The Ex-Wife Who Took It All

The crystal chandelier's light crashed onto me like shards of broken ice. Today is my 25th birthday—and the fifth year since I asked Frederick Donald for a divorce. The banquet hall was alive with elegant figures, every face wearing a carefully crafted smile— but to me, those smiles were sharp as knives. Frederick Donald approached, holding the hand of a woman in a red slip dress; her nails were painted a garish red, like freshly sucked blood. "Let me introduce her to you," Frederick's voice held its usual coldness, laced with a deliberate flicker of pride, "Naomi Xavier. From now on, she'll be your... 39th 'Butler.'" A low intake of breath rippled around, quickly smothered by carefully hushed whispers. I gripped the champagne glass tightly, my knuckles white. It's been five years, and he humiliates me like this—each time more cruel than the last. "Frederick," I forced my voice to stay steady, "let's talk about divorce." He looked like he'd heard a joke, lowered his head, smiled at Naomi Xavier, then turned back to me: "Catherine, your memory's still awful." "I told you, unless I'm dead, don't even think about leaving me." Naomi Xavier coyly leaned into him, shooting me a taunting look: "Ms. Jones, Mr. Donald's heart belongs to me alone—so don't bother wasting your energy." I ignored her and locked eyes with Frederick Donald. "What exactly do you want?" He didn't answer; instead, he nodded toward the servant behind him. Two servants carried over a rosewood box—I knew that box all too well. It was my mother's heirloom, holding her favorite pearl necklace and a small silver brooch. My heart clenched sharply as I lunged forward, trying to snatch it back. "Frederick! Give me the box back!" He gripped my shoulder with such force I thought he might crush my bones. "Don't rush," he said with a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "It's your birthday—there has to be some kind of special ritual." He pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on with a sharp "click." "Isn't it meaningful to light the candle with your mother's heirloom?" I watched the flame inch closer to the box, the pearls inside shimmering fragilely in the flickering light. "Frederick! You lunatic!" I struggled desperately, but his grip locked me in place like iron clamps. Everyone around was frozen in shock. Some tried to intervene, but Frederick Donald's cold glare stopped them in their tracks. The flame finally touched the velvet lining inside the box and instantly ignited. Pearl crackled softly in the fire, the sound stabbing into my ears like needles. I watched my mother's heirloom turn to ashes bit by bit, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. "Frederick," my voice trembling but filled with a hatred I'd never known before, "I hate you." He released me, letting me collapse to the floor, then took Naomi Xavier's hand and walked to the cake, picking up the burning wood to light the birthday candles. "Happy birthday, Catherine." His voice was light and airy, yet like a knife, it pierced right through my heart. Five years ago, I married Frederick Donald. Everyone said I married well—the Donald family is powerful and influential, and Frederick is young and successful. But only I knew this marriage was a nightmare from the very beginning. He didn't love me; he married me only because my grandfather once saved his father's life—a debt he intended to repay.