Chapter 1Seven years into the marriage, I found a pair of shredded black stockings in my lawyer husband's car.
That night, I tossed them in front of him. But he? Didn't even look up. Voice flat.
"Cut it out. It's evidence for a case."
I screamed. Slammed the door. Left. Thought he'd chase me down this time.
What I got? Blocked cards and an icy text:
"Divorce? I'll make sure you leave with NOTHING."
So I went back home. Put on an apron. Played the good wife.
Until his victory party.
He had his arm around his assistant. Smirking.
"Housewives should know their place."
I set down the fruit platter. Smiled.
Three days later, in court, he looked at me like he'd seen a ghost.
He had no idea—those three months? I only learned one thing.
How to make him lose EVERYTHING.
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Seven years into the marriage, I was digging under the passenger seat of my hotshot lawyer husband's car when I found a pair of shredded black stockings.
That night, I tossed them in front of Spencer. He didn't even look up from his case files, his voice totally flat.
"Cut it out. It's evidence for a case."
The yelling, the slammed doors, walking out—I actually thought I'd finally make him crack.
But during our three-month standoff, he cut off my cards and sent me a text in that cold, clinical lawyer voice of his.
"Under state law, after two years of separation, I can file for divorce and make sure you leave with nothing. You got no leverage, Stella."
I ended up dragging my suitcase back home. He was sitting in his usual spot, his voice completely dead.
"I hope this is the last time you pull a stunt like this."
I just nodded, tied on my apron, and headed into the kitchen.
A week later, Spencer Reed won that high-profile divorce case everyone in town was buzzing about.
At the victory party, the room was packed with people kissing his ass.
"Spencer, that was a masterpiece. The wife was just a stay-at-home mom, you didn't let her touch a single extra dime."
"She's been out of the workforce so long she can't even support herself. For her to actually think she'd get custody is a joke."
Spencer rubbed his temples, acting like he couldn't care less.
"The law is about facts. She claimed her husband was cheating but couldn't prove squat. I can't let a child stay with a mother who's a compulsive liar."
"The most important things in a marriage are class, boundaries, and knowing when to fold. Too bad she didn't get the memo."
His assistant, Summer Jones, turned to me with a smug smile. "Stella, don't you think Spencer is right?"
I didn't say a word. I just set the fruit platter down on the coffee table.
I didn't come back because I gave up.
Love dies, and vows rot.
But the hand gathering the dirt—that hand can't afford to shake.
Summer was rocking a champagne-colored mermaid dress.
I knew that dress.
Spencer had it hidden in the back of the closet, tucked inside a fancy gift box.
With our anniversary coming up, I'd spent weeks convinced it was a surprise for me.
And now, it was on her.
On the table, Summer's phone screen lit up.
The wallpaper was a shot of her and Spencer on a Ferris wheel, making a heart with their hands.
If this were the old me, a petty move like that would've sent me over the edge. I would've lost it.
But right now, I just looked at her and gave a calm little smile.
"Fresh out of college and already so desperate to wreck someone else's marriage. Do you really think that's a good look for you?"
Her smile died. She gripped her champagne glass so hard her knuckles turned white.
Spencer took off his glasses. His gaze fell on me—it seemed gentle, but I knew it was a "shut up" warning.
"Stella, the cake's ready. I thought you were gonna help us celebrate?"
He always knew how to run the room, playing the situation just as smoothly as he did in court.
That cool attitude used to turn me on, now, it just made my skin crawl.
Summer perked up like a pampered peacock, her chin up and a fake-sweet smile on her face.
"If a marriage is already dead in all but name, it's not really 'wrecking' it, is it?"
She grabbed the cake from my hands and started serving everyone like she owned the place.
"Spencer is right—housewives need to know their place. I mean, the whole point of a housewife is being 'low maintenance,' right?"
The frosting was perfect—matcha, Spencer's favorite. I'd spent the whole damn afternoon on it.
And there he was, wiping a bit of cream off the corner of Summer's mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You're a grown woman and you still eat like a toddler."
She blushed and playfully swatted his hand away.
"Stella, Spencer is just such a worrier. You don't mind, do you?"
Spencer's eyes flickered over me, like he were waiting for something.
An argument, a meltdown—he was waiting for me to lose my cool and try to mark my territory like I used to.
But I just stood there silently, like I was watching a show like I didn't have a horse in the race.
Years ago, just to get into the same college as Spencer, I picked the most random, obscure major at NYU.
I chased him hard—bringing him breakfast every morning, doing his notes, and being at his beck and call.
When he broke his leg, I spent six months nursing him back to health. Finally, I begged him to spend New Year's Eve with me.
It was a freezing snowy night. The countdown was over, the square was empty, and he was a no-show.
I stood there shivering in the wind, feeling like a total idiot and absolutely pissed.
The second he picked up, I wanted to scream, but the tears just started falling instead.
"Spencer Reed, you're too much work. I'm done."
He was out of breath, like he'd been sprinting: "Turn around."
The streetlights were clicking off one by one in the dark, and there he was, his coat covered in snow.
"Sorry. The car died on me."
Spencer grabbed my frozen hands and wiped my face.
"Stella Brooks, you told me you were more stubborn than I thought."
"Don't cry. Your tears are burning me."
Spencer married me right after graduation.
He was a lawyer, not a romantic, but he never missed an anniversary and always had a surprise ready.
He'd even get up at 2:00 AM when I was on my period to make me tea or run out for heating pads and tampons.
For seven years, he was the rock—rational, steady, everything on a schedule.
He said he hated losing control, and I bought it.
Turns out, I didn't know the first thing about him.
The party dragged on until the middle of the night.
I was cleaning up the wreck in the living room when a wasted Spencer suddenly grabbed me from behind.
"Stella, how come you're so quiet today?"
I stopped what I was doing and shoved him off.
"Spencer, did you get a real kick out of ripping those stockings off her in the car?"
Chapter 2
Three months ago, I found a pair of shredded stockings in the car.
Spencer and I had a massive blowout. He finally dropped the "evidence" crap and admitted they belonged to Summer.
He frowned, rubbing his temples in frustration.
"It was an accident. Summer snagged them, and she was too embarrassed to say anything. She tried to stuff them in her bag, but they must've slipped into the seat crack."
What a perfect explanation. Lawyers are always experts at weaving logical lies.
I screamed my accusations at him, but it was like punching a wall of cotton.
"Stella, drop it," he said with a sigh. "Acting like this isn't gonna do you any favors."
I packed my bags and walked out. He told me to come back, I refused to listen.
So, he froze my cards, leaving me without a single cent.
For three months, he never asked where I went or how I was surviving.
Seeing me bring up the past only made Spencer angrier.
"I've moved Summer to a different team, and I've unfrozen your accounts."
"Stella, what more do you want from me?"
A necklace slipped out from under his shirt—a simple geometric pendant, the men's version.
I knew the women's version was currently hanging around Summer's neck.
I'd seen the ad for that matching couple's set around his birthday and told him I wanted it.
At the time, he'd dismissed it as "tacky and immature."
Turns out, the necklace wasn't the tacky thing. I was—for actually expecting something from him.
I looked up, meeting his gaze directly without flinching.
"What can I do? Should I ask if this necklace is 'evidence' for a case, too?"
His breath hitched, and his hand instinctively moved to hide the pendant.
"Do you really have to obsess over these petty details?" his voice dropped.
"It's just a gift. It doesn't mean anything. Grow up, Stella, and stop being so paranoid."
I almost laughed, even though my chest burned.
"Spencer, I spent eleven years proving to you that I loved you and couldn't live without you."
"And now, with one necklace and one dress, you've proven just how pathetic I am."
His face shifted. He didn't expect me to rip the mask off so bluntly, yet he still tried to deflect.
"You've been cooped up at home too long. You're getting sensitive... overthinking things..."
I took a step forward, forcing him to look at me.
"And who made me stay home?! Why do you think I'm stuck here?!"
He recoiled, his Adam's apple bobbing as his excuses died in his throat.
In our second year of marriage, I received the job offer I'd been dreaming of, only for him to secretly delete the email.
I didn't find it until much later in the trash folder—right around the time he was "convincing" me to become a housewife.
He held me that night, his voice tender: "Stella, the home needs you. Don't bother with those grueling jobs out there."
Months of interview prep, a resume I'd polished a thousand times, all my hopes for the future—
He dismissed it all with one casual sentence.
The argument that followed was fierce and desperate. I demanded to know what gave him the right to decide my life.
He was silent at first, then irritably shoved away my hand that was holding the printed offer letter.
"Can you be realistic? With your background, you'd start at the very bottom. What kind of future is that?"
"Taking care of things here so I can focus on my career—that's your greatest contribution!"
In the struggle, I lost my balance. My abdomen slammed into the sharp corner of the marble coffee table.
A dull pain surged through me, followed by a rush of warmth and a terrifying, vivid red pooling on the floor.
The color drained from his face. He scrambled for his phone to call 911, his voice shaking uncontrollably.
Amidst the blaring sirens of the ambulance, he held me tight, repeating over and over:
"I'm sorry, Stella. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it."
The "Surgery in Progress" light stayed on for hours. When the doctor finally emerged, his expression was grim.
He told me the impact was too severe, the damage was irreversible. My chances of ever becoming a mother were practically zero.
Spencer stayed by my bedside for three days and nights, his eyes sunken and his face covered in stubble.
He held my hand, his hot tears splashing against my skin.
"I'm sorry. I just... I didn't want you to leave me."
"I was afraid if you moved for the job, you'd never come back. I was wrong."
"I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
After that, I was shackled to this house. Every cent I spent had to be reported, every bit of my worth was redefined.
Chapter 3
Six months ago, after he lost several cases in a row, I worried about him and prepared a massive seafood feast.
The moment he walked in and saw it, his face darkened.
"Stella, have you been home so long that you think money grows on trees?"
"Do you have any idea how much pressure I'm under to earn this money?"
I froze, my face burning with shame, as if I had been stripped naked in public.
Neither of us touched that dinner. It sat there like a silent judgment.
But later, I saw him buy a limited-edition watch for Summer without even blinking.
The reason? A "promotion gift."
A car? An "award for outstanding performance."
A designer bag? "Professional attire for client meetings."
Every time, he had a flawless excuse that left me speechless.
When I finally snapped and called him out on his double standards, he cut me off sharply, his eyes full of blatant mockery.
"In all these years, has a single cent in this house been earned by you?"
"It's my money. Do I really need to ask your permission to spend it?"
At that moment, the very last spark in my heart finally went out.
In the morning, Spencer was dressed in a sharp suit, calmly organizing his files as if last night's blowout was just a minor inconvenience.
He glanced at the dirty dishes still sitting in the living room and gave a faint frown.
"Hire a maid," he said casually, adjusting his cufflinks. "I transferred the money to you."
My phone lit up. A notification for a two-thousand-dollar transfer—curt and dismissive, like tipping an unsatisfactory waitress.
"Thank you," I rasped.
Spencer paused for a second, looking like he wanted to say something as his eyes lingered on my red, swollen lids.
In the end, he just grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.
"I'll be home early today."
The door clicked shut. I stared blankly at the wedding photo on the wall.
I only fell in love with him because he was once the only light in my life.
Senior year of high school, my parents divorced and neither of them wanted me.
I was tossed around like a ragdoll. I hadn't had a real meal in a week when Spencer accidentally hit me with his bike.
I was desperate enough to shamelessly guilt-trip him into buying me dinner.
He watched me inhale three bowls of noodles, frowning with a hint of disdain, and said, "Stella, if you're hungry, just come find me."
From then on, he covered my tuition and tutored me.
Basking in his light and warmth slowly became an instinct that was bone-deep.
Later, when the marriage left me cold and broken, I'd comfort myself with those memories.
Just hold on a little longer, I'd think. Maybe I can find that boy who stayed up late tutoring me again.
But now, standing in this trashed living room, I am finally awake.
Whatever I owed him, I've long since paid back with interest.
I paid with my career, my health, eleven years of absolute devotion, and the child that never got to be born.
I contacted a lawyer—Gideon Langley, Spencer's biggest rival.
I sent over all the evidence: photos of Spencer and Summer outside a hotel.
A candid shot of him fitting a necklace on her in a luxury boutique, and recordings of their suggestive conversations from the dashcam.
And the recordings I'd made of him ranting about how "worthless" housewives are.
Finally, I sent one last message: "File the suit ASAP."
