The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife

Chapter 8 No.8

Word Count: 692 | Released on: 13/01/2026

lent except for the

st, pinning it to the wall above her head. His fi

ing wa

flat plane of her palm pressed against the cold concrete. But then, his thumb, applying pressure w

natural void where solid

ettling confusion. He squeezed again, his thumb exploring the hollow s

st air insi

terror. It wasn't the fear of him, of his strength, but the terro

mpered, the soun

nd away, a sudden, despe

voice dropped, losing its rage and

t g

saiah's suspicion flared. Dru

is fingers fumbling fo

im for anything since the day she signed the papers. Her voice cracked with

sceral. It only confirmed his suspicion

ed, his mind racing to the worst possible

abbed the cuff of the

aw, tearing sound from the

ah p

lid off with a sickening resistance, peeli

ame

ah l

his body in a si

a single bare bulb casting long s

damp wall. The thumb, index, middle, and ring fin

he pi

as g

a mangled knot of scar tissue that had healed in a twisted, sh

ed like

ess the visual information. He blinked, a stupid, reflex

had burned him. Her hand droppe

nst the wall, tears finally streaming down her face, her chest heavi

e felt like he had been punched in th

r name a foreign sound on h

bling, with an insane urge to tou

from his touch as if

," she hissed t

a chaotic mix of horror and a sudden, confusing ra

swollen, and filled with a hatred so

id," s

Chapter End

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The Billionaire's Regret: My Tortured Ex-Wife

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“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.”