My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me in the ER - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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The moment I discovered my husband had rushed to deliver a coat to his young assistant while I lay unconscious in the hospital, I filed for divorce.
Mark didn't hesitate. "What's the big deal?" he scoffed. "She's just a woman who married far from home—she'll get over it."
He smirked, confident. "She'll come crawling back in a few days. I'll give her the silent treatment, then graciously take her back. Let's see if she dares pull this stunt again."
That very evening, he posted a photo on social media—him and his assistant holding hands over dinner. The caption read: "Two souls, one home. Three meals a day, four seasons a year. For the rest of our lives, you're my only one."
As I stared at the circled date on the calendar, I dialed my brother.
"James, can you book me a ticket home?"
"Seriously? Thank God!" His voice crackled with excitement. "You're finally ditching that loser! Stay put—I'm coming to get you myself!"
Just as I hung up, Mark strolled in, reeking of cheap perfume. The lipstick smudges on his collar burned my vision.
"Who was that?" he asked absently, eyes glued to his phone.
"My brother."
His shrill ringtone drowned me out.
Mark answered eagerly, and a sugary voice purred through: "Mark, thanks again for bringing me clothes the other day. I'd have been so embarrassed without you. Honestly, I don't know what I'd do..."
Feeling guilty, he lowered the volume and slunk into his study.
I smirked.
We were already in the divorce cooling-off period. What did I expect?
I silently cooked myself noodles, ate alone, then packed my bags.
An hour later, Mark finally ended his lovey-dovey call. As usual, he plopped at the dining table with a magazine, waiting for breakfast.
But this time, no hot milk appeared.
After an impatient wait, he finally glanced my way.
"It's not like I skipped your check-up. Insomnia isn't terminal."
"Just take your meds—stop being dramatic."
"Besides, I agreed to the divorce. What more do you want? Why the long face every day? Who's it for?"
I froze, staring at the man who once shared my bed.
The day he left, I'd collapsed at the hospital. Without the doctors' quick response, I'd have been cremated by now.
Neither I nor the staff could reach him. When we finally did, a girl's giggles filled the line before Mark snapped:
"It's just medical bills—figure it out yourself!"
I'd had to borrow money from a friend.
Then yesterday, at discharge, I learned he'd raced to deliver a coat to his skirt-clad assistant at some business dinner—because she'd said she was cold.
That's when I filed for divorce.
"Once the papers are signed, you won't have to see this face again."
I thought he'd be relieved—finally free of my "meddling."
Instead, he exploded like a stepped-on landmine, slamming his magazine down.
"Don't come crying back to me!"
The door shook as he stormed out.
The bang didn't even make me flinch.
I couldn't care less about his tantrums. After emailing a client's revised proposal, I poured hot milk, ready to unwind with a bath and movie—until my phone buzzed.
Mark:
"Morning Star Club. Drunk. Come get me."
I was about to ignore it when a second text arrived:
"You're still my wife—this is your job."
Gripping my phone, I took deep breaths. For a clean break. Just endure it.
At the club's VIP room, Mark's laughter and Olivia's giggles seeped through the door—each sound a knife to my chest.
I steadied myself and entered.
The room fell silent.
Mark's face twisted in disbelief.
"Are you stalking me?"
The others shifted uncomfortably.
I opened his texts. "You sent this address."
Olida loomed—
Mark didn't hesitate. "What's the big deal?" he scoffed. "She's just a woman who married far from home—she'll get over it."
He smirked, confident. "She'll come crawling back in a few days. I'll give her the silent treatment, then graciously take her back. Let's see if she dares pull this stunt again."
That very evening, he posted a photo on social media—him and his assistant holding hands over dinner. The caption read: "Two souls, one home. Three meals a day, four seasons a year. For the rest of our lives, you're my only one."
As I stared at the circled date on the calendar, I dialed my brother.
"James, can you book me a ticket home?"
"Seriously? Thank God!" His voice crackled with excitement. "You're finally ditching that loser! Stay put—I'm coming to get you myself!"
Just as I hung up, Mark strolled in, reeking of cheap perfume. The lipstick smudges on his collar burned my vision.
"Who was that?" he asked absently, eyes glued to his phone.
"My brother."
His shrill ringtone drowned me out.
Mark answered eagerly, and a sugary voice purred through: "Mark, thanks again for bringing me clothes the other day. I'd have been so embarrassed without you. Honestly, I don't know what I'd do..."
Feeling guilty, he lowered the volume and slunk into his study.
I smirked.
We were already in the divorce cooling-off period. What did I expect?
I silently cooked myself noodles, ate alone, then packed my bags.
An hour later, Mark finally ended his lovey-dovey call. As usual, he plopped at the dining table with a magazine, waiting for breakfast.
But this time, no hot milk appeared.
After an impatient wait, he finally glanced my way.
"It's not like I skipped your check-up. Insomnia isn't terminal."
"Just take your meds—stop being dramatic."
"Besides, I agreed to the divorce. What more do you want? Why the long face every day? Who's it for?"
I froze, staring at the man who once shared my bed.
The day he left, I'd collapsed at the hospital. Without the doctors' quick response, I'd have been cremated by now.
Neither I nor the staff could reach him. When we finally did, a girl's giggles filled the line before Mark snapped:
"It's just medical bills—figure it out yourself!"
I'd had to borrow money from a friend.
Then yesterday, at discharge, I learned he'd raced to deliver a coat to his skirt-clad assistant at some business dinner—because she'd said she was cold.
That's when I filed for divorce.
"Once the papers are signed, you won't have to see this face again."
I thought he'd be relieved—finally free of my "meddling."
Instead, he exploded like a stepped-on landmine, slamming his magazine down.
"Don't come crying back to me!"
The door shook as he stormed out.
The bang didn't even make me flinch.
I couldn't care less about his tantrums. After emailing a client's revised proposal, I poured hot milk, ready to unwind with a bath and movie—until my phone buzzed.
Mark:
"Morning Star Club. Drunk. Come get me."
I was about to ignore it when a second text arrived:
"You're still my wife—this is your job."
Gripping my phone, I took deep breaths. For a clean break. Just endure it.
At the club's VIP room, Mark's laughter and Olivia's giggles seeped through the door—each sound a knife to my chest.
I steadied myself and entered.
The room fell silent.
Mark's face twisted in disbelief.
"Are you stalking me?"
The others shifted uncomfortably.
I opened his texts. "You sent this address."
Olida loomed—
End of My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me in the ER Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Me in the ER book page.