“On our third wedding anniversary, I spent all afternoon preparing a perfect dinner, waiting for my husband. He showed up three hours late, bringing his first love along with him. Her hand was resting protectively over a softly rounded belly. Augustine looked at me coldly and announced that she was pregnant and would be living with us from now on. When she pretended to be weak, he ordered me to get her a glass of hot water, treating me like a lowly maid. His mother rushed in shortly after, cursing me as a barren hen and celebrating the mistress's pregnancy. They surrounded her with care, completely forgetting the silvery scar hidden on my lower back. It was the permanent reminder of the kidney I had given him to save his life. Three years of devotion, swallowing my pride, and sacrificing my own body all felt like a cruel, elaborate joke. I didn't feel pain anymore, just a profound, bone-deep chill and overwhelming disgust. So, I calmly demanded a divorce, waived my rights to all his assets, and walked out. Then, I turned on a secret phone I hadn't used in three years and called my billionaire brother. "Brother, I need you to come get me. I'm getting a divorce." This time, I chose to reclaim my true identity and crush him on my own terms.”