From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
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I almost gagged. I bit back the pain and kissed him just to shut him up. It felt like being mauled by an animal—no, worse. That’d be an insult to animals.
That night, my husband was in disturbingly good spirits. Knowing my ribs were still healing, he made a point of digging his fingers into them during sex, grinning wider every time I winced.
He dragged it out for hours before finally finishing. After showering, he strolled out scrolling through his phone, texting someone with this twisted, inhuman smirk on his face.
I was slick with sweat from the pain. By the time I limped out of the bathroom, he was already passed out.
His phone sat on the nightstand. Before I could think better of it, I grabbed it and pressed his thumb to the sensor.
Become SVIP! Read all SVIP stories!
I tapped WhatsApp. A pinned group chat sat at the top.
[Women just need to be put in their place. Mine’s so well-trained she opens her mouth on command now!]
[@everyone, check out my progress. Full-blown Stockholm syndrome. I could kick her out tomorrow and she’d beg to stay!]
[Tonight’s masterpiece—all surface-level damage. My technique’s getting sharper!]
In the dead silence of the bathroom, I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
The group, called "Happy Family," had 123 members.
These monsters spent their days swapping tips on how to "train" their wives into submission.
I scrolled further. The chat was littered with photos—bloody, brutal snapshots of women.
Some faces swollen to twice their size, eyes reduced to slits.
Some backs striped with belt marks, skin split open.
My hands trembled. Every woman in those pictures was beaten beyond recognition.
Then I found my husband’s contributions. His latest messages, sent right before bed:
[That bitch finally broke tonight. Best lay ever.]
[Just wait, boys. My wife’ll be the most obedient one here soon.]
His most recent uploads? My hospital X-rays and sneaky shots of my injuries while I slept.
The replies flooded in:
[Damn, bro. You hospitalized her? Respect.]
[Teach me your ways!]
[No wife yet. How do I get one?]
I kept scrolling. The advice poured in—how to disguise themselves, how to pick the easiest targets.
Their ideal victims? Women from families that treated daughters like bargaining chips.
Especially those with sky-high bride prices—$20K or more.
Once a woman was "sold," her family washed their hands of her. No matter how badly her husband treated her, she had nowhere to go.
Even the cops would just shrug and say, "Work it out yourselves."
Women like me were trapped. Born into families that saw us as burdens, married off to men who saw us as property.
Divorce? Forget it. We’d be homeless, shunned.
That’s why my husband thought he could get away with it.
But times have changed.
We don’t need men to survive. We can stand on our own.
I couldn’t stomach reading more. I grabbed my phone and recorded every WhatsApp ID in that group, every shred of evidence.
My silence was never surrender.
That night, my husband was in disturbingly good spirits. Knowing my ribs were still healing, he made a point of digging his fingers into them during sex, grinning wider every time I winced.
He dragged it out for hours before finally finishing. After showering, he strolled out scrolling through his phone, texting someone with this twisted, inhuman smirk on his face.
I was slick with sweat from the pain. By the time I limped out of the bathroom, he was already passed out.
His phone sat on the nightstand. Before I could think better of it, I grabbed it and pressed his thumb to the sensor.
Become SVIP! Read all SVIP stories!
I tapped WhatsApp. A pinned group chat sat at the top.
[Women just need to be put in their place. Mine’s so well-trained she opens her mouth on command now!]
[@everyone, check out my progress. Full-blown Stockholm syndrome. I could kick her out tomorrow and she’d beg to stay!]
[Tonight’s masterpiece—all surface-level damage. My technique’s getting sharper!]
In the dead silence of the bathroom, I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
The group, called "Happy Family," had 123 members.
These monsters spent their days swapping tips on how to "train" their wives into submission.
I scrolled further. The chat was littered with photos—bloody, brutal snapshots of women.
Some faces swollen to twice their size, eyes reduced to slits.
Some backs striped with belt marks, skin split open.
My hands trembled. Every woman in those pictures was beaten beyond recognition.
Then I found my husband’s contributions. His latest messages, sent right before bed:
[That bitch finally broke tonight. Best lay ever.]
[Just wait, boys. My wife’ll be the most obedient one here soon.]
His most recent uploads? My hospital X-rays and sneaky shots of my injuries while I slept.
The replies flooded in:
[Damn, bro. You hospitalized her? Respect.]
[Teach me your ways!]
[No wife yet. How do I get one?]
I kept scrolling. The advice poured in—how to disguise themselves, how to pick the easiest targets.
Their ideal victims? Women from families that treated daughters like bargaining chips.
Especially those with sky-high bride prices—$20K or more.
Once a woman was "sold," her family washed their hands of her. No matter how badly her husband treated her, she had nowhere to go.
Even the cops would just shrug and say, "Work it out yourselves."
Women like me were trapped. Born into families that saw us as burdens, married off to men who saw us as property.
Divorce? Forget it. We’d be homeless, shunned.
That’s why my husband thought he could get away with it.
But times have changed.
We don’t need men to survive. We can stand on our own.
I couldn’t stomach reading more. I grabbed my phone and recorded every WhatsApp ID in that group, every shred of evidence.
My silence was never surrender.
End of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide book page.