Chapter 4

I didn't return to the apartment that now felt like a bad joke. Instead, I checked into a hotel.

The cut on my forehead wasn't deep, but it required stitches. The doctor said I needed to take care of it, or it would scar.

Looking at the reflection in the mirror, I felt like the scar was a medal of honor, marking both my past stupidity and my new beginning.

Ethan’s calls and texts flooded in like a tidal wave.

At first, it was pure rage: *[Olivia! You’re ruthless! You actually put Clara in jail?! How am I supposed to show my face in public?! Do you want me dead to be satisfied?!]*

Then came the confusion: *[Are... are the rumors true? She actually has a son? Her son has massive gambling debts? Everything she told me about her life was a lie?]*

And finally, the pathetic begging: *[Olivia, I was wrong... I was so wrong... The anesthesia must have messed with my brain... Please come back, let’s talk. I can’t live without you...]*

I looked at the messages, feeling absolutely nothing. His apology wasn't because he realized he had hurt me—it was out of fear now that the truth was exposed and his reputation was ruined.

He hadn't even bothered to ask, "How is your head?"

The private investigator I hired was incredibly efficient. A detailed report was sent to my inbox within days.

Clara Higgins, fifty-two. Her husband died years ago. She had a twenty-eight-year-old son who was a compulsive gambler with massive debts.

Her "caretaker" career was a finely tuned emotional scam: target the victim, build extreme trust through intense care, play the victim to gain sympathy and drive a wedge between them and their family, and finally, milk them for money and real estate.

Her success rate was high because she invested heavily in emotional manipulation and shameless flattery.

Attached to the report were recordings of her screaming at her previous employers' children. The vicious, cunning woman in the audio was a far cry from the fragile soul in the hospital.

I screenshotted the key parts and sent them to Ethan without a single word.

There was a dead silence on the other end. Hours later, he texted: *[...How could this happen...]*

I didn't reply. When your heart is dead, explanations and arguments are just a waste of breath.

A week later, my stitches were removed. The scar was faint but still visible.

I put on flawless makeup, slipped into a sharp blazer, and met Ethan at a café near the hospital. This was the final ceremony I would afford our five-year marriage.

He arrived quickly. He looked haggard, his eyes sunken. When he saw me, his eyes flickered, unable to look at the scar on my forehead.

"Olivia..." his voice was dry.

I slid the divorce agreement across the table, along with a copy of the investigator's report and the appraisal document for the emerald necklace.

"Look it over. If there are no questions, sign it."

My tone was as flat as if I were reviewing a business contract.

Ethan’s fingers trembled as he flipped through the pages.

I hadn't left him entirely destitute. The city apartment was mine—it was my dowry, and my family had paid the down payment.

The suburban villa and the majority of our savings would go to him.

Financially, he was getting a very fair deal.

His lips trembled. "Olivia... I know nothing I say right now matters... but during those few days, I felt possessed... She made me feel... important. Needed."

"Ethan," I cut him off, my voice free of anger, carrying only absolute exhaustion. "You don't need to explain. I understand human weakness. I understand feeling vulnerable when you're sick. But what I don't understand, and will never accept, is how you threw away five years of marriage and attacked me, all for some fleeting illusion of being 'needed.'"

I pointed to the scar on my forehead. "This scar, and the look in your eyes that day, speak louder than any of your excuses. We are done."

Ethan’s tears finally spilled over, splashing into his coffee cup. "I'm sorry... Olivia... I really... regret it..."

"Just sign," I said, handing him the pen. "The lawyers will handle the rest. I will reclaim the emerald necklace through legal channels. That was my mother-in-law's gift to me. It wasn't yours to give away."

With trembling hands, he signed his name, looking like a man who had been completely drained of life.

I took my copy of the agreement and stood up.

"Take care of yourself, Ethan. And," I paused, looking at him one last time, "the next time you meet a 'poor soul,' don't be so quick to give away your heart and your assets. Check your own IQ first."