His Love, My Hell, Her Justice

My wedding day was ruined by a crazed woman named Isolde, who claimed my husband, Ezekiel, was her soulmate from a past life.

Then, after a car accident, Ezekiel faked amnesia, siding with her and putting me through hell.

He let Isolde murder my mother, forced me to face my deepest fears, and poisoned me in public.

When I finally had Isolde arrested, Ezekiel's revenge was swift and brutal. He kidnapped me and, in a final act of cruelty, snapped the neck of my puppy, Muffin-the only comfort I had left.

He thought he had broken me, that he had destroyed every last piece of my soul.

He was wrong. He had just unleashed a monster.

Now, from the shadows, I will dismantle his empire, ruin his life, and make him pay for every tear I shed. My revenge has just begun.

Chapter 1

My wedding day, the day I' d dreamed of since I was a little girl holding Ezekiel' s hand, shattered the moment Isolde Buck screamed my name from the back of the chapel. The sound ripped through the quiet vows, tearing the fabric of my perfect dream into ragged pieces.

Ezekiel' s hand, which had just tightened around mine, flinched. The priest stopped, a confused frown marring his face. All eyes, which had been on us, now whipped around to the source of the disturbance.

Isolde stood there, a wild look in her eyes, covered in what looked like mud and ripped clothing. She pushed past the rows of stunned guests, her movements jerky and erratic. A gasp rippled through the room.

"Ezekiel! You can't marry her!" Isolde shrieked, her voice hoarse and raw. "We belong together! We always have! In every life!"

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't just a scene; it was a violation. My perfect day, tainted by a stranger' s delusion.

Ezekiel' s face, usually so composed, tightened with fury. His gaze, cold and hard, fixed on Isolde. He didn't even look at me.

Isolde reached the altar, ignoring everyone else, her eyes locked onto Ezekiel. She lunged, not at me, but at him, her hands outstretched as if to claim him.

A security guard, reacting swiftly, moved to intercept her. Isolde let out a furious roar and elbowed him hard in the face. He stumbled back, clutching his nose. She was stronger, faster than she looked.

She grabbed a heavy candelabra from a nearby stand, its brass gleaming wickedly. With a guttural scream, she swung it, not at Ezekiel, but at the delicate floral arch behind us. Roses, lilies, and ferns rained down, along with shattered glass from the votive candles. The scent of crushed flowers mingled with the sharp tang of fear.

People screamed. My mother, frail and already ill, gasped and clutched her chest in the front row. My vision narrowed, focused only on the chaos Isolde was creating.

Isolde turned the candelabra on me. Her eyes, burning with an insane intensity, promised pain. She raised the heavy brass, ready to strike. My breath hitched. This wasn't just jealousy; this was pure, unadulterated madness.

Before she could land the blow, Ezekiel moved. It was a blur of motion. He didn't speak, didn't hesitate. He grabbed Isolde' s arm, twisting it sharply. The candelabra clattered to the marble floor.

Then, he slammed her against the altar. Hard. The sound echoed through the stunned chapel.

Isolde cried out, a raw, animal sound of pain and surprise. Ezekiel didn't let go. He held her there, his face a mask of cold rage.

"You will not ruin this," he growled, his voice low and dangerous, a sound I rarely heard from him.

He dragged her, not gently, towards the back of the chapel. She struggled, kicking and scratching, but he was relentlessly strong. He flung her out of the main doors, into the rainy evening.

Security guards rushed forward, but Ezekiel waved them off with a curt gesture. "Leave her," he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "She' ll learn."

I watched, numb and shaking, as Isolde lay sprawled on the wet cobblestones outside, the rain already plastering her hair to her face. Her cries of "Ezekiel! My love! Don't leave me!" faded as the heavy oak doors swung shut, sealing her outside.

The chapel was silent, save for the muffled sobs of a few guests and my mother's ragged breathing. My beautiful white gown felt heavy, suffocating. Ezekiel walked back to me, his shoulders still tense.

"Brielle," he said, his voice softer now, but still strained. "We can continue."

But the magic was gone. The air was thick with unease. My dream was broken.

Over the next few weeks, Isolde became a recurring nightmare. She would appear at our new home, throwing rocks at the windows, leaving bizarre, handwritten notes about "past lives" and "undying love." She' d call Ezekiel' s office, disrupting important meetings, screaming obscenities about me.

Each time, Ezekiel would deal with her. And each time, his methods grew... harsher. I heard the shouts, sometimes even the sounds of struggle, from outside our house. He would drag her away, sometimes in his own car, sometimes forcing her into a taxi. He never called the police.

"She needs to learn," he would say, his jaw tight. "She needs to understand no means no."

Once, I saw him throw a bucket of icy water over her as she lay curled on our doorstep, sobbing. She choked, sputtering, looking up at him with a mix of defiance and broken adoration. He just walked away, slamming the door.

Another time, after she' d keyed his car, he found her hiding in the bushes. He yanked her out by her hair, his face a mask of pure fury. I watched from the window as he shoved her headfirst into the muddy flowerbed, holding her there until she struggled weakly. He didn't inflict lasting injury, but the humiliation was brutal.

Isolde wouldn't stop. She seemed to thrive on the attention, even if it was violent. She'd show up bruised and disheveled at social events, whispering stories to sympathetic ears about how I was keeping Ezekiel from her, the woman he truly loved. She painted herself as the victim, the heartbroken soul.

Ezekiel, in turn, escalated his "lessons." He once tied her to a lamppost outside our house with duct tape, leaving her there for hours in plain sight, with a sign that read: "Obsession is not love." The public humiliation was extreme. When I begged him to stop, to call the police, he just stared at me, his eyes cold.

"She won't stop until she's truly broken," he said, his voice flat. "This is for your peace, Brielle."

Her recovery from each brutal encounter was swift, almost unnerving. She would disappear for a few days, only to resurface with more intensity, more conviction in her twisted love for Ezekiel. It was a terrifying cycle.

Then came the call.

It was late, a stormy night. The police. Ezekiel's car had gone off the road. A single-vehicle accident. He was in critical condition.

My world tilted. Despite everything, the fear, the confusion, the dark cloud Isolde had cast over our lives, Ezekiel was my husband, my childhood sweetheart. I loved him.

I drove through the pouring rain, my heart a lead weight in my chest. When I arrived at the hospital, the scene was chaotic. Doctors and nurses rushed past, their faces grim. I found his room, my breath catching in my throat.

He was a mess of tubes and bandages, his face pale and bruised. The rhythmic beeping of machines filled the sterile room. I sat by his side, holding his hand, praying, begging him to pull through.

Days bled into weeks. He fought, slowly, painfully. Then, one morning, his eyes fluttered open.

"Ezekiel?" I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Baby, you're awake."

He looked at me, a blank stare. His brow furrowed. "Who... who are you?"

My blood ran cold. The doctors confirmed it. Post-traumatic amnesia. He remembered nothing of the accident, nothing of the last few years. He didn't remember our wedding, didn't remember Isolde's intrusions. He didn't remember me.

Then, Isolde appeared. She walked into the hospital room a week later, looking surprisingly demure, dressed in simple clothes. She spoke softly, her voice laced with what sounded like genuine concern. She told him stories from their "past life," stories of devotion and destiny.

Ezekiel, confused and vulnerable, clung to her words. He looked at her with an intensity he no longer showed me.

"She's my soulmate, Brielle," he said one afternoon, his voice weak but firm. "She says we were always meant to be."

My heart shattered all over again. The doctors warned me not to contradict him, not to cause stress. So I watched, helpless, as Isolde wove her web around him. She was the "devoted" one, the woman who had always been there for him.

And I, his wife of only a few months, became the outsider.

One evening, Isolde approached me in the hospital corridor. Her eyes, usually wild, were now shrewd and calculating. A smirk played on her lips.

"He's mine now, Brielle," she whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "And he's going to make you pay for every tear I shed."

I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. What did she mean?

The next day, Ezekiel, still recovering, asked to speak with me alone. Isolde conveniently left the room, a triumphant look on her face.

"Brielle," he began, his voice flat. "Isolde has told me everything. How you tried to keep us apart. How you tormented her."

My jaw dropped. "Ezekiel, what are you talking about? She's the one who crashed our wedding! She's the one who stalked us, who-"

He cut me off, his eyes hardening. "She suffered because of you. Because of your selfishness. It's time for you to repay that debt."

I blinked. "Repay what debt? Ezekiel, you don't remember. She's manipulative. She's sick."

"She's devoted," he corrected, his voice chillingly cold. "A devotion you could never understand with your perfect family and easy life." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You will suffer what she suffered, Brielle. You will understand her pain."

My blood ran cold. This wasn't the Ezekiel I knew. This was a cruel, twisted stranger.

Over the next few months, my life became a living hell. Ezekiel, under Isolde's constant influence, began to systematically abuse me. It wasn't the physical violence he'd inflicted on Isolde, but a psychological torture that was far more insidious. He cut me off from my friends, controlled my finances, and publicly humiliated me at every turn. Isolde was always there, a sickly sweet smile on her face, watching.

He would sometimes "test" my loyalty, forcing me into impossible situations, always comparing my reactions to Isolde's supposed unwavering devotion. He accused me of being selfish, of having never truly loved him. He used my deepest insecurities against me.

My mother's health, already fragile, deteriorated rapidly under the stress. She saw what was happening, but was powerless to intervene.

One night, after another public degradation orchestrated by Isolde, I overheard voices from Ezekiel's study. The door was ajar.

"You really had her fooled, didn't you?" Isolde's voice, light and mocking.

Then, Ezekiel's deep laugh, full and entirely genuine. "Of course. She' s always been so naive, so trusting."

My heart stopped. My blood turned to ice.

"But you always knew," Isolde purred. "You knew I' d never give up. You saw the real love, the real devotion, didn't you? Something she, with her perfectly normal life and perfect little family, could never offer."

"She has strong family ties, yes," Ezekiel mused, his voice devoid of any warmth. "But it's a weak love, Brielle's love. Predictable. Your love... it's dangerous. All-consuming. I needed that. It's what I always wanted."

My knees buckled. Amnesia. It was all a lie. He was never amnesiac. He had faked it, not to escape Isolde, but to embrace her dangerous obsession, to use it as a weapon against me. He had orchestrated my suffering, believing it was some twisted repayment, some perverse justice for Isolde' s relentless pursuit.

The betrayal hit me like a physical blow. Worse than any of Isolde' s attacks. Worse than the car crash. This was a deliberate, calculated cruelty from the man I had loved since childhood. The man I had married.

I stumbled away, my mind reeling. Every cruel word, every malicious act, every dismissive glance-it was all intentional. He saw Isolde's unhinged obsession as "ultimate devotion," something he felt my genuine, stable love could never match. My strong family ties, the very foundation of my life, were, in his twisted mind, a weakness, a barrier to the kind of all-consuming love he craved from Isolde.

I felt a scream building in my throat, but it never came out. Instead, a cold, hard resolve crystallized within me. The pain was unbearable, a gaping wound in my soul. But beneath it, a tiny spark ignited.

I looked at the wedding photo on the mantelpiece, my smiling face next to his. It was a lie. All of it.

"I regret every second I wasted loving you, Ezekiel," I whispered to the empty room, the words tasting like ash. "We are over. And you, you are nothing but a stranger."

I didn't pack. I didn't write a note. I simply walked out the door, leaving everything behind. My marriage, my home, my broken dreams. I would file for divorce. And then, I would vanish. I would become a ghost, impossible to find, impossible to hurt. This was my breaking point, the moment I chose to save myself, even if it meant tearing my entire world apart.

And I would make them pay.