Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit

Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit

Luo Lijiang

5.0
Comment(s)
1.7K
View
210
Chapters

For two years, I was Hillary Mitchell's trophy husband-a velvet cushion in public, a parasite in whispers. All part of a contract. The day it ended, I dropped my ring and walked away. I thought I was free. But freedom was a lie. Hillary froze my $5 million, leaving me broke and forced to protect spoiled heiress Brielle Harris. Now I'm trapped between two cages: Hillary's mansion and Brielle's campus. A "simp" by day, a pawn by night. Then Hillary saw us together. She didn't just want me back-she wanted to own me. She dug up my sealed past: the foster violence, the suicide attempt. "You belong to this family forever," she whispered, eyes hungry. That's when I snapped. I tore both contracts apart. If I'm going to be a monster... I'll be the one they never see coming.

Chapter 1 No.1

The champagne was cold, but the sweat trickling down Christopher Haney's spine was hot.

He stood exactly half a step behind Hillary Mitchell, his posture slumped just enough to look submissive, but not enough to look like a hunchback. It was a calculated angle. Everything about Christopher was calculated.

The Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a cavern of echoes and diamonds. The air smelled of expensive perfume, old stone, and the specific, metallic scent of judgment. Christopher held Hillary's clutch-a Judith Leiber crystal-encrusted thing that cost more than his foster mother's house-in both hands, like a sacred offering.

He felt the eyes on him.

They were heavy, sticky gazes from the Manhattan elite. He didn't need to look up to know what they were thinking. There's the parasite. The trophy husband. The man who married a trust fund.

Christopher let his shoulders round forward. He offered a weak, apologetic smile to a passing waiter. This was part of the package. The contract required him to be the perfect foil to Hillary's ice-queen dominance. If she was the diamond, he was the velvet cushion-dull, soft, and beneath her.

"Stop fidgeting," Hillary hissed. She didn't turn her head. Her smile remained fixed for the flashing cameras of the paparazzi line, but her voice was a razor blade.

"Sorry, darling," Christopher mumbled, pitching his voice to sound pathetic. "My feet hurt."

Hillary let out a sharp breath through her nose. "You're embarrassing me. Stand up straight."

Before Christopher could adjust his stance, a shadow fell over them. A heavy hand clapped onto Christopher's shoulder, jarring his bones.

"Well, if it isn't the happy couple."

Calhoun Steele. Hillary's ex-fiancé, and a man who wore his arrogance like a second skin. He was wearing a tuxedo that fit too well, smelling of scotch and aggressive musk.

Christopher flinched. He made sure the flinch was visible.

"Calhoun," Hillary said, her tone frosty. "You're drunk."

"And you're married to a golden retriever," Calhoun laughed. He leaned in, his weight pushing Christopher off balance. Calhoun held a flute of champagne in his other hand. With a tilt of his wrist that was too precise to be an accident, the amber liquid sloshed over the rim.

It splashed onto Christopher's lapel. The cheap rental fabric soaked it up instantly.

"Oops," Calhoun grinned, his teeth white and predatory. "My bad, Chris. Send me the bill for the dry cleaning. Oh, wait-Hillary pays your bills, doesn't she?"

The circle of socialites around them tittered. It was a cruel, high-pitched sound.

Christopher looked down at the stain. It was spreading, dark and wet against the black. He felt the cold liquid seep through to his shirt, touching his skin.

He didn't get angry. He didn't shove Calhoun.

He looked up, widening his eyes, letting his lower lip tremble just a fraction. "It's... it's okay, Mr. Steele. Accidents happen."

He reached for a napkin from a passing tray, his hands shaking. He dabbed at the stain frantically, looking like a servant terrified of a stain.

Hillary made a sound of pure disgust. She wasn't looking at Calhoun with anger; she was looking at Christopher with loathing. She hated weakness. And Christopher was giving her a masterclass in it.

"Go to the restroom," she ordered, her voice low and venomous. "Clean yourself up. You look pathetic."

"Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Hillary."

Christopher bowed his head, backing away. He nearly tripped over his own feet, eliciting another round of laughter from Calhoun's group.

He walked away, keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched. He navigated the sea of silk gowns and tuxedos, apologizing to anyone he brushed against.

He pushed open the heavy oak door of the men's restroom. It was empty.

Christopher checked the stalls. Empty.

He walked to the furthest sink and turned on the faucet. The water ran cold. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. The pathetic, terrified look in his eyes vanished. The slump in his shoulders corrected itself with a snap. His spine straightened.

He looked at the digital watch on his wrist. It was a Casio, black rubber, jarringly out of place with the tuxedo.

11:55 PM.

Five minutes.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded packet of wet wipes. He scrubbed the champagne stain with efficient, brutal strokes. He didn't care about the fabric; he just wanted the smell of Calhoun off him.

He tossed the wipe into the trash. His face was blank. Not angry. Not sad. Just empty.

Four minutes.

He adjusted his cuffs. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the carefully gelled style Hillary preferred.

Three minutes.

He unlocked the restroom door and stepped back out into the gala. The noise hit him like a physical wave. He scanned the room. Hillary was standing near the Temple of Dendur, speaking with Calhoun. Calhoun's hand was resting on the small of her back.

Hillary wasn't pushing him away.

Two minutes.

Christopher walked toward them. He didn't weave through the crowd this time. He cut a straight line. His stride was longer. His chin was up.

Hillary sensed him coming. She turned, her eyebrows knitting together, ready to scold him for taking too long.

"Christopher, where have you-"

She stopped.

Christopher stopped three feet away from her. He didn't look at her face. He looked at the space between her eyes.

His watch vibrated against his wrist bone. A single, short buzz.

00:00 AM.

May 2nd.

The Non-Disclosure Agreement, specifically Clause 4.2 regarding "Public Maintenance of Marital Image," had just expired.

Christopher didn't speak. He raised his left hand.

With his right hand, he gripped the platinum wedding band on his ring finger. It was tight. He twisted it. The skin bunched and turned white, then red.

He pulled.

The ring slid off.

The movement caught the light. Hillary's eyes widened. Calhoun's smirk faltered.

A waiter walked by with a tray of empty glasses. Christopher didn't look at the waiter. He simply extended his hand and dropped the ring.

Clink.

The sound was sharp, high-pitched, and impossible to ignore. It hit the base of a crystal flute and settled there, a piece of metal among the dregs of expensive wine.

Christopher lowered his hand. He looked at Hillary. For the first time in two years, he really looked at her.

"Goodbye, Hillary."

His voice was different. It was an octave lower, stripped of the nasal whine he had cultivated. It was smooth, dark, and indifferent.

He turned his back on her.

"Christopher?" Hillary's voice cracked. It wasn't a command. It was a question.

He kept walking.

"Christopher!" She shouted his name. Heads turned. The murmur of the crowd died down.

A security guard near the entrance, a man Christopher knew named Gary, stepped forward to intercept him. "Mr. Haney, Mrs. Mitchell is calling you."

Christopher didn't slow down. He knew Gary had a bad left knee from college football. He feinted right, then slipped past Gary's left side before the big man could pivot.

He pushed the heavy brass doors of the museum open.

The night air of New York City rushed into his lungs. It tasted of exhaust and freedom.

He walked down the iconic steps of the Met. He reached up and undid his bowtie. He pulled the strip of silk from his collar and dropped it into a wire trash can without breaking his stride.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone-the iPhone 14 Pro Hillary had bought him. He pressed the power button and held it until the screen went black. Then, he used his thumbnail to pop the SIM card tray. He snapped the tiny chip in half and flicked the pieces into the gutter.

He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a burner flip phone.

He didn't look back at the museum. He didn't look back at the millions of dollars, the caviar, or the woman who technically still owned him on paper.

He merged into the shadows of Fifth Avenue, just another dark figure in the city that never sleeps.

Continue Reading

Other books by Luo Lijiang

More
Marrying My Ex's Ruthless Uncle

Marrying My Ex's Ruthless Uncle

Modern

5.0

I was sitting in the Presidential Suite at The Plaza, getting my hair done for a wedding that was supposed to save my family from financial ruin. The SEC was breathing down our necks, and this merger was the only way to keep our assets from being seized by the time the market opened. Then my assistant walked in, her face as white as a sheet, holding a phone that was vibrating like a trapped insect. My groom, Julian, wasn’t just late; he was currently livestreaming from a VIP suite three floors up. On the screen, the man I was supposed to marry in twenty minutes was drunk, laughing, and groping my younger sister, Annabelle. "Say hi to my boring sister!" Annabelle shrieked into the camera, kissing him while the whole world watched. When I looked at my father, he didn't even seem surprised; he just told me to stay quiet and not "embarrass the family" by making a scene. I didn't cry. I didn't throw a tantrum. I just felt the cold, hard burn of a contract breach. I realized then that I wasn't a bride to them; I was a scapegoat they were already preparing to feed to the wolves. I walked out of that suite, but I didn't go to the ballroom to hide. I took the elevator straight to the Penthouse to find Julian’s uncle, Ervin Hendricks—a man so ruthless the board was trying to oust him for his "dark" personal life. "I need a groom," I told him, standing there in my Vera Wang gown. "Marry me, and I’ll give you the voting shares you need to keep your company. In exchange, you provide the legal protection I need to clear my name." Ervin looked at me with eyes like black glass, a predator weighing his prey. He took my arm and led me toward the elevator. "Deal," he said. We walked into the ballroom together, leaving the guests in shock and my cheating fiancé in the dust. But as the cameras flashed, I clutched the USB drive hidden in my dress. I wasn't just marrying Ervin for protection; I was marrying him because the person who framed me for money laundering used a Hendricks server to do it. To find the ghost who ruined my life, I had to move into the heart of the enemy's home.

The Ruined Heiress and Her Ruthless Monster

The Ruined Heiress and Her Ruthless Monster

Modern

5.0

My fiancé cheated on me with a bottle service girl on the giant screen at our own engagement party. I woke up the next morning in a strange bed, smelling of sandalwood and expensive scotch, only to realize I was in the penthouse of Julian Blackwood—the man I had cruelly humiliated ten years ago. Before I could even process the shame, my world collapsed. My father suffered a massive stroke, and my half-brother Conrad immediately moved to seize the family empire, while a swarm of illegitimate siblings emerged to strip us of every cent. "You're a stain on my floor, Vivian," Julian told me, his eyes as cold as a stormy sea. He didn't just want me gone; he wanted to watch me go bankrupt. My stepmother hissed that I needed to get on my knees and beg him to be our lawyer, or we’d end up on the street. Then, a biker with a metal bat tried to kill me on a dark Hamptons road, proving my own family had already put a price on my head. I didn't understand why the boy I once called "the gardener's son" was now the only one standing between me and a shallow grave. Julian saved my life from the wreck, but his touch felt like a threat. Was he protecting me, or just making sure he was the one who got to finish me off? Standing in the lobby of Blackwood & Partners, I looked straight into the security cameras and told the biggest lie of my life. I told the world that Julian was obsessed with me, turning a restraining order into a scandalous affair. If I had to be a villain to survive my own family, I would be the most dangerous one New York had ever seen.

The Genius Heiress They Tried To Break

The Genius Heiress They Tried To Break

Mafia

5.0

I stood outside the Genovese estate in the freezing rain for two hours, waiting for the man I loved to let me in. I was Elena Russo, the brilliant forensic accountant who had just laundered forty million dollars for the family. I was the adopted daughter, the fixer, and the fiancée of the Underboss, Luca. But the moment Sofia, the "real" daughter, returned, I became nothing but a placeholder. Luca looked me in the eye, swirling his scotch, and delivered the blow. "I need you to hand your work over to Sofia. She needs the prestige to be accepted by the Commission." He demanded I give up my life’s work—a complex laundering algorithm—so his new favorite could take the credit. When I refused, the humiliation began. Sofia faked a fall into the pool, and my adoptive father kicked me into the deep end to "teach me a lesson." I nearly drowned. Luca didn't save me. He handed me a diving mask and told me to find Sofia's lost ring at the bottom of the freezing pool before I was allowed to warm up. They stole my code. They ruined my reputation at the university. They slapped me in front of the press. They thought I was a stray dog with nowhere to go. They were wrong. Lying in the hospital bed, I dialed a number I had memorized years ago. "This is Asset 724," I whispered. "I'm ready to come home." The next day, the Russo empire began to crumble. And when a convoy of black SUVs arrived to collect me, Luca finally realized his mistake. My real father wasn't a nobody. He was Don Moretti, the King of the West Coast. And he was here to burn their world to ash.

Betrayal's Sting: A Husband's Reckoning

Betrayal's Sting: A Husband's Reckoning

Romance

5.0

Tonight was supposed to be special. Our fifth anniversary. I' d booked our favorite restaurant, bought a new shirt Chloe loved. Then, scrolling through social media, a photo from her company' s group chat caught my eye. Chloe, laughing, her hand resting on the arm of her intern, Liam. The caption called it "burning the midnight oil." I called it a lie. I typed a reply, directly into the chat: "Looks like fun. Chloe, I\'m still waiting for our anniversary dinner. The reservation was for seven." My phone rang instantly. It was Chloe, her voice a furious hiss. "What the hell do you think you\'re doing? Are you trying to embarrass me?" "Embarrass you?" I retorted, her dismissive tone burning me. "I' m sitting here alone on our anniversary. You told me you were stuck in a meeting." She called me needy, childish, then hung up. All my sacrifices, my life savings poured into her startup, the sleepless nights coding her company' s foundation – for this? To be a ghost in her shiny, successful life? The truth was laid bare: I was just an afterthought. I looked at our wedding photo, so full of hope, then slowly, deliberately, turned it face down. Then I blocked her. The next morning, her company's lead engineer called, panicking. "It's the Genesis build. It's a complete disaster. Liam broke it." Chloe had brushed off my warnings about Liam's sloppy code. She called him a rockstar. Now, she needed me to fix her golden boy' s mess. She sent her assistant to drag me to the office. Then Chloe herself called from the assistant's phone. "Ethan Miller, you get down here right now!" She tried to smooth-talk me, sweet-talking about "us." And then I heard it. A soft, wet sound, a kiss. And Liam' s voice. "Is he giving you trouble, boss? Let me talk to him." Chloe' s hushed, affectionate whisper: "It's fine, sweetie. I've got this." My world stopped. "Sweetie?" I repeated, the word dripping with mock sweetness. "Is that what you call your interns now, Chloe?" The betrayal, concrete and undeniable, sliced through me. All that anger, all that pain, crystallized into one chilling realization: "You don't need me. You need my work. There's a difference." "Consider your contract terminated," she threatened. "Consider it terminated," I replied, and hung up. I finally felt nothing. Just a vast, empty space where five years of my life used to be. I was done.

You'll also like

Phoenix Rising: The Scarred Heiress's Revenge

Phoenix Rising: The Scarred Heiress's Revenge

Xiao Hong Mao
5.0

I lived as the "scarred ghost" of the Stephens penthouse, a wife kept in the shadows because my facial burns offended my billionaire husband’s aesthetic. For years, I endured Kason’s coldness and my family's abuse, a submissive puppet who believed she had nowhere else to go. The end came with a blue folder tossed onto my silk sheets. Kason’s mistress was back, and he wanted me out by sunset, offering a five-million-dollar "silence fee" to go hide my face in the countryside. The betrayal cut deep when I discovered my father had already traded my divorce for a corporate bailout. My step-sister mocked my "trashy" appearance at a high-end boutique, while the sales staff treated me like a common thief. At home, my father threatened to cut off my mother's life-saving medicine unless I crawled back to Kason to beg for a better deal. I was the girl who took the blame for a fire she didn't start, the wife who worshipped a man who never looked her in the eye, and the daughter used as a human bargaining chip. I was supposed to be broken, penniless, and desperate. But the woman who stood up wasn't the weak Elease Finch anymore; she was Phoenix, a tactical predator with a $500 million secret. I signed the divorce papers without a single tear, walked past my stunned husband, and wiped the Finch family's bank accounts clean with a few taps on my phone. "Your money is dirty," I told Kason with a cold smile. "I prefer clean hands." The cage is open, the hunt has begun, and I’m starting with the people who thought a scar made me weak.

The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire

The $300 Husband Is A Zillionaire

Nap Regazzini
4.6

I woke up in a blindingly white hotel penthouse with a throbbing headache and the taste of betrayal in my mouth. The last thing I remembered was my stepsister, Cathie, handing me a flute of champagne at the charity gala with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Now, a tall, dangerously handsome man walked out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips. On the nightstand sat a stack of hundred-dollar bills. My stepmother had finally done it—she drugged me and staged a scandal with a hired escort to destroy my reputation and my future. "Aisha! Is it true you spent the night with a gigolo?" The shouts of a dozen reporters echoed through the heavy oak door as camera flashes exploded through the peephole. My phone lit up with messages showing my bank accounts were already frozen. My father was invoking the 'morality clause' in my mother’s trust fund, and my fiancé had already released a statement dumping me to marry my stepsister instead. I was trapped, penniless, and being hunted by the press for a scandal I hadn't even participated in. My own family had sold me out for a payday, and the man standing in front of me was the only witness who could prove I was innocent—or finish me off for good. I didn't have time to cry. According to the fine print of the trust, I had thirty days to prove my "rehabilitation" through a legal marriage or I would lose everything. I tracked the man down to a coffee shop the next morning, watching him take a thick envelope of cash from a wealthy older woman. I sat across from him and slid a napkin with a $50,000 figure written on it. "I need a husband. Legal, paper-signed, and convincing." He looked at the number, then at me, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. I thought I was hiring a desperate gigolo to save my inheritance. I had no idea I was actually proposing to Dominic Fields, the reclusive billionaire shark who was currently planning a hostile takeover of my father’s entire empire.

Chapters
Read Now
Download Book