I had a 102°F fever and just wanted to call in sick, but my wife’s assistant shot me down and forced me to work overtime.

“Fern’s off enjoying Hawaii with her 18th boyfriend,” Jordan Wamsley said. “I’m in charge of the company now. Without my permission, don’t even think about stepping out of this office.”

The bastard was doing it on purpose, hoping to earn a spot as my wife's 19th boyfriend.

I wasn’t having it. I called Fern directly.

She answered coldly, “Jordan speaks for me. It’s just overtime—what’s the big deal? Stop being such a whiny little bitch.”

That was the last punch I was willing to take. “Let’s just get a divorce.”

Fern just scoffed. “Jarrett, you really think you have the balls to divorce me? You’re always yapping about it, but don’t forget—your mom’s medical bills still come out of my check every month.”

As soon as the call ended, Jordan fired off a poll in the company group chat.

[Jarrett’s threatening divorce again. Y’all think he means it this time?]

Fern’s vote popped up instantly.

[Bluff]

This time, I was already halfway out the door.

This time, I meant it.

——

Jarrett’s POV

Word spread like wildfire. The company group chat blew up in seconds.

[Come on, pigs would fly before Jarrett actually files for divorce.]

[Dude’s just saying it for attention again. Somebody tell him to grow up!]

[Guy lives off Fern’s money and still acts like a diva. Without her, he’s homeless lol]

Everyone voted. [Bluff]

Fern was loving every second of this. She even dropped a screenshot in the chat—proof she’d just Venmoed everyone a little “thank you” bonus for clowning me.

My colleagues all said thanks—and then took turns roasting me.

I just smiled to myself, tapped [Truth] on the poll, and typed out one line.

[Already had my lawyer draft the divorce agreement.]

Right after that, I left the group.

Almost instantly, Fern DMed me.

[What the hell do you think you’re doing? Trying to embarrass me on purpose? Want me to cut off your mom’s treatment?]

I replied. [Go ahead.]

For eight years, she held that threat over my head.

She never gave me a paycheck.

Almost always, she forced me to eat other people’s leftovers in the break room like I was some stray animal.

She made me shop for gifts to reward her boyfriends.

Made me watch—as she kissed them, touched them—right in front of me.

I lived in a half-finished room, slept on cardboard, and played the obedient husband just to survive.

But that version of me? He’d had enough.

Last week, I landed a major client deal—nearly puked blood doing it—but I got it done.

In front of the whole office, Fern promised me a 45k bonus.

That’s enough to cover my mom’s surgery.

And I’ve got other offers now. Better pay. Real respect.

So I started packing my things—even with my head pounding—ready to walk out.

That’s when Jordan blocked the door.

“Who said you could leave?” he sneered.

I held up my resignation letter. “This.”

He snatched it from my hand—and ripped it to shreds.

I stared at him, unimpressed. “Bro, no need to play tough. If you’re that desperate to be Fern’s 19th lover, I’ll help you out.”

Coughing hard, I pulled out a notebook from my drawer. “Here. Everything she likes—written down. Styles, gifts, sex positions.”

Every time she added a new boyfriend, I had to coach them through a few ‘training sessions.’

I called it 100 Ways to be Fern Schnitzer’s Boyfriend.

The motherfucker grabbed the notebook but still wasn’t satisfied. Instead, he started a video call in the company group chat.

Within seconds, the whole office joined—including Fern.

She was lounging on a beach chair in Hawaii, cocktail in hand, grinning like the devil while Boyfriend #18 massaged sunscreen all over her half-naked body—his hands going places they had no business being.

“Fern,” Jordan began, faking a shaken voice like a high school tattletale.

“Jarrett’s refusing to work, ripped up a company doc, shouted about quitting, and even called us both motherfuckers. I—I don’t know what to do with him anymore. Your call.”

This son of a bitch had already taken what he wanted out of me and still wasn’t satisfied—now making up crap and dropping rage bait just so he could kiss my wife’s ass!

Jarrett’s POV

My head was pounding so hard I could barely think. Rage surged through me, so hot it nearly knocked me out cold. I gripped the desk just to stay standing.

Before I could even speak, Fern sneered on the screen.

“When a puppy misbehaves, it deserves to be punished,” she purred. “Guys, any ideas on how we should discipline Jarrett?”

The group chat blew up again.

[Didn’t he say he’s got a high fever? Let’s help him cool off—dump ice on him!]

[Yesss! Ice bucket challenge, loser edition!]

Everyone jumped in to join the fun.

Fern gave the green light, and Jordan ran off barking orders like her favorite lapdog.

“Ten buckets. Make ’em freezing.”

I barely managed to whisper, “Fern… I really am sick…”

“Quit faking. I know your tricks,” she spat, like the words themselves were filth.

‘But what does she know about my pain, my helplessness, my sorrow? Even the thing that “ruined” her that night a few years ago—it wasn’t even my choice…’

The first bucket hit, dragging me back to reality. While it soaked my burning skin with bone-deep cold, laughter erupted all around me—digital, cruel, echoing.

Then the second bucket. Then the third. One after another. All under Jordan’s instruction.

I was shaking, drenched, teeth chattering. But it didn’t stop.

From her luxury beach chair, Fern laughed and threw herself into her 18th boyfriend’s arms, kissing him slow and deep

I couldn’t take it anymore. Everything went blurry. My knees buckled.

I collapsed forward, smacking my forehead hard on the edge of the coffee table.

My blood poured instantly.

And just before I blacked out, I thought I heard Fern’s voice—shaky, not smug.

“Jordan, are you just gonna stand there?! Get him to the hospital now! If anything happens to him, I swear you’ll regret being alive!”

When I came to, the first face I saw… was hers.

“You’re such a drama queen. Always sick, just like your mother. Must be karma,” Fern began. “Marrying you was the worst damn luck I’ve ever had.”

Arms crossed, she stared at me like I was some shit she scraped off her stilettos.

Eight years ago, I was just the housekeeper’s kid. I’d just landed an offer from a top international firm when the Schnitzers suddenly announced I’d be Fern’s future husband.

They never even asked Fern.

She always thought mom and I did something that led to her parents’ decision. No matter how many times I tried to explain, she didn’t believe a word of it.

Then one day, I woke up after a night of drinking… in bed with her.

It was done. Irreversible.

Our marriage followed like a trap snapping shut.

But Fern never let go of her anger. She launched an investigation.

And when her parents pressured for answers, my already-ill mother… took the blame. She said she was scared Fern wouldn’t give me a chance, so Mom did something desperate.

I still remember the day Fern found out. She kicked me to the floor, trembling with rage.

“Damn it, Jarrett! We were already dating—I admired you! I even thought maybe… maybe I’d marry you one day!

“And you and your fucking mother went and pulled this disgusting, low-class move to force me to marry you?!

“Both of you are nothing but shit!

“You both deserve to die!”

That same night, she brought home her first boy toy—and made me serve them tea while they bathed together.

She made me kneel outside the bathroom door, listening while they laughed and moaned.

But no matter how much she punished me for what she believed, I never believed my mother did it.

She was a good woman—raised me on her own, lived humbly, never chased after money.

She always told me, “As long as we’re safe and healthy, that’s enough.”

She even rejected Fern’s parents over and over until they promised to ask Fern directly.

But none of that mattered to Fern. She refused to listen.

After a long silence, I looked her in the eye.

“I’ll set you free.”

She snorted. “Please. Everyone knows you’re my number-one simp. You’d cling to me even in another universe.”

As if she remembered something, she clapped her hands and smirked.

“Oh, right! Let me introduce you to number nineteen.”

She tilted her chin high like she was about to show off a new property she bought.

She was flaunting her affair.

It was supposed to make me feel something. Jealousy. Rage. Heartbreak.

But all I felt was… nothing.

I looked at my so-called wife and thought, ‘I don’t really care now.’

Jarrett’s POV

Right after that, Jordan strolled into the hospital room with a grin, wrapped his arms around Fern, and leaned down to claim her lips like it was some kind of victory.

Their tongues tangled. They swapped spit like teenagers in a parking lot.

I’d seen this scene way too many times. It didn't make me jealous, territorial, or anything anymore.

They were in the middle of a torrid kiss when a knock on the door interrupted them.

A poised woman stepped inside, heels clicking softly against the tile.

“Atty. Gottstein,” I said, recognizing her instantly.

“Marlow?! What are you doing here?” Fern narrowed her eyes slightly, her face showing a trace of annoyance.

Marlow smiled, casual and professional at the same time. “Delivering the divorce papers.”

“The what?” Fern froze. For a second, her whole body stilled like she’d been slapped. Then her face went arctic.

I reached for the papers Marlow held out. “Thanks,” I said with a smile. “Dinner’s on me sometime.”

“No need.” She reached out, touched my forehead, and smiled faintly. “Glad the fever’s gone. Call me if you need anything, alright? Remember—you’re not alone.”

She had barely walked away when Fern’s eyes narrowed into daggers.

“What now?” she spat. “Planning to cling to Marlow next? You two were pretty chummy back in college. But someone like you? She’s probably just using you for fun.”

I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I simply handed over the papers.

“Sign this,” I said. “Let’s both be free.”

All the arguments… All the compromises... The attempts to please her…

I did it hoping Fern would snap out of it, take our marriage seriously, and give me time to find out the truth.

But it only made things worse.

The more I bent, the more she broke me. The more I loved, the more she hated.

Now I was just… tired. Utterly, bone-deep exhausted..

She never loved me, but instead of signing, Fern tore the divorce papers in half—then again and again—until the shredded pieces were raining down in my lap.

“You’re my dog!” she screamed. “You don’t get to pick your master!”

She turned to Jordan. “Take him to the car. I’ll handle the discharge papers.”

Jordan, smug and obedient, dragged me out like luggage.

But the second the doors shut and we were alone, his face twisted with something nastier.

He backhanded me hard.

“You fucking son of a bitch. Just seeing your face pisses me off!”

Same as the other eighteen before him. No reason. Just hate. Some weird reflex they all had when they realized I was still here.

I hated myself for still being this weak.

Eight years of swallowing bile and pretending it tasted fine would end here. Now, I finally gathered the strength to leave this fuckedup marriage.

“You know what?” he sneered. “I’m gonna fuck your wife tonight. That do anything for you? Huh? Excited? Jealous? Wanna watch?”

Hearing nothing from me, he snapped, “Say something!”

His fist went up again, but just then, the clack of heels echoed down the stairs.

Jordan’s eyes darted, and just like that, he threw himself backward and rolled out of the car, painting me as the villain again.

“Dude, I was trying to help you into the car—why’d you push me?”

Fern rushed over to help him up. And then she turned to me, yanked open the door next to me and dragged me out by the collar.

“You piece of shit! Picking on Jordan while I’m gone? You know what? You can sleep outside tonight!”

She cursed, yelling at me like I’d committed some crime.

I just gave her a bitter, tired smile. Didn’t bother explaining.

Because this wasn’t new.

Her first boyfriend accused me of pouring hot water on him. It was cold. But Fern didn’t care about facts and details.

Just like that, she beat me with a feather duster and made me kneel, head down, hands raised in apology.

The second said I stepped on his shoes on purpose.

Just like that, Fern made me kneel again—that time to lick them clean.

The third said I sprinkled too much salt in his food and accused me of trying to poison him.

Just like that, Fern shoved four tablespoons of salt down my throat. I landed in the ER that night.

The fourth screwed up a contract and blamed me. Fern didn’t confirm if it was the truth.

Just like that, she made me go to his office, kneel in front of his whole team, and issued a public statement calling it all my fault.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I could write a whole book and still not cover it all.

In the beginning, I tried everything—explaining, swearing I was innocent, begging for my wife to forgive me.