The Surgeon's Revenge: No More Mrs. Montgomery

Chapter 5 No.5

Word Count: 621 | Released on: 15/01/2026

doorbell rang. It wasn't the tentative buzz of a

tied in a messy bun. She opened the door

at with a small veil, even though it was a Tuesday morning.

finger by finger. She ran a bare finger along the edge of the foyer console

lia said. Her voice was like crus

exa said, pulling her robe t

n animal." Cornelia walked into the living room, claiming the space instantly. She sat on t

d to the principal's office. She shot a glare at Martha,

e is under immense pressure with the merger

cat," Al

bag and pulled out a piece of heavy cardstock. "This is the schedule fo

Alexa defended herself. "I can

people. Doing it yourself looks... desperate. It looks cheap

ng to be re

This is the Montgomery family. Appearance is cu

Ms. Emerson also insisted on cooking last nig

, honey. You really don't get it, do you? You a

reached out and tucked a stray strand of

, Alexa. Remember whose name protects you fr

thered. The family claimed her parents were involved in embezzlement and

rgotten," Ale

g as you are a burden to Fletcher, you

nspect the guest suites. I want to make sure t

her hands shaking so hard she had to grip the back of a chair. She saw a crystal vase

ve them the satisfaction. But she marked Martha'

Chapter End

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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."”