Divorce from my husband after he drowned my parents

Before I could say a word, he shoved me hard. My whole body slammed into the table leg. Pain exploded in my forehead, followed by a stream of warm liquid running down my cheek. He only frowned, and coldly said, "Don't ever enter my study again. And take your things with you. There's no room for them here." Holding my bleeding forehead, I curled my lips and smiled. "Fine. Don't worry, none of my things will ever enter here again." I picked up my box, and walked out one step at a time. That night, I lit the fireplace, And burned every love letter, photo, and sketch I had made over the years-without leaving a single one behind. As I watched the flames reflect in my tears, I finally realized- this marriage had always been a one-woman show. Mine alone. Over the next few days, I gradually packed up all my belongings, including every single memory related to Leonard Merrick, clearing them out one by one without leaving a trace. Several times he ran into me carrying boxes downstairs, yet he merely glanced over indifferently, not even bothering to ask a question. It was as if what I was doing was just routine house cleaning-unworthy of his attention. Those luxury bags and diamond jewelry, despite their high value, only filled me with a sense of suffocation. I had no desire to keep them. Coincidentally, I heard about a charity auction and decided to donate everything-as if that could accumulate a little karmic merit for this marriage. But the moment I stepped into the grand hall of the event, I saw a figure at the entrance all too familiar-Beatrice Harrington. She was wearing a volunteer's vest, standing at the reception desk directing guests. She spotted me instantly, waving warmly, smiling without the slightest trace of awkwardness. I didn't expect to see her here. Back when I first encountered her at the villa, she was merely a girl I had picked up, and now she had the nerve to appear at such a venue. I returned a polite smile without saying much, and walked straight into the hall. After handing my donation to the organizers, I was about to leave when I suddenly felt the urge to visit the restroom. Just as I turned into the stairwell, I ran into a scene that made my heart stop. Leonard Merrick stood in front of Beatrice Harrington, gently wiping the sweat from her forehead. His gaze lowered, and the tenderness in his expression was something I had never once seen on his face. "Didn't you say you were busy with school and needed to focus on studying? Why are you here volunteering again?" Beatrice Harrington stuck out her tongue playfully like a mischievous child, pulling on his hand: "A classmate said they were short on volunteers, so I came to help. Don't be mad, okay?" "I know you have a good heart, but this place is full of strangers. You being here alone makes me worry. Don't make me worry, alright?" From the shadows nearby, I watched her tiptoe up and gently kiss his lips-like comforting, or perhaps just their usual intimacy. He froze for a moment, then chuckled softly and pulled her into his arms, openly responding to her kiss. I bit my lip hard, eyes stinging, and could only flee to the restroom like a defeated coward. I left the restroom intending to go, but ended up being blocked in a remote stairwell by several drunk men. They reeked of alcohol, saying vile things, and one even reached out to touch me. I was utterly disgusted and tried desperately to escape, but I was cornered with no way out. Just when I was on the verge of despair, a familiar figure rushed in-Beatrice Harrington. She stepped in front of me, yelling at the drunks, "Stop it! A bunch of men bullying one woman-don't you feel ashamed?" I was stunned. She stood tall in that moment, small and delicate, yet inexplicably stubborn. The men didn't back down. Instead, their eyes shifted toward her with hunger: "Pretty girl, you're quite brave. Why don't you come play with us? You're so beautiful-we can pay whatever you want." The loud "smack" echoed through the quiet corridor. The man's expression darkened, and he grabbed her arm in fury, trying to drag her down the hallway. I tried to stop him but was violently shoved aside by another man, tumbling to the ground with searing pain in my ankle. "Beatrice Harrington!" I struggled to get up and give chase, only to see her dragged farther and farther away. Her volunteer vest, once bright, faded into the chaos until it disappeared. Panic overwhelmed me. I fumbled to pull out my phone, about to call Leonard Merrick. But just before I hit dial, she broke free from their grip and, without hesitation, ran straight toward the railing. "No-!"