From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
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When the first shipment of 300 pounds of durians arrived, my husband quit his job on the spot and set up a stall, selling them full-time.
Buying at $3 a pound and flipping them for $10–12, he was raking in cash faster than he could count.
Word spread fast in our neighborhood—everyone wanted a piece of his "cheap" durian hustle. Even his relatives, who usually couldn’t be bothered with us, suddenly became very interested in visiting.
Of course, my husband loved the attention. People hounded me for the supplier’s name, but I played dumb. "Sorry, he never tells me anything." That only made them furious. "After all we’ve done for you, why hasn’t your husband beaten you to death yet?"
Naturally, my husband would never admit the truth—that our supply came through my friend. His ego wouldn’t allow it.
Musang King durians were rare and pricey even wholesale, but he managed to get his hands on some, along with regular durians now and then. Everything sold out instantly.
In just two weeks, he cleared over $10,000. He’d cruise around in his truck, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Soon, half our apartment complex was buying from us. My mother-in-law, suddenly so proud of her son, found even more reasons to nitpick my daughter and me.
And my husband? He’d apparently lost interest in "training" me—too busy hooking up with a woman from our building.
Amber.
Two years older than him, divorced, living with her nightmare of a mother. She strutted around in clothes that left little to the imagination, while her mom terrorized the neighborhood.
Now that my husband was flush with cash, my mother-in-law started scheming—why waste that $20,000 bride price (my money, by the way) on me when he could upgrade?
Never mind that Amber and her mom were the neighborhood’s least-wanted duo. When my mother-in-law found out, she blamed me. "Useless womb couldn’t even give him a son. Can’t even keep your man in check."
Then one morning, I walked in from grocery shopping to find women’s underwear scattered across the living room floor. The sounds coming from the bedroom? Disgusting.
My daughter was huddled behind the sofa, staring up at me with wide, helpless eyes. For a split second, I nearly grabbed a knife and ended it all.
"Chloe."
I covered her ears, scooped her up, and carried her to the side bedroom—where my mother-in-law was lounging on the bed, scrolling through TikTok.
She barely glanced up. "Hehe."
"Mom, I don’t care what your son does, but leaving Chloe out there—"
Her phone slammed down. "You want to die? Can’t even keep your man, and now you’re yelling at me?!"
She lunged, fists flying. I turned, shielding my daughter as the old woman pounded my back, spewing curses.
I took it. Smiled, even.
No rush. The real show hasn’t even started.
I settled Chloe by the window with a picture book—she never cried, never clung. Just quietly turned the pages.
When I stepped out, Amber slinked into the hallway wearing nothing but a slip, her neck littered with marks.
"Ava, Jack says you’re a fantastic cook." She smirked. "I’m craving fish. Be a dear and run to the market?"
My husband emerged, hesitated for half a second when he saw me—then draped an arm around her.
"Jack, I want red-braised fish, but your wife won’t make it for me."
They were practically dry-humping in front of me. I must’ve looked as sick as I felt, because my husband suddenly kicked me square in the stomach.
"What are you staring at, deaf bitch?!"
I stumbled, ribs screaming.
Amber giggled, clinging to him. "So manly."
I left without a word. Outside, Amber’s mom spotted me clutching my stomach, pale.
"Ohhh, did little Jack rough you up again?" She grinned, then lowered her voice. "You should really just divorce him, you know."
Right. To make room for her daughter.
Sure.
Any day now.
Buying at $3 a pound and flipping them for $10–12, he was raking in cash faster than he could count.
Word spread fast in our neighborhood—everyone wanted a piece of his "cheap" durian hustle. Even his relatives, who usually couldn’t be bothered with us, suddenly became very interested in visiting.
Of course, my husband loved the attention. People hounded me for the supplier’s name, but I played dumb. "Sorry, he never tells me anything." That only made them furious. "After all we’ve done for you, why hasn’t your husband beaten you to death yet?"
Naturally, my husband would never admit the truth—that our supply came through my friend. His ego wouldn’t allow it.
Musang King durians were rare and pricey even wholesale, but he managed to get his hands on some, along with regular durians now and then. Everything sold out instantly.
In just two weeks, he cleared over $10,000. He’d cruise around in his truck, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Soon, half our apartment complex was buying from us. My mother-in-law, suddenly so proud of her son, found even more reasons to nitpick my daughter and me.
And my husband? He’d apparently lost interest in "training" me—too busy hooking up with a woman from our building.
Amber.
Two years older than him, divorced, living with her nightmare of a mother. She strutted around in clothes that left little to the imagination, while her mom terrorized the neighborhood.
Now that my husband was flush with cash, my mother-in-law started scheming—why waste that $20,000 bride price (my money, by the way) on me when he could upgrade?
Never mind that Amber and her mom were the neighborhood’s least-wanted duo. When my mother-in-law found out, she blamed me. "Useless womb couldn’t even give him a son. Can’t even keep your man in check."
Then one morning, I walked in from grocery shopping to find women’s underwear scattered across the living room floor. The sounds coming from the bedroom? Disgusting.
My daughter was huddled behind the sofa, staring up at me with wide, helpless eyes. For a split second, I nearly grabbed a knife and ended it all.
"Chloe."
I covered her ears, scooped her up, and carried her to the side bedroom—where my mother-in-law was lounging on the bed, scrolling through TikTok.
She barely glanced up. "Hehe."
"Mom, I don’t care what your son does, but leaving Chloe out there—"
Her phone slammed down. "You want to die? Can’t even keep your man, and now you’re yelling at me?!"
She lunged, fists flying. I turned, shielding my daughter as the old woman pounded my back, spewing curses.
I took it. Smiled, even.
No rush. The real show hasn’t even started.
I settled Chloe by the window with a picture book—she never cried, never clung. Just quietly turned the pages.
When I stepped out, Amber slinked into the hallway wearing nothing but a slip, her neck littered with marks.
"Ava, Jack says you’re a fantastic cook." She smirked. "I’m craving fish. Be a dear and run to the market?"
My husband emerged, hesitated for half a second when he saw me—then draped an arm around her.
"Jack, I want red-braised fish, but your wife won’t make it for me."
They were practically dry-humping in front of me. I must’ve looked as sick as I felt, because my husband suddenly kicked me square in the stomach.
"What are you staring at, deaf bitch?!"
I stumbled, ribs screaming.
Amber giggled, clinging to him. "So manly."
I left without a word. Outside, Amber’s mom spotted me clutching my stomach, pale.
"Ohhh, did little Jack rough you up again?" She grinned, then lowered her voice. "You should really just divorce him, you know."
Right. To make room for her daughter.
Sure.
Any day now.
End of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide book page.