From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
You are reading From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide, Chapter 9: Chapter 9. Read more chapters of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide.
My husband ducked his head bashfully under Rachel’s intense stare. She gushed over how impressive he was—buying a house so young? Clearly, he was going places.
I lingered nearby, half-listening as their conversation meandered. Rachel leaned in, pitching some "can’t-miss" investment opportunity—$500,000 minimum, with all these "exclusive perks" waiting for him in Thailand.
Half an hour later, my husband was practically sold. The gears in his head were turning, already calculating how fast we could offload our apartment.
Two weeks after that, our three-bedroom sold for $600,000. It was an older building, but the location was decent. My husband puffed out his chest, promising that once we struck it rich, we’d upgrade to some luxury high-rise downtown.
His parents had no idea he’d sold the place. He packed them off to their hometown, and we moved into a rental in the next building over.
By the time he’d scraped together $750,000 and booked flights to Yunnan, he was practically vibrating with excitement. Rachel had convinced him that as a soon-to-be "boss," he needed to learn the ropes of the fruit smuggling routes firsthand.
No red flags for him. His plan? Sneak across the border from Yunnan to Myanmar, then onward to Thailand.
The night before he left, I put on my best concerned-wife act.
"Sweetheart, why don’t you leave the bank card with me? Once you scope things out and everything checks out, I’ll wire the money straight over."
He blinked, like the sheer stupidity of carrying three-quarters of a million in cash had only just dawned on him. But his greed won out. After all, meek little Ava would never dare steal from him, right?
At the airport the next afternoon, I even went in for a hug. He shoved me off, checking his watch like some hotshot CEO.
I lingered at the gate, watching him practically sprint onto the plane.
Oh, darling. Are you ready for your surprise?
I waved as the plane taxied away.
Goodbye. Forever.
That evening, my phone rang. His voice crackled with excitement—Rachel’s people were loaded, putting him up in three-star hotels, wining and dining him, showing him the nightlife.
I hummed along, stroking my daughter’s hair as she dozed in my lap. It had been ages since she’d fallen asleep this peacefully.
Two quiet days passed. Then—another call.
"Ava, transfer the money NOW!"
His voice was frantic, seething just beneath the surface.
"Wow, you made it to the orchard already? Did you meet Rachel?"
"You fu—! Yeah, I met her." A pained groan slipped through. I bit back a smile.
"Okay, transferring right away!"
I hung up. My daughter was across from me at KFC, gnawing on a chicken wing, grease smeared on her cheeks.
"Slow down, baby. Want to go pick out a princess dress after this?"
"Mm-hmm! Mommy gets a pretty one too!" She beamed up at me.
We hit the mall. Half an hour in, my phone buzzed again—where’s the money? I told him it was processing, big transfers take time.
By dusk, we’d shopped till we dropped. Dinner, then home. My phone kept lighting up with his calls. I ignored every one.
Finally, back at the apartment, I answered.
A torrent of curses exploded through the speaker.
"… Ava, are you LAUGHING?"
"Oh, did I? Sorry, I’m just… so happy."
"You b—! You and Rachel set me up! You sent me to f—ing northern Myanmar! I’ll kill y—"
I hung up mid-rant.
Thirty minutes later, a video call request popped up. I hesitated, then accepted.
The screen showed a face I barely recognized—swollen, split lips, bruises mottling his skin. He looked exactly like me after one of his beatings.
"Ava, please—transfer the money. They’re going to kill me!"
Turns out, after all my little delays, they’d taken their frustration out on him.
"Don’t worry, honey. I’ll call the police right now!"
"NO! Don’t—"
Click.
I lingered nearby, half-listening as their conversation meandered. Rachel leaned in, pitching some "can’t-miss" investment opportunity—$500,000 minimum, with all these "exclusive perks" waiting for him in Thailand.
Half an hour later, my husband was practically sold. The gears in his head were turning, already calculating how fast we could offload our apartment.
Two weeks after that, our three-bedroom sold for $600,000. It was an older building, but the location was decent. My husband puffed out his chest, promising that once we struck it rich, we’d upgrade to some luxury high-rise downtown.
His parents had no idea he’d sold the place. He packed them off to their hometown, and we moved into a rental in the next building over.
By the time he’d scraped together $750,000 and booked flights to Yunnan, he was practically vibrating with excitement. Rachel had convinced him that as a soon-to-be "boss," he needed to learn the ropes of the fruit smuggling routes firsthand.
No red flags for him. His plan? Sneak across the border from Yunnan to Myanmar, then onward to Thailand.
The night before he left, I put on my best concerned-wife act.
"Sweetheart, why don’t you leave the bank card with me? Once you scope things out and everything checks out, I’ll wire the money straight over."
He blinked, like the sheer stupidity of carrying three-quarters of a million in cash had only just dawned on him. But his greed won out. After all, meek little Ava would never dare steal from him, right?
At the airport the next afternoon, I even went in for a hug. He shoved me off, checking his watch like some hotshot CEO.
I lingered at the gate, watching him practically sprint onto the plane.
Oh, darling. Are you ready for your surprise?
I waved as the plane taxied away.
Goodbye. Forever.
That evening, my phone rang. His voice crackled with excitement—Rachel’s people were loaded, putting him up in three-star hotels, wining and dining him, showing him the nightlife.
I hummed along, stroking my daughter’s hair as she dozed in my lap. It had been ages since she’d fallen asleep this peacefully.
Two quiet days passed. Then—another call.
"Ava, transfer the money NOW!"
His voice was frantic, seething just beneath the surface.
"Wow, you made it to the orchard already? Did you meet Rachel?"
"You fu—! Yeah, I met her." A pained groan slipped through. I bit back a smile.
"Okay, transferring right away!"
I hung up. My daughter was across from me at KFC, gnawing on a chicken wing, grease smeared on her cheeks.
"Slow down, baby. Want to go pick out a princess dress after this?"
"Mm-hmm! Mommy gets a pretty one too!" She beamed up at me.
We hit the mall. Half an hour in, my phone buzzed again—where’s the money? I told him it was processing, big transfers take time.
By dusk, we’d shopped till we dropped. Dinner, then home. My phone kept lighting up with his calls. I ignored every one.
Finally, back at the apartment, I answered.
A torrent of curses exploded through the speaker.
"… Ava, are you LAUGHING?"
"Oh, did I? Sorry, I’m just… so happy."
"You b—! You and Rachel set me up! You sent me to f—ing northern Myanmar! I’ll kill y—"
I hung up mid-rant.
Thirty minutes later, a video call request popped up. I hesitated, then accepted.
The screen showed a face I barely recognized—swollen, split lips, bruises mottling his skin. He looked exactly like me after one of his beatings.
"Ava, please—transfer the money. They’re going to kill me!"
Turns out, after all my little delays, they’d taken their frustration out on him.
"Don’t worry, honey. I’ll call the police right now!"
"NO! Don’t—"
Click.
End of From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide Chapter 9. Continue reading Chapter 10 or return to From Bruised to Ruthless, A Wife’s Revenge Guide book page.