Divorcing My Scumbag Husband

In the fourth year of our marriage, my husband cheated on me.

I held his shirt in my hands, plucking off a strand of deep burgundy curly hair that carried a faint, alluring fragrance. Of course, this alone didn’t prove anything—after all, as a general manager, his social engagements were often complicated.

But I couldn’t let it go. My eyelid kept twitching, an incessant, nerve-wracking sign that something was wrong.

Just then, my daughter waddled over on her little legs, announcing she needed to pee. I carried her to the toilet, steadied my thoughts, and told myself not to overthink.

In the middle of the night, I couldn’t sleep.

Owen lay peacefully beside me, one strong arm draped across my waist. I gazed at him quietly, tracing his features in my mind—the sharp brows, the starry eyes, the high-bridged nose, and the thin lips. After two years of dating and four years of marriage, I knew his face so well that I could sketch it in the dark.

Back then, many people envied me, thinking I’d struck gold—a real-life Cinderella story, where the prince not only fell in love with her but also married her into a wealthy family.

The glow of a phone screen interrupted my thoughts. It was Owen’s phone.

On impulse, I picked it up, just in time to see an unlocked message pop up:

[Are you awake? I miss you.]

The phone slipped from my hand. I felt like I’d been struck by lightning.

The next day, I was a wreck, so when I went to Owen's company I didn’t even drive, instead, I hailed a taxi.

The receptionists knew me, so they didn’t stop me as I headed upstairs. When I pushed open the door to Owen’s office, he was talking to a female employee.

When he saw me, he raised an eyebrow and winked playfully.

I forced a smile and stood aside, waiting for their conversation to end.

As the woman left, she nodded at me in greeting. Her burgundy curls swayed, and the air filled with a blend of sandalwood and vanilla perfume.

My heart clenched as I stared at her retreating figure.

Before I could think further, Owen had wrapped his arms around me.

“Alicia, what are you looking at?” he asked.

I lowered my eyes and said casually, “Your company uniforms are quite bold.”

The woman had been wearing a black suit—the standard uniform. But with her ample chest and slender waist, she made it look strikingly provocative.

Owen stood behind me, so I couldn’t see his expression, but I imagined his brows furrowing.

“Really?” he asked.

I turned to meet his gaze with a faint, mocking smile. “You must be used to it, President Stokes.”

At that moment, I saw a flicker of emotion passed through his eyes.

He lowered his head to kiss me, scattering papers and documents everywhere.

I knew he still loved me, yet I couldn’t stop my thoughts from spiraling. The idea of him holding another woman the way he held me made me sick to my stomach.

That evening, he came home late. I threw away all the food I’d cooked.

He looked exhausted, reeking of alcohol, and collapsed onto the sofa. For a moment, I felt sorry for him.

As the only son of the Stokes family, he had defied his family to be with me, choosing to move out so we could live freely. He did love me.

I wrung out a towel to wipe his face. He grabbed my wrist and made me sit beside him.

“Ali, I love you,” he said.

On any other day, I would’ve responded, wrapping my arms around his neck and saying, “I love you too, Owen.” But I didn’t this time.

That lingering scent of perfume haunted me.

That night, I came down with a fever.

Owen was frantic, driving me to the hospital. While he was handling the admission paperwork, he left his phone beside me.

The message popped up again.

[Are you awake? I miss you.]

My body was weak from illness, but my mind was burning with rage.

I picked up Owen’s phone.

His passcode used to be the date of our wedding. Taking a deep breath, I entered it.

But to my surprise, it didn’t unlock.

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over me. He had changed his password!

I put the phone back down and closed my eyes, utterly drained.

After a bout of illness, I had lost four or five pounds. Looking at my noticeably smaller chest in the mirror, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly.

Images of that woman in her uniform flashed through my mind—she was probably a D-cup, wasn’t she?

On Friday evening, my sister invited me to visit our parents. Owen was too busy to join.

He looked at me apologetically. “I’ll have the driver take you. Let me know when to pick you up.”

Annoyance flared up in me. “No need, I’ll just take a cab.”

My parents had worked for an old state-owned enterprise. My mother was now retired, while my father was still holding on to his post. Both my sister and brother-in-law worked at Owen’s company.

I had married Owen right after graduating college and had since become a full-time housewife with no accomplishments to my name.

By the time I returned home that night, it was past 9 pm. My daughter, Allison, was so sleepy she could barely keep her eyes open. Owen still hadn’t called.

My brother-in-law dropped me off. On the way, my sister chattered endlessly, asking me to put in a good word with Owen so her husband could get promoted to department manager.

I brushed her off with vague responses but didn’t plan to mention it.

My brother-in-law had some minor smarts, sure—but being a small team leader better suited him. Managing an entire department? He wasn’t cut out for it. I didn’t want to put Owen in a difficult position. After all, the company wasn’t solely his.

When I got home, Owen wasn’t back yet. I went to bed without waiting.

But in the middle of the night, I woke up to find the space beside me empty.

It felt as if a powerful hand had gripped my heart, squeezing the breath out of me.

He hadn’t come home... He actually didn't come back!

This almost never happened after we got married. No matter how late he worked or how far he traveled, he would always come back.

The memory of that strand of hair and the scent of perfume clawed at my mind. It felt like tiny insects were gnawing at my heart—I couldn’t stay still for even a minute longer.

I stumbled out of bed and bolted to the door, only to trip and fall to the ground.

Startled, Owen’s voice called out. He sat up from the couch, looking at me in surprise.

I must have looked awful—wild-haired and disheveled, like some feral creature.

He came over and scooped me up. “Alicia, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

I clung tightly to his shirt, trembling all over.

He placed me gently on the couch and brought over a cup of warm water. “What’s going on? Are you feeling unwell?”

Tears blurred my vision as I stared at him. It took me a long moment to choke out, “Why are you here?”

He sighed. “I drank too much. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep by coming into the bedroom.”

I suddenly threw myself into his arms. “Owen, I’m scared when you’re not by my side.”

He stroked my hair, his voice filled with indulgence. “I know. My little Alicia is such a scaredy-cat. I’ll protect you forever.”

Forever? Was he lying to me?

But I didn’t have the courage to confront him.

His phone lit up again.

Seeing me glaring at it, he chuckled, didn’t check it, and turned it off instead.

On the following days, Owen came home on time every evening, eating dinner with us and playing with our daughter afterward. That Instagram message never appeared again.

Watching him and Allison’s faces squished together in laughter, I began to doubt myself. Was I overthinking everything?

But my fragile sense of peace lasted less than two days.

That night, a heavy rainstorm rolled in, complete with thunder and lightning.

After putting my daughter to bed, I stepped out of the bedroom to find Owen on the balcony, smoking a cigarette as he spoke on the phone.

His expression was shadowed, unreadable in the dim light.