A painful marriage: Mr. CEO, let's get a divorce

Again and again, she scrubbed her lips with soap. Her skin was already cracked and bleeding, but Abigail kept rubbing in front of the mirror, like a soulless machine.

Beneath the strong smell of soap, the metallic scent of blood was barely noticeable.

"Why didn't you fight back earlier?"

A deep male voice, not entirely unfamiliar, sounded behind her.

At some point, Dante Hendricks had appeared beside the sink.

Abigail's movements stopped. Her eyes passed over Dante's face with coldness, and her hands pressed harder against the bar of soap.

The pain in her lips grew sharper, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart.

"You're not like her. She would never have given up."

"Stop humiliating yourself like this."

Dante's words struck the most fragile chord in Abigail's soul.

"Humiliating myself? Do you think everyone can live like you, rich people? You eat, drink, and play with others like they're trash. We don't have that luxury." Her voice trembled, yet it was steady as she looked straight at him.

"You could have refused," he replied calmly.

"Refused?" Abigail let out a bitter laugh, stepped closer, and pointed at his chest. "Do you know a girl who once had broken glass shoved into her body for refusing a client? She took her own life afterward. Is that how you want me to end up?"

The smell of alcohol coming from him made her dizzy.

Dante fell silent at her sudden outburst, and by the time he regained his composure, the woman was already gone from the bathroom.

At the entrance.

"Aunt Lynne, you know what just happened wasn't my fault," said Abigail bitterly to a middle-aged woman who still retained a trace of beauty.

"Not your fault? I told you to take care of the bar owner properly. This isn't a charity house. If you keep acting like some proud student, you can leave," the woman replied sharply.

"It won't happen again," murmured Abigail, lowering her head.

"If it weren't for your sister, I wouldn't have taken you in the first time. Next time, you're out," the woman said, walking away with the click of her high heels.

When the echo of her footsteps faded, Abigail picked up her worn-out bag and left.

She had already changed her black miniskirt for a white T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans.

The night wind tugged at her loose clothes; under the dim light, her figure looked even thinner.

That T-shirt had been a birthday gift from a bartender three years ago. He had bought it one size larger, planning to exchange it, but she insisted on keeping it. "When I grow up, it'll still fit."

But as the years passed, she had only grown thinner. Her body seemed to burn away its youth just to survive.

That bartender had been the only person who ever showed her kindness since she started working at the bar at fifteen. But six months later, he was beaten to death by thugs.

For no reason. Just because "they didn't like him."

That was how cruel the world was. Without money or power, a life meant nothing.

She was only eighteen, yet the weariness in her face made her look much older.

Only the deep hatred in her eyes reminded anyone that she was still young.

Her steps were heavy, each one draining what little strength she had left.

As always, she took the path toward the school, a dark road with no streetlights. Suddenly, the whisper of wind through the leaves made her stop.

Was it just the wind... or footsteps?

Beneath the thick shadows of the trees, only faint moonlight filtered through.

She took a small knife from her bag and gripped it tightly. She kept walking, alert.

After turning a corner, the footsteps disappeared.

She couldn't have been mistaken. Someone was there.

Abigail trusted her hearing and her instincts.

A little farther away, Dante Hendricks had also lost sight of Abigail's figure.

Frowning, he stopped, deep in thought.

At that moment, he felt something cold press against his back - a blade of metal.

"Don't move."

The voice was both familiar and unfamiliar.

Dante remained still, almost entranced by that voice, unbothered by the edge of the knife at his back.

Abigail was holding the knife firmly. Her eyes burned with rage.

"Don't follow me anymore," she warned in a low, trembling voice.

She didn't ask questions. She just warned him.

She had seen too many of the dirty games rich men played.

Annoyed by his cold, silent stare, she pressed the knife harder.

"I'm telling you for the last time, if you keep following me, I won't hesitate to use it. Do you hear me?"

After a long silence, Dante finally spoke in a deep voice.

"It's not safe for you to walk alone at night. I'll see you home."

He only wanted to accompany her home?

His eyes, dark as the night sea, were filled with confusion.

"See me home?" Abigail let out a mocking, bitter laugh. "Don't be ridiculous."

But that smile faded beneath the seriousness in his expression.

"I'm warning you one last time," she said coldly. "If you follow me, I won't be responsible for what happens."

She put the knife away and stepped back, slowly retreating until she disappeared into the pale light of the street.

The moonlight wrapped around her, and her figure grew fainter, as if in that moment it wasn't Abigail at all, but Orabelle looking back into his eyes.

When Dante came to his senses and ran after her, the street was already empty.

Silence returned, deep and complete, like his heart - a still lake from which something vital had been torn away.

And then, a cold voice broke the air.

"Who was that woman?"