No Longer A Victim, Now I Rise
The fluorescent hum of the DMV was the soundtrack to my boring life, until I tried to replace my lost driver's license.
"Your marital status. It says you're divorced," the clerk said, shattering my five-year marriage to Jackson Parks with a single, flat sentence.
My husband, Jackson, the man who swore he loved me, had secretly divorced me three years ago. Not only that, he had remarried the very next day to Candida Camacho, the woman who had tried to murder me on my wedding day and left me infertile. And they had a two-year-old son, Joey.
I stumbled home, my world a blur, only to find Jackson and Candida in our living room, arguing. "I hate having to pretend for that pathetic woman!" Candida shrieked. Jackson, my husband, pleaded, "I love you. I've always loved you."
The man I sacrificed everything for, who swore to destroy her, was now playing house with my attempted murderer, and I was the fool living in his house, sleeping in his bed, believing his lies.
The pain in my abdomen, a phantom ache from five years ago, flared to life, mirroring the gaping wound in my soul. I would not be his victim anymore.
"Hamilton," I said into the phone, my voice clear and steady. "I need your help. I need you to help me die."
Chapters
Share
Chapter 4
The next morning, Jackson was in the kitchen, wearing an apron, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. He was humming as he flipped pancakes. It was a grotesque parody of a happy domestic scene.
"Good morning, darling," he said, his voice bright. "I made your favorite, blueberry pancakes."
He looked at me, his eyes full of a tenderness that was now obscene. I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger.
"I thought we could go out today," he continued. "Just the two of us. A lovely drive up the coast."
"No," I said, my voice cold and empty.
He froze, the spatula hovering over the pan. He stared at me, his smile faltering. "What?"
"I don't want to go anywhere with you," I said.
He put the spatula down and walked over to me, his face a mask of concern. He crouched down, taking my uninjured hand in his. His touch felt repulsive.
"Elena, I know you're upset about yesterday," he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "I am so sorry. I was out of line. Please, forgive me."
His eyes were soft, pleading. It was the same look he had given me in the hospital five years ago. This time, it made me feel nothing but disgust.
I pulled my hand away and started eating the breakfast Maria had left for me, ignoring the pancakes he had made.
He watched me for a moment, then seemed to decide I had forgiven him. His smile returned, relieved.
"Come on," he said, pulling me to my feet. "Let's go shopping. I'll buy you anything you want."
He practically dragged me to the car.
Candida and Joey were already sitting in the back seat.
My heart sank. Of course.
"Joey was feeling a little down," Jackson explained, not meeting my eyes. "And Miss Camacho needed to pick up a few things for him. I thought we could all go together. A family outing."
His gaze flickered to Candida in the rearview mirror for a split second, a look of longing and possession that he tried to hide.
I said nothing. I got into the car, a silent, unwilling passenger in the charade of my own life.
At the mall, Jackson was a whirlwind of activity, pulling me into the most expensive stores. He bought me dresses, shoes, a diamond watch. The sales clerks fawned over him.
"Mrs. Parks, you are so lucky," one of them gushed. "Your husband adores you."
I managed a tight, painful smile. Adored me. If only she knew.
My eyes drifted over to Candida. She was standing by a jewelry counter, her gaze fixed on a sapphire necklace, a look of raw longing on her face. She had come from a wealthy family, but Jackson had taken everything from them. Now she was a kept woman, dependent on the man she claimed to hate.
Jackson followed my gaze. He saw the look on her face.
A few minutes later, he came back with a small, velvet box. Not for me.
He walked over to Candida. "Here," he said, his tone clipped and impatient, as if he were annoyed. "Try this on. I need to see if it would suit a client's wife."
He put the sapphire necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing against her skin. It was a lie, a thin, pathetic excuse to give a gift to his mistress in front of his wife.
I felt a cold laugh bubble up inside me. It was all so ridiculous, so insulting.
I turned and walked out of the store. I couldn't breathe in there anymore.
I was standing on the curb, waiting for the valet to bring the car, when it happened.
A white sports car, its engine roaring, screeched around the corner. It was out of control, heading straight for the sidewalk.
Straight for Candida, who had just stepped out of the store.
Jackson's face went white with terror.
"CANDIDA!" he screamed.
In that split second, he did something that sealed my fate. He was standing next to me. He shoved me, hard. I stumbled backwards, falling against the wall of the building.
He didn't do it to save me. He did it to get me out of his way.
He lunged towards Candida, pushing her out of the car's path.
He wasn't fast enough.
The car hit him, the sound a sickening thud of metal against flesh. He flew through the air, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement.
The world erupted into chaos. People were screaming. The sports car sped off.
I looked at Jackson, lying on the ground, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide with pain and fear.
But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past me, at Candida, who stood frozen in shock.
"Candida," he gasped, his voice a pained whisper. "Are you... are you okay?"
My blood turned to ice. My heart stopped beating. In that moment, watching him lie broken on the ground, caring only for her, I knew.
Any last, lingering ember of love I had for him died. It turned to cold, hard ash.
I didn't go to the hospital. I didn't call an ambulance.
I stood there for a moment, looking down at the man who had destroyed my life.
Then, I turned and walked away.
The phantoms of a past life echoed through my own. I looked at the dark mark on my hand, the new skin still tender.
But the real pain was in my chest, a deep, hollow ache that was far worse than any burn.
You may also like
9.5
The disgraced daughter of the Patton family is back from the countryside.At the news, everyone spurned her with contempt!
A good-for-nothing young lady, a crude village wench, a vicious devil...
Until one day--The world-famous life-saving medical sovereign is her.The enigmatic top forensic specialist is her.The grandmaster hacker hunted across the globe is also her.
One hidden identity of the young miss came to light after another.Shocked and dumbfounded, the crowd fell to their knees to beg for forgiveness.
In an instant, Evie was cornered by the mysterious powerhouse.Hartwell's voice lured and mesmerized:"Darling, you have countless secret identities. Would you mind taking on one more, being my wife!"
8.3
Ayleen Ramirez sat in the sterile Hope Hill Fertility Clinic, her heart shattering as Dr. Finch delivered the crushing news: her third IVF cycle had failed.
Eavesdropping outside a supply closet, she overheard her husband Don on the phone, laughing cruelly. "She's a defective incubator," he sneered to his mistress Alessandra. "I never used my sperm—just cheap bank donation. No trailer trash carries a Bradley heir."
Betrayed, Ayleen confronted him, but her adoptive family ambushed her at home. Her parents and brother sided with Alessandra, now pregnant by Don, demanding Ayleen sign divorce papers to secure family investments. "You're an embarrassment," her mother snapped, threatening to cut her trust fund. Ayleen tossed back their heirloom necklace and walked out.
She stormed the Bradley mansion, slapped divorce papers on Don, packed her bags amid his aunt's insults, and fled into the night.
Drunk in a trendy bar, she stumbled into a powerful stranger—Burdette Guerrero—spilling whiskey on his crotch, then accidentally grabbed a napkin to his trousers. He shoved her away in rage.
Worse, she mistook his penthouse suite for her hotel room, bursting in on his shower, smashing a mirror in panic. He pinned her to the wall, snarling accusations.
How did this arrogant man know her name? Why demand she sign a mysterious contract at 9 a.m.? Devastated and clueless she's actually pregnant—with his stolen heir—Ayleen sobbed alone, the world crumbling.
The next morning, she straightened her spine in the Grand Guerrero lobby, ready to face him and demand answers—no matter the cost.
9.4
Six years ago, Breanna was shoved into a pitch-black hotel suite by her own uncle.
She was forced to endure a brutal night with a drugged stranger just to keep her grandmother's ventilator running.
Nine months later, she gave birth in a cold underground clinic.
But her uncle immediately snatched the crying newborn from her trembling hands, coldly announcing the baby had died.
For six years, Breanna lived in agonizing grief, working as a lowly hotel cleaner just to survive.
But a cruel setup threw her directly into the path of Elliot Finch, the arrogant billionaire from that dark night.
He did not recognize the woman whose life he had completely ruined.
Instead, he looked at her like she was rotting garbage, had his guards drag her into a wet alley, and mercilessly got her fired.
"If I ever see your face again, I will make sure you cannot get a job cleaning toilets."
Breanna was suffocating from the injustice, stripped of her dignity and her family's only lifeline.
Yet, when she instinctively protected a traumatized little boy from bullies, she discovered he was Elliot's son.
The boy clung to her neck, crying and desperately begging his father to let her stay.
But Elliot just threw a massive check at her chest, violently accusing her of brainwashing a sick child for a meal ticket.
Looking at the toxic disgust in his eyes, something inside Breanna finally broke.
She picked up the check, ripped the millions into tiny shreds, and let them rain down on his expensive shoes.
"Keep your dirty money."
She turned her back on the crying boy and the stunned billionaire, deciding she would no longer be their victim.
8.0
After fifteen years of marriage and a brutal battle with infertility, I finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test. This baby was my victory, the heir that would finally secure my place as the wife of mob capo Marco Vitiello. I planned to announce it at his mother's party, a triumph over the matriarch who saw me as nothing but a barren field.
But before I could celebrate, my friend sent me a video. The headline read: "MOB CAPO MARCO VITIELLO'S PASSIONATE NIGHTCLUB KISS!" It was him, my husband, devouring a woman who looked like a younger, fresher version of me.
Hours later, Marco stumbled home, drunk and reeking of another woman's perfume. He complained about his mother begging him for an heir, completely unaware of the secret I held. Then my phone lit up with a text from an unknown number.
"Your husband slept with my girl. We need to talk."
It was signed by Dante Moretti, the ruthless Don of our rival family.
The meeting with Dante was a nightmare. He showed me another video. This time, I heard my husband's voice, telling the other woman, "I love you. Elara... that's just business." My fifteen years of loyalty, of building his empire, of taking a bullet for him-all dismissed as "just business."
Dante didn't just reveal the affair; he showed me proof that Marco was already stealing our shared assets to build a new life with his mistress. Then, he made me an offer.
"Divorce him," he said, his eyes cold and calculating. "Join me. We'll build an empire together and destroy him."
9.7
For three years, I was the dutiful wife of billionaire Ervin Valdez.
On our third wedding anniversary, he came home smelling of his mistress's perfume, pinned me down, and brutally mocked me.
His mistress, Sylvia, had even sent me a fake ultrasound report to force me out of the picture.
In Ervin's eyes, I was just a vicious, calculating liar who used a pregnancy to trap him into marriage.
He didn't care that I had actually lost that baby, nor did he know the trauma of my gambling father selling me to a dark club where I was assaulted by a stranger.
When I finally handed him the signed divorce papers, giving up all assets, and left the penthouse with nothing but an old suitcase, he just sneered.
"She is playing a game of hard to get. She won't last three days before she comes crying back."
He froze all my bank accounts, let his mistress humiliate me in public, and waited coldly for me to starve and beg.
He thought my entire existence relied on his wealth, completely confident that I would inevitably surrender to his control.
But he was wrong.
I calmly opened my old laptop, bypassed the complex encryptions, and looked at the dozens of unread emails from top-tier global brands begging for my return.
I resurrected my hidden identity as the legendary jewelry designer "R," and walked straight into the top design firm in Manhattan.
"It is time to find myself again."
8.9
For seven years, I hid my MIT Ph.D. and my identity as a top haute couture designer to be the perfect, obedient wife to billionaire Cornelius Lambert.
But on our anniversary, while I waited at home with a cold dinner, I found him at a Michelin restaurant with his childhood sweetheart, Halle.
My seven-year-old son sat between them, laughing loudly.
"Mom is too boring. I wish Aunt Halle was my real mom."
Cornelius didn't defend me. He just smiled and affectionately ruffled the boy's hair.
When I finally packed my bags and left, I accidentally triggered an old AI robot prototype Cornelius had given me years ago.
A hidden recording played his voice from the very night he proposed.
"Why marry her? Because she's easy to control. Halle doesn't want to settle down yet, so Cassidy is just a perfect, temporary shield."
Later, when I caught them being intimate in a dark parking garage and snapped a photo, Cornelius watched with cold, dead eyes as his massive bodyguard shoved me against a concrete pillar.
My arm was torn open, blood dripping onto the floor, as they forced me to delete the evidence of his affair.
For seven years, I filed down every sharp edge of my brilliance for a man who saw me as nothing but a pathetic, disposable placeholder.
My heart turned to absolute ice. He thought I was just a weak, powerless housewife.
But he forgot who he was dealing with.
As his luxury car drove away, I pulled up the hidden command terminal on my phone and recovered the encrypted cloud backup of the photos.
I looked at my lawyer with a bleeding arm and a cold smile.
"Let's go. Now, we have a weapon."