From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
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After that, my husband and Amber didn't even bother hiding their affair anymore—they flaunted it right in front of me.
I became their personal maid, even washing their filthy laundry. More than once, I overheard Amber whispering about divorce while they were in bed together. Maybe it was because of Rachel's durian connection, but my husband never brought up splitting up.
Amber had fully moved in, and me—the actual wife—became the neighborhood joke. Her mother nagged me daily to file for divorce. Amber would provoke me on purpose, then run to my husband so he could "put me in my place." He loved watching me swallow my rage, and sometimes he'd take it further—a kick here, a slap there.
One time, when he was feeling particularly twisted, Amber yanked my hair while he tried to drag us both into bed. When I fought back, he lost it—beating me until I was covered in bruises. For the first time, Amber looked scared, seeing just how brutal he could be. She clung to him, playing the fragile little thing, and I saw the sick thrill in his eyes at her fear.
I dragged my battered body out of the room, my legs numb from the kicks.
"Useless bitch! After everything I've done for you!"
His curses followed me as I shut the door. I didn't cry. The pain didn’t even register anymore.
It’s fine. Not much longer now.
Soon, Rachel mentioned they were running low on durians. If my husband only wanted small orders, they’d have to prioritize other buyers.
Panic set in. He’d bragged all over Facebook about his "big break," how he was about to be some hotshot entrepreneur, just skimming profits without lifting a finger. Now, with no income, he was desperate.
A few days later, Rachel sent a video of sprawling orchards—not just durians, but other high-end tropical fruits that sold for a fortune in the U.S. She said she was buying up thousands of acres and offered him a chance to invest for a cut.
I don’t know what else they discussed, but my husband kept muttering, "This is it—my golden ticket!"
He even kicked Amber out. She and her mom showed up screaming, but he tossed $5,000 at them to shut them up.
"Trashy divorcee, coming here begging for money!" my mother-in-law screeched later. "You’re nothing but bought goods!"
When Amber’s mom heard that, all hell broke loose. They dragged my mother-in-law into a fistfight. I heard the commotion from upstairs but stayed out of it. She came back bruised and humiliated. (I’d taken my daughter out early and didn’t return until evening—right before my husband got home.)
That night, she tried to take her rage out on me, but for once, my husband actually stopped her.
Rachel’s "investment opportunity" required a minimum of $250,000. My husband chain-smoked all night, then listed our wedding car for sale the next morning. Between his parents’ life savings ($60,000) and the durian profits, he scraped together the amount.
Before flying out to inspect the orchards, he video-called Rachel.
"Rachel! Wow, you’re—unrecognizable!" I blurted when she appeared on screen. She was stunning, polished—nothing like the girl I remembered.
My husband thought I was just being dramatic, but I genuinely didn’t know this woman.
Rachel’s smile flickered, then she laughed it off. "Oh, it’s just makeup! I spend thousands on treatments every day—of course I look different."
I didn’t call her out. Instead, I gushed about the luxury suite behind her.
Her voice turned sugary as she greeted my husband: "Hi, Jack! No wonder Ava married you—you’re so handsome!"
He grinned like an idiot, practically drooling through the screen. (Let’s be real: He’d never seen a woman like her in his life.)
Then Rachel dropped the question:
"Jack, is your house in both your names?"
I became their personal maid, even washing their filthy laundry. More than once, I overheard Amber whispering about divorce while they were in bed together. Maybe it was because of Rachel's durian connection, but my husband never brought up splitting up.
Amber had fully moved in, and me—the actual wife—became the neighborhood joke. Her mother nagged me daily to file for divorce. Amber would provoke me on purpose, then run to my husband so he could "put me in my place." He loved watching me swallow my rage, and sometimes he'd take it further—a kick here, a slap there.
One time, when he was feeling particularly twisted, Amber yanked my hair while he tried to drag us both into bed. When I fought back, he lost it—beating me until I was covered in bruises. For the first time, Amber looked scared, seeing just how brutal he could be. She clung to him, playing the fragile little thing, and I saw the sick thrill in his eyes at her fear.
I dragged my battered body out of the room, my legs numb from the kicks.
"Useless bitch! After everything I've done for you!"
His curses followed me as I shut the door. I didn't cry. The pain didn’t even register anymore.
It’s fine. Not much longer now.
Soon, Rachel mentioned they were running low on durians. If my husband only wanted small orders, they’d have to prioritize other buyers.
Panic set in. He’d bragged all over Facebook about his "big break," how he was about to be some hotshot entrepreneur, just skimming profits without lifting a finger. Now, with no income, he was desperate.
A few days later, Rachel sent a video of sprawling orchards—not just durians, but other high-end tropical fruits that sold for a fortune in the U.S. She said she was buying up thousands of acres and offered him a chance to invest for a cut.
I don’t know what else they discussed, but my husband kept muttering, "This is it—my golden ticket!"
He even kicked Amber out. She and her mom showed up screaming, but he tossed $5,000 at them to shut them up.
"Trashy divorcee, coming here begging for money!" my mother-in-law screeched later. "You’re nothing but bought goods!"
When Amber’s mom heard that, all hell broke loose. They dragged my mother-in-law into a fistfight. I heard the commotion from upstairs but stayed out of it. She came back bruised and humiliated. (I’d taken my daughter out early and didn’t return until evening—right before my husband got home.)
That night, she tried to take her rage out on me, but for once, my husband actually stopped her.
Rachel’s "investment opportunity" required a minimum of $250,000. My husband chain-smoked all night, then listed our wedding car for sale the next morning. Between his parents’ life savings ($60,000) and the durian profits, he scraped together the amount.
Before flying out to inspect the orchards, he video-called Rachel.
"Rachel! Wow, you’re—unrecognizable!" I blurted when she appeared on screen. She was stunning, polished—nothing like the girl I remembered.
My husband thought I was just being dramatic, but I genuinely didn’t know this woman.
Rachel’s smile flickered, then she laughed it off. "Oh, it’s just makeup! I spend thousands on treatments every day—of course I look different."
I didn’t call her out. Instead, I gushed about the luxury suite behind her.
Her voice turned sugary as she greeted my husband: "Hi, Jack! No wonder Ava married you—you’re so handsome!"
He grinned like an idiot, practically drooling through the screen. (Let’s be real: He’d never seen a woman like her in his life.)
Then Rachel dropped the question:
"Jack, is your house in both your names?"
End of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide book page.