From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide - Chapter 10: Chapter 10
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The video call came through again not long after I'd hung up. This time, my husband was on his knees, his face a mess of fresh injuries—his once-perfect nose now crooked, blood streaming down in bright red streaks.
"Don't call the cops, Ava, you bitch!" he wailed. "I swear to God, don’t you dare!"
I stared coldly at the screen.
"Baby, please," he begged, voice cracking. "Just send the money. They’ll let me go if you do."
When I didn’t react, he started kowtowing, slapping his own face like he used to after beating me—half apology, half desperate performance.
"Listen up," I snapped, voice sharp as a blade. "Let my husband go right now, or I’m calling the police. And trust me, you’ll regret it."
Predictably, the men off-screen kicked him hard—once, twice—until he was wheezing, too broken to speak.
"I’m not sending a single cent. You get nothing. And you’d better release him soon."
I paused, then added sweetly, "Oh, and by the way? I already called the cops. Don’t worry, honey—help’s on the way."
They hung up before I could finish. I smirked. My dear husband was definitely in for another round of hell.
[Please let my husband go!]
[How much do you want? I’ll borrow it—just don’t hurt him!]
I sent the messages, knowing full well he’d already blocked me. His phone was off.
Once I was sure they wouldn’t reach out again, I dialed the police.
They came that night. I spun my story carefully—truth and lies woven together. My husband’s durian business, his pride, how he’d never admitted the supply came through my friend.
When they learned he’d sold our car and house, sneaking into northern Myanmar with all the cash, even the officers shook their heads.
No entry records. No legal trail. Just another greedy fool who’d thrown away his rights as a citizen.
And I knew better than anyone—those who crossed illegally weren’t just scammed. They were owned.
The news spread fast. Neighbors who’d once envied his "success" now whispered behind their hands. My mother-in-law had a stroke, half her body paralyzed. My father-in-law became her full-time caretaker.
Three months passed. The air turned crisp.
The police checked in occasionally, but there was no trace of my husband.
I took my daughter shopping, bought her tiny sweaters and boots.
When I visited my mother-in-law, she lunged at me with a kitchen knife, screeching about how I’d let this happen.
I let her exhaust herself before tossing her a pregnancy test.
"Mom. I’m pregnant. It’s a boy."
Her face spasmed with joy. "A—a son?"
"Three, four months along. But…" I sighed. "The last miscarriage was too much. I lost him."
She collapsed, wailing like a banshee.
I didn’t tell her the truth—that I’d chosen to end it.
And that her son was never coming back.
Epilogue
After New Year’s, my daughter started preschool. I opened a little art studio nearby. Life was quiet. Warm.
My husband called once or twice, whispering about the horrors he endured.
"Ava, I’m sorry," he croaked. "I finally understand how you felt—"
"What? I can’t hear you." I cut him off. "Remember? You ruptured my eardrum. Tinnitus is a bitch."
Silence. Then, hoarse and broken: "I’ll never make it back."
Good.
I left the domestic violence group chat—but not before slipping Rachel’s scammer crew a few usernames.
Six months later, the group’s admin vanished. Several abusive husbands went quiet.
I leaked the chat logs anonymously. The scandal exploded. Women spoke up. Organizations stepped in.
At the hospital, I visited the cleaner whose son was vegetative—the same woman whose gossip had given me the idea. I slipped $10,000 into her pocket.
The police questioned me again. I told them my husband had planned to transfer the money after arriving—too scared to carry it himself.
They left, sympathetic.
School pickup time. My daughter’s laughter was the only medicine I needed.
If I couldn’t send my husband to prison, I’d settle for hell.
And no one would ever know I was the one who pushed him in.
"Don't call the cops, Ava, you bitch!" he wailed. "I swear to God, don’t you dare!"
I stared coldly at the screen.
"Baby, please," he begged, voice cracking. "Just send the money. They’ll let me go if you do."
When I didn’t react, he started kowtowing, slapping his own face like he used to after beating me—half apology, half desperate performance.
"Listen up," I snapped, voice sharp as a blade. "Let my husband go right now, or I’m calling the police. And trust me, you’ll regret it."
Predictably, the men off-screen kicked him hard—once, twice—until he was wheezing, too broken to speak.
"I’m not sending a single cent. You get nothing. And you’d better release him soon."
I paused, then added sweetly, "Oh, and by the way? I already called the cops. Don’t worry, honey—help’s on the way."
They hung up before I could finish. I smirked. My dear husband was definitely in for another round of hell.
[Please let my husband go!]
[How much do you want? I’ll borrow it—just don’t hurt him!]
I sent the messages, knowing full well he’d already blocked me. His phone was off.
Once I was sure they wouldn’t reach out again, I dialed the police.
They came that night. I spun my story carefully—truth and lies woven together. My husband’s durian business, his pride, how he’d never admitted the supply came through my friend.
When they learned he’d sold our car and house, sneaking into northern Myanmar with all the cash, even the officers shook their heads.
No entry records. No legal trail. Just another greedy fool who’d thrown away his rights as a citizen.
And I knew better than anyone—those who crossed illegally weren’t just scammed. They were owned.
The news spread fast. Neighbors who’d once envied his "success" now whispered behind their hands. My mother-in-law had a stroke, half her body paralyzed. My father-in-law became her full-time caretaker.
Three months passed. The air turned crisp.
The police checked in occasionally, but there was no trace of my husband.
I took my daughter shopping, bought her tiny sweaters and boots.
When I visited my mother-in-law, she lunged at me with a kitchen knife, screeching about how I’d let this happen.
I let her exhaust herself before tossing her a pregnancy test.
"Mom. I’m pregnant. It’s a boy."
Her face spasmed with joy. "A—a son?"
"Three, four months along. But…" I sighed. "The last miscarriage was too much. I lost him."
She collapsed, wailing like a banshee.
I didn’t tell her the truth—that I’d chosen to end it.
And that her son was never coming back.
Epilogue
After New Year’s, my daughter started preschool. I opened a little art studio nearby. Life was quiet. Warm.
My husband called once or twice, whispering about the horrors he endured.
"Ava, I’m sorry," he croaked. "I finally understand how you felt—"
"What? I can’t hear you." I cut him off. "Remember? You ruptured my eardrum. Tinnitus is a bitch."
Silence. Then, hoarse and broken: "I’ll never make it back."
Good.
I left the domestic violence group chat—but not before slipping Rachel’s scammer crew a few usernames.
Six months later, the group’s admin vanished. Several abusive husbands went quiet.
I leaked the chat logs anonymously. The scandal exploded. Women spoke up. Organizations stepped in.
At the hospital, I visited the cleaner whose son was vegetative—the same woman whose gossip had given me the idea. I slipped $10,000 into her pocket.
The police questioned me again. I told them my husband had planned to transfer the money after arriving—too scared to carry it himself.
They left, sympathetic.
School pickup time. My daughter’s laughter was the only medicine I needed.
If I couldn’t send my husband to prison, I’d settle for hell.
And no one would ever know I was the one who pushed him in.
End of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide Chapter 10. View all chapters or return to From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide book page.