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Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Chapter 6 No.6

Word Count: 892 | Released on: 19/01/2026

w open with enough force

ted from the nurse. He was sketching a diagram-a complex schematic for a h

Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, her si

sed. It sounded more lik

ce was pale, the bruising around his eye stark against his skin.

her. Really l

is solar system. Every mood, every whim, e

in a wrinkled dress stan

den asked. His voic

you have any idea what you put me through tonight?

ted the pen at his phone on the table. "I saw the vid

out. He criticized her singing? Jorden? T

sputtered. "People were asking where you w

aid. He closed the notebook. "I'm fine. You'r

e saw the bandages on his chest. The bruis

ly, replaced by that unco

r voice softer, but still demanding. "W

. "She made it very clear tha

u were hurt! Chlo

aid simply. "You asked about the d

er knuckles were white. "That's

Catarina, look at me. Look at the monitor. I almost died t

ed. She hadn'

something. If I had died, your biggest problem wou

. Tears pricked her eyes. "I love

. "You love having a servant. You do

your

w," Jor

in the air. Hea

t mean?" Catar

ow, controlled breath to manage the spike of pain in his ribs, "that I'm tired

reaking up with me?

cus. Go have him. He's all yours. No more guilt. No

had told her friends a thousand times that she felt "trapped" with Jorde

ow that he was looking at her wi

like the floor was drop

quickly. "It's the concuss

p his pen again. "But I've never

tebook and start

look exhausted. And yo

hed her face. She looked at

mall. She

in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the bed. "

uit yourself. But don't e

ching of the pen against the pape

ng him. She waited for him to break. She

did

es passed

of equations and diagrams. He

their marriage, Catari

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."”