Peter Crowley finds out that it's been three days since I last lodged a purchase request from him. Thinking that I've finally learned how to become a good wife, he decides to text me as a form of reward.

"I've already restored your adoptive mother's treatment privileges. You should be more docile from now on. Don't keep lying just to ask for more money from me.

"I know that it's tough, being from the bottom rung of the society and all, but I'm not a gullible idiot, you know."

What Peter doesn't know is that I've already finished drafting a divorce agreement by the time I receive his text.

Before leaving the manor, the only thing I can take with me is the white T-shirt and the jeans I wore when I first married into this family.

No one will ever believe that I, the glamorous and radiant Mrs. Crowley, don't have enough decent clothes to take up an entire closet.

Every cent meant for any private expenses needs to go through a corporate approval system. All of the fancy clothes and jewelry are locked up in a safe, too.

If I ever need money, I'll have to submit a request to Peter's secretary, Cara Harden.

This is all because Peter looks down on my background. He thinks that I'll somehow develop a bad habit of spending money excessively just because I've married rich.

But three days ago, my adoptive mother was in critical condition. I quickly put in a request for 200 thousand dollars for her surgical bills, only for Cara to drag out the approval system's procession. In the end, my adoptive mother died in the hospital.

Peter has no idea that the only reason why I can tolerate his behavior for so many years is for the sake of the medical resources that can cure my adoptive mother.

Now that my adoptive mother is dead, there's no need for me to continue staying in this marriage.

I brought up divorce to my husband, Peter Crowley, but he didn't agree to it.

"Don't be such a drama queen," he said coldly without even taking his eyes off the laptop screen.

It was as if he found those boring electronic data more interesting than talking to me.

I lowered my eyes and said firmly, "I'm being serious. I want a divorce."

Peter took a deep breath and stood, his expression icy.

"I was the one who agreed to suspend Mom's treatment. It had nothing to do with Cara. She was just carrying out orders. If you hadn't gone to the company and made a huge scene, I wouldn't have needed to teach you a lesson.

"I already had someone resume the treatment yesterday. My time is precious, so I don't have time to watch you throw a tantrum."

Without waiting for my reply, he turned and walked away.

He was certain that before long, I'd shamelessly submit and grovel, and continue to fawn over him just like before.

Even when he said to my face, "Don't be such a simp. It makes me sick," I'd just smile and say nothing, continuing to work like a tireless, uncomplaining maid.

But now, it no longer mattered whether the treatment was resumed.

If Peter had picked up my call three days ago, I might still be bowing and scraping, desperately trying to please him. But he was never patient enough to answer my calls.

At the time, I begged him not to hang up and to hear me out, but it was no match for a single word from Cara Harden.

"Could it be that Ada is upset because I reminded her to follow proper procedures earlier?" she asked Peter pitifully. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just didn't want her to keep that bad habit of having no plan at all, like she used to when she was just scraping by.

"That's why I enforced the process a bit more strictly—so that she'd learn her lesson and develop good habits."

Hearing this, Peter grew even more impatient with my call.

Ignoring my pleas, he ordered coldly, "Do as Cara says."

In the past, whenever I went to him for something, he would behave the same way.

"I'm busy. If you need something, go to Cara.

"Listen to Cara.

"Just do whatever Cara tells you to do."

I was his wife, yet I had not the slightest shred of dignity.

Not to mention going out normally—even for social engagements I was required to attend as his wife—I still had to submit an application for Cara's approval.

Every single time, Cara would smilingly reject these ridiculous applications with a light, dismissive attitude.

"Ada, the application description isn't detailed enough. Please rewrite it.

"The gala only goes until 10:00 pm tonight. How can you put it down at midnight?

"Ada, why do you always do this? Just look at what you wrote on the form. Didn't I say to submit it unless everything is in order?"

Cara would always delay approval until the very last moment, then watch with a beaming smile as I scrambled pathetically to the venue for a piece of jewelry or a gown.

Occasionally, I'd end up being late because of this, and Peter would look at me with displeasure.

"Ada Patton, have you no sense of time? You can't even handle such a simple task. Look at yourself—in what way can you possibly measure up to Cara?"

But the reason I couldn't handle these trivial things and was always unable to arrive on time was entirely because of Cara.

Yet, Peter couldn't see it, nor did he care.

Just as he knew full well that Mom couldn't stop taking her medication or delay her treatment, he still impatiently snapped at me over the phone, as if it were perfectly justified.

"How many times have I told you? If you need money urgently, just ask Cara. It's not like she'd say no to you."

Getting money from Cara was as difficult as ever.

"What kind of emergency requires a one-time payment of 200 thousand dollars? Ada, you're not making excuses to ask for money, are you? 200 thousand dollars is no small amount. Please attach a detailed list of expenses, and I'll approve it then. For now, it's rejected."

I explained to her that it was an advance payment and that the itemized bill wouldn't be available until Mom was discharged from the hospital.

Cara smirked, feigning sudden understanding. "Oh, I see. Everyone in my family is quite healthy, so I really had no idea at all. But purchase requests are very strict, and bending the rules like this won't do.

"Why don't you get an official policy document from the hospital and attach it, and then I'll approve your request? In the meantime, I'm rejecting this."

Later, she added, "Hospitals can apparently help with falsifying documents, you know. I'm not saying you would do that. I'm just saying that it's a possibility. How about this—why don't you attach the industry regulation instead?"

And so, the critical window for emergency treatment was delayed again and again by Cara.

By the time I finally got the money, even the most outstanding medical team could do nothing to save Mom.

A continuous tide of hatred and anguish pierced my heart like countless fine needles, while an inexpressible sense of suffocation filled my chest.

I had to break out of this prison of a marriage.

Once I figured out what I needed to do next, I suddenly felt like a weight had lifted off my shoulders. It was as if the invisible shackles that had weighed on me all these years had vanished in an instant.

So when I saw Cara's provocative Instagram post, I remained utterly unmoved. In fact, I was even calm enough to save a screenshot and give it a like.

Whenever Cara was involved, Peter's messages always came swiftly.

"Cara has been doing good work lately, so I thought I'd treat her to a meal. You know, as her boss. So, don't you go stirring up trouble. Otherwise, people will take this the wrong way."

I wondered if Cara had said something to him again.

He continued matter-of-factly, "You already liked her post. If you take it back now, people will get the wrong idea about Cara. Leave a comment praising her work. Consider it an act of encouragement from both of us as a couple."

I hadn't planned on engaging at first. But the more I turned it over in my mind, the harder it became to swallow my resentment.

Thus, I complied with Peter's request and commented under Cara's post.

"Cara is so diligent and dedicated. She treats the employees and me with complete impartiality, using her little corporal approval system to flex every ounce of bureaucratic power.

"I hope you keep it up and continue to pile up your misdeeds. Every penny you save for the company today will be joint marital property when you step up as the next Mrs. Crowley. Kudos to you."

After hitting "send", I tossed my phone aside and began calmly packing up my things.

Throughout this, my phone rang incessantly. However, I paid it no attention.

It didn't take me long to finish packing. After all, all the valuable items that belonged to me were locked tightly away inside a walk-in closet secured with top-grade passcode and a safe with triple security locks.

All these years, I had been like a temporary guest. Even the traces I left behind were only shallow and faint.

Now that I saw things clearly, it all suddenly made sense.

Peter arrived home very quickly. I marveled at this once again.

Whenever it involved news about Cara, he was always so prompt. Never once did he dilly-dally.

He acted as if he hadn't noticed the small suitcase by my feet, his brows still furrowed with anger.

"I called you—didn't you hear?" Peter asked.

"I did, but I didn't want to answer," I replied indifferently.

Peter looked as if he had heard something utterly ridiculous, speaking to me as though he couldn't comprehend what I'd said.

"Didn't I already tell you? Cara has been performing well at work lately, and that's why I treated her to a meal. Do you have any idea how many people in the company already have the wrong idea about her? How is she supposed to face everyone after that comment you posted?"

I couldn't help but sneer at this. "It looks like not everyone is blind after all. So, some people do know exactly what no good she has been up to." I turned to look at Peter. "Besides, I'm not her mother, so why should I worry about whether she has it easy at the company?"

In an instant, Peter's expression darkened.

"Ada, since when did you become this kind of vulgar person who believes every rumor they hear? You know perfectly well how difficult it is for a young woman to climb the corporate ladder, so why would you slander and insult an outstanding woman like Cara?

"If you hadn't gone to the company and caused a scene last time, would Cara be in this position now?"

His gaze toward me was filled with exhaustion and reproach. "I don't fault you for wanting to be a freeloader who does nothing productive, and I'm willing to provide you with a life of luxury.

"But not all women are as shortsighted and incompetent as you. If you continue leveling this kind of malice and defamation at Cara, don't blame me for what happens next. Just think about your mom."

I finally couldn't help but laugh out loud, my voice brimming with hurt and anguish.

I opened my suitcase right in front of Peter.

"A life of luxury? Take a look at the kind of luxurious life I've been living in your house. I'm leaving, and I can't even pack four decent outfits from the wardrobe. Even getting a haircut requires going through the corporate approval system. A housekeeper takes home more money in a month than I do!"

As I spoke, I forcibly dragged Peter to the walk-in closet and pointed at the combination lock on the door.

"Do you know how to open this lock? You have to enter a passcode first, then scan a fingerprint. Even your company's documents aren't locked up this tight! What kind of pampered, well-kept wife has to live like this? In fact, I'm more like a mistress scrabbling for survival under your secretary's thumb!"

Peter looked utterly baffled.

"Is this why you're jealous of Cara? So much so that you went all the way to the company just to ruin her reputation?" he asked me incredulously.

My heart sank instantly.

Everything I had just said was nothing more than casting pearls before swine.

If Peter had ever, even for a moment, thought this was wrong and that it was an insult and degradation to me, he wouldn't have spent all these years going along with Cara's one absurd suggestion after another, placing every aspect of my daily life under the corporate approval system.

I lowered my eyes slightly. "Forget it. Think whatever you want. Let's get divorced."

Hearing the resolve in my voice, Peter actually laughed.

With an expression of smug comprehension, he said, "Enough already. I don't have the energy to keep mollycoddling you. Isn't all this fuss simply because you're jealous and competing with Cara for my attention? Don't assume all women are narrow-minded and petty like you."

He gently smoothed out the clothes I had rumpled just moments ago.

Then, as if making a concession, he said, "Tomorrow, I'll arrange for a top-tier international medical team to come treat Mom. In a bit, I'll have Cara give you the passcode for the walk-in closet and the safe, and I'll change the fingerprints to yours as well.

"From now on, I'll have the finance team transfer you ten thousand dollars every month, so you don't need to go through the corporate approval system anymore."

After many years as husband and wife, I knew Peter reasonably well. For him, going this far was already the biggest compromise he was capable of making.

By all logic, I should quit while I was ahead. However, I was truly tired of this love triangle. No, perhaps I had never been part of it to begin with.

Just like now—for all the promises he'd just made, he still hadn't said a single word about what Cara had done. Even though we both knew perfectly well that this ridiculous approval system was her idea, proposed as a joke in the first place.