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Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Chapter 4 No.4

Word Count: 880 | Released on: 19/01/2026

inst the roof of the black Mercedes sedan

sed over her chest. The city lights blurred

ed her ph

l no

r text histor

day, 4

dry cleaning tomo

at. <3 Will have

ooked pathetic now. A

g games," sh

worked for the Evans family for a decade, gl

self. "He thinks if he acts tough, I'll respect him.

cts and dialed Mr. Hend

rson's voice was g

d. "If Jorden violates the 'public image' cl

"Well, usually it results in a reduction of his month

"Cut it all. Freeze his

ems extreme. If he'

trum. Cut the funds. I want him to have to ask

I'll initiate

anguage. Power. Money. Control. Jorden lived in her world, on her

nderground garage of the

e got out. "I might need you to take

vate elevator up

ook of disdain. She expected to find Jorden in the living room, perhaps nurs

ors slid open w

kne

use was pi

hardwood floor. The motion-sensor lights in the hallw

" she ca

oice

y, Jorden kept the thermostat at a cozy 72 degrees b

ouse slippers, which were always perfe

ter was spotless. No smell of dinne

ed at her throat. Panic?

he bed was made, perfectly tight, t

sn't

n't co

clutching her expensive bag. For the first time in t

nightstand on hi

there. His book-some biog

he w

e bed. The silence was deafeni

you?" she

had prepared her speech. She wa

crush someone

when he wasn't with her. Did he have friends? She did

he had lived with for three year

service had stopp

he one number she knew would have

led the

is your e

ent," Catarina said, her voice trembling sl

mom

was cheerful.

a vehicle registered to a Jorden Nash. The report indicates a rollover with entra

to her mouth. That meant the Jaws

.. is h

over the line, ma'am. You'll need

atarina's fingers. It bo

ing. He wasn't

crushed insi

ust frozen hi

Chapter End

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Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Fritz Heaney Modern

“I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon. The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat. I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant. "Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive." There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission. For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment. When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself. "Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary."”