King wanted me to "remember my crime" before they used rusty shears to hack off my finger. Five years later, I was a ghost living in a damp basement with the son Isaiah never knew I had, hiding my mangled hand under a leather glove. When he eventually tracked us down, he didn't show mercy; he tore my son from my arms, calling me an unfit monster and swearing I would rot in a cage. I couldn't understand how the man I once loved could look at my broken body and see only a criminal, never realizing that every scar I carried was a gift from his own hatred. As he walked away with my child, I swallowed a bottle of pills to end the nightmare, leaving Isaiah to rip the glove from my hand and discover the mangled truth just as my eyes finally closed.”