The Surgeon's Revenge: No More Mrs. Montgomery

Chapter 4 No.4

Word Count: 648 | Released on: 15/01/2026

ted off three hours prior. Her body ached from the stiffness of the guest bed mattress, a stark reminder of her dis

allway. In the kitchen, the morning light was gray and unforgiving. She started the es

Calico cat had ventured out from under the sofa and wa

es popping. Her hands trembled slightly from sheer exhaustion as she fou

s that

Alexa jerked upright, near

ely at the waist. His hair was damp, combed back, but his face was pale. He looked at the cat wi

e hostility, arched

emanded. He stepped into the kitchen, his ba

ping between Fletcher and the cat. "I

lexa, his lip curling. "A stray. Of course. Y

t was about the girl whose parents died in a 'car accident' leav

d, her voice tight. "She

said. He moved closer, towering ov

splattering onto the pristine white cabinetry. The cat scramble

ng through her fear. "You don't get to do

own, his face inches from hers. "You want companionship, Alexa?

yes. The insinuation was crude, a slap in the fac

rned hot. "You'

dismissing her with a turn of his shoulder. He walk

oured the entire contents into the sink

y cup down on the counter with a loud cl

without looking back. "Clean

atter on the floor, at the empty cup. Tears pricked her eyes, hot

ed to the empty room, to the hiding c

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The Surgeon's Revenge: No More Mrs. Montgomery

Mischa Taube Modern

“I'm a top surgeon at Mount Sinai, but at 432 Park Avenue, I'm just the invisible "placeholder wife" of Fletcher Montgomery. After three months of silence, I didn't hear from my husband; I found out he was back in New York via a news alert tracking his private jet. When he finally walked into our penthouse, he didn't bring a greeting-he brought the scent of another woman's perfume and a heart full of ice. He looked at me with pure revulsion, telling me he was "tired of looking at mistakes" before slamming the bedroom door in my face. The humiliation escalated the next morning when his mother cornered me with a divorce agreement, calling our seven-year marriage a "charity project" that had run its course. She reminded me I was a "peasant" who owed the Montgomerys for saving my reputation, even as I spent my days saving lives in the OR. At a family dinner on Long Island, Fletcher turned our private struggle into a public execution. In front of his entire elite clan, he sneered that I should stop fixing other people's hearts and figure out why my own womb was a "wasteland." When I tried to defend myself, he dragged me into his car, only to kick me out on a dark, rain-slicked street in Queens. I stood there shivering in a thin blouse, without a phone or shoes, watching his taillights disappear while a group of men whistled at me from the shadows. I couldn't understand how seven years of devotion ended with me barefoot in the mud, or why the man I once loved now treated me like a stray he regretted picking up. The injustice burned hotter than the freezing rain, fueling a cold, surgical rage I hadn't felt in years. I eventually made it back to the penthouse, but I wasn't the submissive wife anymore. I rescued my cat from the freezing terrace, fired the malicious house manager, and deadbolted the master suite from the inside. When Fletcher's assistant called, I gave him a simple message: "Tell him the locks have changed, and the war has officially begun."”