Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect
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I was driving through a rainstorm in upstate New York, pushing my old Volvo to the limit just to pick up a Dior gown for my wife, Catarina. She needed it for a gala tonight, where she planned to spend the evening standing next to the man she actually loved, Atticus Deleon.
The truck hit me head-on, crossing the center line and sending my car rolling down an embankment in a shriek of twisted metal and shattered glass. As the steering column crushed my chest, my brain didn't see a white light; it was pried open by a digital tsunami, flooding my mind with the "Quantum Archive"-billions of data points on surgery, high-frequency trading, and combat.
I woke up in the ICU with three broken ribs and a concussion, but the only thing waiting for me was a screaming voicemail from my wife's assistant.
"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting for thirty minutes! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."
There was no "Are you okay?" or "Are you alive?"-only fury over a ruined dress and a missing tie. While I was being resuscitated, my wife was on Instagram, singing "Endless Love" with Atticus and laughing at my "tantrum." She even called the family lawyer to freeze my credit cards, wanting to make sure I couldn't even buy a coffee without her permission.
For three years, I had been the "useful husband," the doormat who apologized whenever she stepped on my toes. But the accident had overwritten my desperation with cold, hard logic, and I realized I had almost died for a woman who viewed me as a liability with a negative return on investment.
When Catarina finally stormed into my hospital room to demand an apology for ruining her night, I didn't look at her with the usual puppy-dog eyes. I looked at her with ice in my veins and handed her a manila envelope I had drafted myself.
"Sign the divorce papers, Ms. Evans. I'm done being your canary."
Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect Chapter 1
Rain lashed against the windshield of the old Volvo, blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. The wipers were fighting a losing battle, rhythmically thumping like a failing heart.
Jorden Nash gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. His breath fogged the glass.
He was late.
Not for a meeting. Not for a doctor's appointment. He was late picking up a dress. A Dior evening gown that Catarina needed for tonight. A gown that she would wear while standing next to Atticus Deleon.
The thought made his stomach tighten. Acid burned the back of his throat.
Just get the dress, Jorden. Don't ruin the night.
He checked the time on the dashboard. 7:42 PM. The event started at eight. Chloe, Catarina's assistant, had already called twice. He hadn't answered. He was driving too fast on a slick road in upstate New York, trying to be the good husband. The useful husband.
The headlights of the oncoming truck didn't look like lights. They looked like two exploding stars.
The truck hydroplaned. It crossed the center line.
Jorden slammed on the brakes. The tires locked. The Volvo spun, the world tilting on its axis.
There was no time to scream. There was only the sound of metal screaming against metal, a deafening crunch that vibrated through his teeth, and then the shattering of glass.
Pain.
It wasn't a sharp prick. It was a sledgehammer to the chest. The steering column crushed inward. The airbag detonated like a bomb in his face.
Then, darkness.
But not silence.
Jorden didn't float toward a white light. He fell. He fell into a deep, digital abyss.
It felt like his brain was being pried open with a crowbar.
Accessing...
It wasn't a voice. It was a sensation. A pressure in his frontal lobe.
Billions of sparks ignited in the dark. They weren't stars. They were data.
Cooking. Molecular gastronomy. The precise temperature to coagulate an egg yolk. 62.5 degrees Celsius. Not just recipes, but the chemistry of sustenance.
Music. Rachmaninoff. The muscle memory of a left-hand arpeggio. The vibration of a Steinway string.
Surgery. The tension of a suture. The anatomy of the human heart. The exact pressure needed to crack a sternum.
Finance. High-frequency trading algorithms. Market volatility. The smell of fear on a trading floor.
The information didn't trickle in. It flooded him. It was a tsunami of competence crashing into a vessel that had been empty for three years. It hurt. It felt like his neurons were being burned away and re-soldered. He was drowning in other lives, other Jordens, other possibilities.
He screamed in the void, but no sound came out.
Calibration complete.
The darkness shattered.
"BP is stabilizing. 110 over 70. Heart rate 85."
The voice was mechanical. No, it was human, but it sounded distant.
"Pupils are reactive. He's coming back."
Jorden gasped. The air tasted like rubbing alcohol and burnt rubber. His eyes snapped open.
The light was blinding. He blinked, tears streaming down his temples. He was staring at a ceiling tile with a water stain shaped like a map of Florida.
"Mr. Nash? Can you hear me?"
A face loomed over him. Dr. Stein. Jorden didn't know him, but he knew the type. Tired eyes, caffeine tremors in the hands, a stethoscope that was slightly cold.
Jorden tried to speak. His throat felt like it was filled with shards of glass.
"Easy," Dr. Stein said, shining a penlight into Jorden's left eye. "You were in a severe accident. A truck hit you. Do you know your name?"
Jorden closed his eyes. The data streams were still running behind his eyelids, green and gold code cascading down. He focused. He pushed the noise back.
"Jorden," he rasped. "Jorden Nash."
"Good. Do you know what day it is?"
"Friday," Jorden whispered. Then, instinctively, his brain supplied more. "October 14th. The barometric pressure is 1013 millibars. Humidity is 85 percent."
Dr. Stein paused. He pulled the light away, frowning slightly. "That's... precise."
Jorden tried to sit up. A sharp, hot agony flared in his ribcage. He winced, his hand flying to his chest.
"Three broken ribs," Dr. Stein said, putting a hand on Jorden's shoulder to keep him down. "A concussion. Multiple contusions. You're lucky to be alive, son. The car is an accordion."
Jorden lay back. The pain was there, real and throbbing, but his mind analyzed it instantly. Intercostal nerve irritation. Inflammation. Manageable through controlled breathing, though the physical damage would take weeks to knit.
He looked to the side. A nurse, Nurse Joy according to her badge, was adjusting his IV drip. She looked at him with pity. That familiar look. The look people gave the husband who walked three steps behind the heiress.
But he didn't feel like that husband anymore.
He looked at the bedside table.
It was empty.
No flowers. No card. No Catarina.
Just his phone. The screen was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks over the glass.
"My phone," Jorden said.
Nurse Joy hesitated, then handed it to him. "It rang a few times. We didn't answer."
Jorden pressed the power button. The display glitched, colors distorting, but the touch sensor still responded.
Three missed calls.
Chloe Vance.
Chloe Vance.
Chloe Vance.
Not Wife. Not Catarina.
He opened the voicemail. He didn't put it to his ear. He pressed the speaker button.
Chloe's voice was shrill, piercing the quiet hum of the hospital machinery.
"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting in the VIP lounge for thirty minutes! Did you get the dress? Atticus needs to match his tie to it. Pick up the phone! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."
Nurse Joy winced. She looked away, embarrassed for him.
Jorden stared at the phone.
Yesterday, this message would have sent him into a panic. He would have been hyperventilating, texting apologies, begging for forgiveness for something that wasn't his fault. He would have felt that familiar crushing weight in his chest-the fear of losing her.
But now?
He felt... nothing.
No. Not nothing. He felt clarity.
The dress. He had almost died for a dress. A dress for a woman who couldn't be bothered to call him when he didn't show up. A woman who was currently worried about matching her lover's tie.
The emotions that usually ruled him-insecurity, devotion, desperation-were gone. They had been overwritten by the Archive.
Logic took the wheel.
Asset: Catarina Evans. Status: Liability. Return on Investment: Negative.
He deleted the voicemail.
Dr. Stein cleared his throat, holding a clipboard. "Mr. Nash, we need to set your ribs and monitor for internal bleeding. We usually ask for a next of kin to be present for consent, just in case complications arise during the procedure. Should we call your wife again?"
Jorden looked at the doctor. His eyes, usually warm and pleading, were now dark pools of ice.
"No," Jorden said. His voice was steady. "She's busy."
"Are you sure? It's major surgery."
"I'm sure." Jorden reached out. His hand didn't shake. "Give me the pen."
Dr. Stein handed it to him. Jorden signed his name. The signature was different. Sharper. More aggressive.
The phone in his hand buzzed again.
The screen lit up.
Wife.
Nurse Joy perked up. "Oh! That must be her. Do you want to-"
Jorden looked at the name. Wife. It felt like a word from a foreign language. A label for a job he had just been fired from. Or rather, a job he was quitting.
He didn't swipe green.
He pressed the volume button on the side of the phone.
The buzzing stopped.
He placed the phone face down on the cold metal table.
"Let's get this over with," Jorden said to the doctor, closing his eyes.
Continue Reading
Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.4
Grace, after three years of silence from a crash that stole her voice and family, finally uttered a hoarse syllable. It was her first sound, a breakthrough she desperately wanted to share with Josiah, her childhood protector. Instead, through a slightly ajar door, she heard his careless chuckle, followed by a sharp, entitled voice.
Alexandria's voice sliced through the air: "Josiah, are you really planning to bring that little mute to the banquet? She's a walking trailer park tragedy. It's embarrassing." Grace froze, waiting for Josiah to defend her. He didn't. Instead, he sighed, calling her "a responsibility" and "a lifeless ghost," then pulled Alexandria closer.
The words were serrated blades. Her silent devotion, her self-erasure for his peace, had made her a punchline. He was relieved she was broken. The bitter realization of his betrayal ignited a cold, white-hot fury.
Wiping away tears, Grace met Josiah, feigning her usual submissive smile, and quietly refused his "hush money." As he walked away without a glance, her inner voice was clear, sharp, and resolute: "I'm done playing your game."
8.1
Elinor's frail daughter, Cece, died in a sterile hospital room while waiting for her father to take her to Disney World.
But her billionaire husband, Derick, never showed up. At the exact moment Cece's heart monitor flatlined, the hospital TV broadcasted Derick affectionately holding the hand of his mistress and he has booked a clearance of the entire Disneyland to celebrate mistress's daughter's birthday!.
When Elinor confronted Derick with their daughter's ashes, he sneered and accused her of hiding the child just to get his attention. Elinor's heart was torn to shreds. How could a father be so blind and ruthless? Did Kamryn use his power to steal the very kidney that belonged to Cece? Why did her innocent baby have to die for their sick affair?
The suffocating grief inside Elinor finally crystallized into a sharp blade. She wiped the blood from her lips, canceled the simple divorce, and began her ruthless revenge.
7.4
I single-handedly saved my family's corporate empire from a hostile takeover, securing our market share for the next decade.
But my grandfather didn't see me as a hero. He saw me as a flawed piece of inventory.
To calm the board and fix the reputation I supposedly ruined, he forced me into an arranged marriage, auctioning me off to the highest bidder.
Desperate, I turned to my childhood friend, Egnacio, the only person who ever promised to protect me.
But instead of saving me, he publicly humiliated me. He used my desperation as a networking opportunity, pitching my arranged marriage as a business deal to a ruthless private equity king named Dexter Mathews.
Later that night, I caught Egnacio holding my cruel cousin in his arms.
"What man wants to be with a woman who looks at you like she's planning a hostile takeover?"
Hearing him mock my pain shattered the last bit of hope I had.
I realized I was never family to them. I was just a sharp knife, used to cut down their enemies and then traded for cash before I got dull.
The heartbreak vanished, replaced by a cold, violent rage.
I didn't break, and I didn't run.
Instead, I got into the back of Dexter Mathews's car. He had watched my family tear me apart, but he didn't see a broken pawn. He saw a queen.
And together, we were going to burn their entire empire to the ground.
9.7
I was the Luna of the Black Moon pack, happily carrying the Alpha's heir and believing in our Fated Mate bond.
But on a romantic getaway to the mountains, my beloved mate Ryker suddenly pushed me off a cliff.
As I dangled over the abyss, pleading for help, he just sneered and crushed my fingers under his heavy boot.
"Such a shame, my dear Luna."
I survived the plunge but lost my baby in a pool of my own blood.
Lying half-dead in the dark forest, I heard Ryker and his Beta confirming my "accidental" death.
He hadn't just cheated on me. He had orchestrated my murder to officially welcome his Chosen Mate.
He traded my life and our unborn pup for a piece of territory, disgusted by my mother's healing bloodline.
I couldn't understand how the sacred bond of the Moon Goddess could be so easily discarded, or how a father could butcher his own flesh and blood for power.
My love and grief were instantly replaced by a burning, venomous rage.
Fortunately, the legendary Alpha King passed by and saved me from the woods.
Hidden away in an ancestral sanctuary, I opened my laptop and sent a message to a mysterious ally.
"I need to get my revenge."
This time, I was going to make them pay in blood.
8.3
I was the long-lost Donovan heiress, finally brought home after a childhood in foster care. My parents adored me, my husband cherished me, and the woman who tried to ruin my life, Kiera Reese, was locked away in a mental facility. I was safe. I was loved.
On my birthday, I decided to surprise my husband, Ivan, at his office. But he wasn't there.
I found him at a private art gallery across town. He was with Kiera.
She wasn't in a facility. She was radiant, laughing as she stood beside my husband and their five-year-old son. I watched through the glass as Ivan kissed her, a familiar, loving gesture he’d used with me just that morning.
I crept closer and overheard them. My birthday wish to go to the amusement park had been denied because he’d already promised the entire park to their son—whose birthday was the same day as mine.
"She’s so grateful to have a family, she’d believe anything we tell her," Ivan said, his voice laced with a cruelty that stole my breath. "It's almost sad."
My entire reality—my loving parents who funded this secret life, my devoted husband—was a five-year lie. I was just the fool they kept on stage.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ivan, sent while he stood with his real family.
"Just got out of the meeting. So exhausting. I miss you."
The casual lie was the final blow. They thought I was a pathetic, grateful orphan they could control.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
8.9
Aliana braved a heavy storm, carrying a warm stew for her fiancé, Ivan, just as she always put his needs before her own. This ingrained habit, a survival mechanism from a cold childhood, was about to shatter into a million pieces. Tonight, everything she believed was a lie.
The iron gates of Ivan's private villa flashed red, denying her entry, and a guard mumbled lies. Ignoring him, she pushed past, a strange orchid perfume leading her to Ivan's car, where a tube of crimson lipstick lay on the passenger seat. Through a window, she saw him with another woman and a small child, an image that felt like jagged glass twisting in her heart.
Then his words cut through the storm, cold and cruel:
"Aliana is just a placeholder."
He was marrying her for her multi-billion-dollar patent, a secret deal made with her own parents, who had sold her for a kickback to buy this very house. Her family, her love, her future-all were a calculated lie.
Her inner wolf, usually fierce, fell terrifyingly silent, replaced by a chilling resolve. The burning acid in her throat wasn't just bile; it was the taste of her shattered devotion.
She didn't want his apologies or his guilt. She wanted his ruin, and as Ivan walked in with a fake smile the next morning, Aliana was ready to deliver it.
