Comeback of the Heartbroken Housewife Chinese Drama

Till death do us part.

Humorous, isn't it?

Prologue

The memory of the day I walked down the aisle, only to have my liberty

wrestled from my grasp, etched unyielding into my mind. Scores of gazes

drilling into my very soul as I muttered the fatal words "1 do."

My inner screams echoed and I wished to rip my heart out. From that

day on, I was nothing but a ghost of my

former self, a mindless prisoner

trapped in a cage of my uncle's making. I had lost my reason to exist, my

motivation to love, and even the ability to draw breath without feeling

smothered. I fought for my freedom day and night, pouring every ounce of

But the more I struggled, the deeper I sank into despair, until I became

unrecognizable even to myself. Yet here I stand, on the very brink of

regaining what was rightfully mine. Today, at long last, I will reclaim my

life and defy the chains that once bound me.

With each pass of the blade against the steel rod, a metallic melody fills

the air, My gaze fixated on the painted portrait of my husband, his eyes

soulless and empty - a haunting reminder of the life I am living.

Six fucking years of agony, a victim of his abuse. When I begged for

help, they sneered at me with disdain - their laughter pierces like a thousand

daggers. A heavy sigh escapes my lips, a single tear rolling down my cheek

and landing softly on the kitchen counter.

As the timer chimes, my heart races with excitement. The savoury aroma

of the butter and garlic roasted chicken wafts through the air, tantalizing my

senses. With precision, I set down my knife and rod and stride towards the

Oven, clad i

| in my trusty oven mitts. Today is a momentous occasion, a day

filled with celebration.

Just as I remove the sizzling chicken from the oven, I hear the sound of

the front door shutting. A burst of joy surges within me, knowing that he's

finally

willpower into my quest for escape.

home. My heart pounds faster as heavy footsteps approach the kitchen,

and I feel his intense gaze fixated on my back. As I turn around with a

beaming smile, I offer him a warm welcome, "You're just in time for

dinner." With a flick of my wrist, I remove the oven mitts.

His eyes studied me with suspicion, the brown hue growing darker asI

fidgeted in his presence. His hair, brittle and lifeless, resembled the texture

of old straw left to dry in the sun. His eyes were weathered, the wrinkles

around them telling stories of a life filled with hardship. And yet, it was his

distinctive beard that drew my attention, it was thin but unmistakable,

adding character to his rugseu appearance.

As he loosened his a gesture that seemed to signify the end of his

patience, and slipped out of his jacket, my heart raced with both fear and

anger. With a quick glance in my direction, he strode away from the

kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and frustration.

As I tightened my grip on the mitts, the urge to strangle him grew

stronger.

The thought of suffocating him with my bare hands seemed like a

tempting solution to my problems. But taking a deep breath, I resisted the

impulse and steadied myself. My eyes remained fixed on the kitchen

entrance, and with a flick of my wrist, I opened the top drawer.

Inside, lay the small bottle of cyanide salt - a deadly solution to my

troubles. For ages now, I've been gathering seeds from the heart of an apple

- each one packed with deadly cyanide. As little as a few thousand crushed

seeds of this innocuous fruit can silence a person forever. The science

behind it all is rather unsettling - the seeds ruthlessly rob the body of

oxygen, crushing the heart and snatching away thoughts from the brain.

Being a wife isn't easy, especially when you're living in a world where

crime is practically a survival skill. With a cunning smile, I tuck away

the tiny packet of doom in my apron's front pocket as I scurry into the

dining room. On the table, I carefully set out the chicken.

A charming melody drifted through the air, filling the room with the

serene notes of Nocturne No.2. The lighting was dimmed, casting a warm

and welcoming glow over the space. Vanilla candles flickered romantically

in every corner, infusing the air with a sweet, musky perfume. Above the

stunning dining table ga breathtaking crystal chandelier, glinting softy

in the light.

Dishes piled high with delectable creations were artfully arranged on the

table a

salad, freshly baked bread, succulent roasted chicken,

perfectly steamed vegetables, and a glass of rich red wine. I deftly served

up small portions of each dish, carefully crafted from scratch.

Then, with a swift movement, I slipped the cyanide salt from my apron

pocket and sprinkled it onto my husband's plate, meticulously ensuring that

no grain went to waste. Just as I was finishing the task, the sound of

footsteps caught my attention.

Quickly, I shoved the bottle of salt back into my pocket and made my

way to the far end of the table, taking my seat with a practiced grace.

I slipped out of my apron, revealing the sleek black pencil dress that

clung to every curve of my body. I smoothed it down, satisfied with the way

it emphasized my pear shaped figure, and tucked the apron neatly under the

table. With a sense of calm anticipation, I waited for my husband. He

lky robe?

he and a cigar perched on his lips.

sauntered in, clad in a silky

The end glowed with a warm flicker as he took a puff, his eyes fixed on

me with laser-like intensity. Despite his glare, I refused to be intimidated.

With a deft motion, I picked up my knife and fork and delved into my meal.

The flavours burst in my mouth, the perfect balance of savoury and sweet.

As I savoured every delicious bite, I caught my husband's

time, I lifted a wine glass to my lips and let the crimson

id wash

my tongue, meeting his gaze with a cool, collected demeanour. With a

agaovet

This

place the glass on the table and encourage, "Eat, before it gets cold."

Completing his final puff, he extinguishes the cigar, making sure to save

it for later. Cutting his meat with precision, his eyes darted betw

ween my face

and his plate; his movements were slow and calculated. As he raises the

morsel to his mouth, he chews attentively, never losing focus on my

SCrutiny.

He takes a moment to swallow, relishing the flavours. I spread some

butter on my bread and posed the question, "How is it?" Without hesitation,

he replies, "Good." His attention swiftly returns to the tantalizing dish,

devouring the rest of the meal. I snag a few vegetables with my fork,

savouring the flavours in my mouth, and wash it down with the rich and

savoury wine, feeling the liquid warmth flow down my throat.

As the seconds tick by, an eerie stillness fills the air. I raise an eyebrow

in curiosity when I notice him clearing his throat with increasing intensity,

pleasant grin, I

his breaths growing heavy and laboured. "What fuck is in this?" he

demands,

eyes bulging with shock as he stares at me incredulously. Suppressing a

smirk, I nonchalantly slice through the succulent chicken on my plate.

"Perhaps I got a little heavy-handed with the paprika." He snatches up

his glass of wine and takes a swig, but it only seems to worsen his

condition.

His coughs become violent, his weathered hands

he

he struggles to catch his breath, Meanhile cing at his chest as

in quiet satisfaction,

relishing in the intoxicating power of my little experiment. Panic slowly

creeps into his eyes, anxiety clawing its way up from the depths of his

soul.

He glances around frantically, disoriented by his surroundings. His skin

turns a fiery shade of red, thick veins bulging from his temples down to his

neck. With a desperate gasp, he attempts to stand up, only to fall back

into his seat, gasping for air. With a mischievous grin, my lips painted

a blazing red- curl into a sly smirk. "Funny, I forgot to mention I added a

little something extra for my dearest husband," I pause, twirling the crimson

liquid in my glass. "Cyanide salt," the words flow out of me with icy