Chapter 3

But what about my dad’s life?

Was it my fault she had nothing?

But the more I screamed and fought, the more disgusted Julian looked.

The final string in my mind snapped when I walked into our new house and found Julian and Tiffany in our bed.

Tiffany cowered behind Julian. "Julian has so much pressure as a psychiatrist. I was just helping him decompress."

I lost control. I smashed everything in sight and slapped both of them repeatedly.

I filed for divorce and posted the evidence of their affair on Snapchat and TikTok.

They became the most hated scumbags online.

But to save Tiffany’s reputation, Julian used his credentials to diagnose me with severe clinical psychosis.

He had me committed.

"Just stay there quietly for two years," Julian had told me coldly. "Once the public forgets about this, I'll let you out. You'll still be my wife."

I was completely dead inside. All I wanted was a divorce.

Julian, who rarely lost his temper, said through gritted teeth, "Divorce? Only if you sign this waiver and leave with nothing."

I signed it.

But I didn't expect him to send me to a private, abusive asylum in the middle of nowhere.

It was a living hell.

If we didn't obey, we were electrocuted or whipped.

We had to beg for food like dogs. If we displeased the guards, we had to search the trash for scraps.

Tiffany would visit occasionally to brag about how much Julian loved her.

She showed off the designer bags he bought her and the magazines they featured in.

One day, she forced me to kneel and lick her designer shoes.

"I always hated your arrogant, rich-girl attitude," Tiffany sneered. "In high school, you acted like a saint, throwing your charity scraps at me. You thought you were so better than me just because of your dad's money?"

So that was how she viewed my kindness.

She took photos of my pathetic state and sent them to my dad.

Within a year, my dad died of a stress-induced heart attack in prison.

And now, the monster who killed my dad wanted to "pay respects."

What a joke.

I had no patience left for them.

"Get out."

I closed the door right in their faces.

I immediately called building security and had them escorted out of the complex.

Once Tiffany’s muffled, angry screams faded from the hallway, I finished packing.

I only took a few essentials and my dad's photo.

I left everything else behind.

I took a cab straight to the airport.

As I was checking my bags, someone called my name.

"Chloe? What a coincidence."

I looked up and smiled. "Hey, Ethan."

Ethan Montgomery looked at my boarding pass and raised an eyebrow. "I'm flying to London too. Looks like we're on the same flight."

He suggested we walk together, and I didn't object.

On the way to security, he asked softly, "You missed your last therapy session. How are you feeling lately?"

After my dad died, I was in a dark place.

The day I found out Julian and Tiffany had gotten married, I walked to the edge of a bridge, ready to jump.

It was Ethan who grabbed my hand.

He had smiled warmly, though his hands were shaking. "It's my birthday today, and I have no one to spend it with. You look lonely too. Want to share a cake with me?"

I didn't know if he was lying, but I ended up crying and telling him everything.

Even though he wasn't my official therapist, he became my emotional anchor.

"Thanks to you, I think I'm finally healed," I told him.

He looked at me, a soft smile on his lips. "So... you don't need me anymore?"

Before I could answer, a familiar, breathless voice shattered the moment.

"Chloe! Where are you going? And who is he?"

Julian ran up to us, his eyes bloodshot, breathing heavily. He looked terrified of my answer.

I was exhausted by his persistence.

I reached out, locked my fingers with Ethan's, and said word for word, "This is my husband."