Borrow My Car Daily? Enjoy My Divorce Papers

Looking at the hysterical man standing before me, I felt as though I was looking at a complete stranger.

"Does your future really depend on me playing chauffeur for some shameless freeloader? She forced her way into my car and ruined my seat. Was I wrong to kick her out?" I countered.

Grabbing his hair in sheer aggravation, Elliot paced the living room like a madman. "It's just a little dirt! Can't you just get it washed? Did you really have to dump her halfway on the road? Do you have any idea how important that project is to me?

"As long as I close it, I'll be promoted to deputy CEO. Then, we'll have a firm foothold in this city!" He lunged forward, planting both his hands on the back of the couch, looking into my eyes. "Olivia, I'm begging you, alright? Tomorrow morning, buy some gifts and go apologize to Charlotte in person.

"From now on, you'll be responsible for driving her to and from work every day. Please just do it for me, for the sake of our family!" His tone was forceful and self-entitled.

Holding his gaze, I felt nothing but a wave of chilling disappointment. "I'm not going to apologize, and I'm certainly not going to act as her chauffeur. That car is my premarital asset. No one has the right to use it!"

Elliot snapped upright, and his gaze turned incredibly venomous. "Great. This is just great! You're so noble! For the sake of that pathetic pride of yours, you don't even care about your husband's future! Don't regret this, Olivia!"

With that, he slammed the door to the guest room shut behind him.

…

The next morning, I was about to head out to take care of some business. When I walked to the entryway, I instinctively reached for my car keys, only to find the key tray completely empty.

My car keys were gone. I immediately pushed open the guest room door, but there was no one inside. Elliot had already left.

I fished out my phone and dialed his number, but the automated prompt informed me that his phone was switched off. In a heartbeat, an ominous feeling arose in my chest.

I immediately booted up the vehicle tracking system on my phone. The red dot on the screen showed that my car was currently parked right outside an upscale luxury afternoon tea restaurant on the most bustling commercial street in the city center.

I hailed a cab and rushed over. As soon as I reached the entrance of the restaurant, I spotted my car.

The doors were wide open. Charlotte, dressed head to toe in designer brands and wearing sunglasses, was leaning against the hood of the car, striking poses. Beside her were three other flamboyantly dressed women, taking photos of her with their phones.

"Whoa, your husband's so good to you, Charlotte! This car may be understated, but you can tell it's absolute luxury just by looking at it!" one of them gushed.

Charlotte smugly tossed her hair. "Of course. My husband says this is just a practice vehicle for me to get used to the roads. Once I'm bored with it, he'll get me a Ferrari. You ladies have no idea how comfortable this car is to drive. Here, climb in and see for yourselves!" she chimed, ushering the group of women into the vehicle.

I marched over, the anger in my chest flaring to its absolute limit. It was only when I got up close that I saw the devastating state of the interior.

The custom passenger seat, still soaked through with red oil, had not been cleaned at all. In fact, it now bore several distinct high-heel prints from where they had stepped on it.

To make matters worse, one of the women was lounging in the passenger seat with a slender luxury cigarette pinched between her fingers, casually flicking ashes onto the artisan hand-woven carpet.

Then, right before my eyes, she stubbed her cigarette butt directly against the intricate Dornish embroidery near the console—a piece explicitly designed to shield a sensitive component of the dashboard. My mind went completely blank with rage.

"Get the hell out of my car, all of you!" I barked after rushing over and yanking the door open.