The Dying Ex-Wife's Revenge

Today, I am filing for divorce because I am dying.

For nearly a decade, Tristan and I had been tearing each other apart in this toxic wasteland of a marriage. He paraded his cheap mistresses like shiny new trophies, while I maintained a suffocating death grip on his trust funds. We held each other by the throat, neither willing to yield a single inch in this twisted power play.

Chapter 1

I stared at the medical report in my hand for a long time before finally dialing Tristan's number. "Where are you?"

"None of your business." We were married, yet asking about each other's whereabouts was treated like treason.

I tapped my manicured nails against the desk. "Come home. We're getting a divorce."

A harsh scoff echoed through the receiver before the line went dead.

Fair enough. I had played this card too many times, usually just as a pathetic excuse to force him to look at me. I didn't blame him for not buying it.

I waited two days.

He never showed up.

I looked down at the piece of paper that put an expiration date on my life. Done wasting my limited time, I grabbed my Birkin and walked out the door. There was only one guaranteed way to drag Tristan out of hiding. It worked every single time.

I hammered my fist against the door.

A second later, Layla stood in the frame, playing the perfect picture of fragility. "Margot" Her eyes widened in manufactured terror, as if I were about to tear her apart right there on the porch.

I rolled my eyes. "Tell Tristan to come home. Tell him I want a divorce. Make sure he gets the message loud and clear."

"Out of all his cheap flings, I'm actually rooting for you. Once the ink dries, you might just score the title of the new Mrs. Tristan."

Her eyes instantly welled with tears. "Margot, I never meant to"

I grabbed the ornate ceramic vase from her porch and smashed it directly at her feet, cutting off her pathetic act.

"Save the repulsive victim routine. Tell Tristan that if he doesn't crawl back with the signed divorce papers by this time tomorrow, I'll have a crew drag everything in this apartmentwhich I bought with my moneystraight to the curb. We'll see if your stupid Ring doorbell can save you then."

Done wasting breath on her, I spun on my heel and left. If everything went according to plan, I'd see Tristan tonight. Layla was his current prized possession. There was no way he'd let my little visit slide.

The sun had barely set when he burst through the front door, practically vibrating with rage. "Didn't I tell you to stay the hell away from Layla?"

I took my time pouring a glass of Merlot before meeting his glare. "I went. What are you going to do about it?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He couldn't actually lay a hand on me, so he resorted to twisting the knife where it hurt. "I don't get what kind of sick game you're playing. Layla knows her place."

"Our marriage has been dead for years, yet you refuse to sign the papers. Now you won't even let me keep a woman who actually makes me happy?"

"Are you really that desperate to make everyone else as miserable and alone as you are?" I slammed my wine glass onto the marble counter, shattering it into jagged pieces.

He hit the nail on the head. I was miserable. That was exactly why I had kept my claws dug into him for years, refusing to let him go even though the love had died a long time ago.

"You're right. I'm rotting in hell, and I'm going to drag you down right here with me." I held his gaze, a cold smirk forming on my lips, and threw the remaining red wine directly onto his custom-tailored white shirt.

I calmly grabbed a new glass, poured another drink, and took a seat across from him. I slid the divorce papers across the table. "Sign it. Even if I'm burning in hell, I don't want to see your face."

"We make each other sick while we're alive. Don't ruin my afterlife, too."

Tristan's jaw tightened as he flipped open the folder. I watched him through the rim of my glass. He was still infuriatingly handsome. Sharp jawline, striking eyes, and thin, cruel lips.

No wonder he was so heartless. It felt like a sick joke from the universe that some men could look this god-like decade after decade.

His eyes narrowed, scanning my face like I had just handed him a bomb. "What are you trying to pull?"

I scoffed. "I keep this house. You get the rest. I'm surrendering all my claims to our joint assets."

"Can't you read?"

Chapter 2

I had spent years bleeding him dry, so my sudden surrender obviously set off every alarm bell in his head.

This estate was our marital home. It was old money, maybe not the most liquid asset, but the thought of another woman playing house in my territory made my skin crawl. Call me petty, but I would rather burn it to the ground than watch him parade his new flames through my hallways.

Even if I liquidated this property, it would be more than enough to buy the most exclusive private cemetery lot on the West Coast. I had spent my life trapped in a cage built on lies; in death, I demanded absolute freedom and the most premium resting place money could buy. I would never let his pathetic mistresses blow through my assets.

Tristan scrutinized the pages, flipping them back and forth with paranoid precision. "I'll have my legal team draft a new agreement," he finally declared. "You keep the estate. I'll wire an additional ten million into your account, and we are done."

I raised an eyebrow. How generous. Ten million dollars to seamlessly erase a decade of our lives.

"Your legal team? You don't trust my lawyers, but I'm supposed to trust your corporate lapdogs?" Even when handing him his freedom on a silver platter, my toxic reflexes kicked in.

The venom just slipped out. I exhaled sharply, the fight draining from my bones. "Whatever. Deal."

He snatched the folder and headed for the door. "My assistant will drop off the revised paperwork tomorrow morning. Have a pen ready."

He had been salivating for this day for years. He was probably going to drag his entire legal department out of bed at midnight to scour the fine print for traps.

I offered a nonchalant shrug. "Fine by me. The sooner you're out of my sight, the better."

He still eyed me with deep suspicion, tossing in one final demand. "Once the funds clear, I expect you to relocate out of Manhattan. We both need a clean break, don't we?"

A familiar sour taste hit the back of my throat. I didn't bother responding, just shoved him onto the porch and slammed the heavy mahogany door in his face. Out of sight, out of mind.

Tristan's executive assistant was certainly earning his six-figure salary. As he handed me the stack of documents, his posture remained rigidly professional. "Ms. Lin."

"Mhm."

The entire corporate board knew my marriage was a warzone. Layla had made a spectacle of parading her homemade lunches through the executive floor. Tristan, petty as ever, had actually hired the girl to be my personal assistant just to rub her in my face.

She didn't last long before running home crying, and that's when Tristan officially initiated the divorce proceedings. I hadn't stepped foot in headquarters since. Nobody called me "Ms. Lin" anymore. This young suit standing in my foyer was the last one.

I flipped straight to the signature line.

"Ms. Lin, you might want to review the clauses first," the assistant offered cautiously.

"No need. There's nothing left to see." I forced a tight smile, handing the clipboard back. "Tell your boss I'll see him at the courthouse in exactly thirty days."

"Tell him not to be late." Don't waste the last few grains of sand in my hourglass.

"Understood." He gave a polite nod, and we both walked out the door.

Tristan wanted me out of Manhattan, and frankly, the feeling was mutual. I was craving the quiet isolation of my hometown by the coast. The drive was a straight shot, and hours later, I was standing on the familiar soil of Clearwater. It hit me thenI hadn't set foot here in nearly five years.

My first stop was the cemetery. "Mom, Dad. Grandma, Grandpa. I'm here."

Tristan was right about one thing. I was entirely alone.

I dropped to the grass, leaning my back against the cold granite. My parents had died in a car crash when I was just a kid, and my grandparents followed shortly after my college graduation. I made sure to buy their plots right next to each other. It just made visiting easier.

"I actually bought a plot for myself right over there," I murmured to the headstones. "Partly because I miss you guys, and partly well, you have to admit, the view from this hill is spectacular."

Chapter 3

I didn't stay long. The early winter wind was already carrying a harsh bite, and tiny snowflakes dusted my boots, chilling me to the bone.

"Alright, I'm heading out," I murmured, brushing the frost off my coat. "I'll be seeing you all soon enough anyway."

"We'll have plenty of time to catch up then, and I'll give you the full, unedited timeline of every sick thing Tristan has pulled over the years." I patted down my clothes and turned my back on the headstones.

I stayed in Clearwater for an entire month. Winter hit the coast early and hard, so by the time my heels clicked against the Manhattan pavement again, the city air actually felt warm.

"What took you so long?" Tristan's face was a storm cloud as I walked up the courthouse steps.

I faked a yawn, rolling my eyes before pushing past him toward the entrance. "Brought your side-piece to our divorce hearing?" I sneered, catching sight of Layla cowering like a kicked puppy behind his broad shoulders.

The sheer sight of her made my skin crawl. "What's the rush? Planning to finalize our divorce at window one and get your new marriage license at window two?"

"Watch your mouth," Tristan snapped. "Layla isn't feeling well. I need to get her to the clinic as soon as we're done here."

I crossed my arms, digging my nails into my sleeves. "Oh, by all means. Rush her to the ER right now. I'm in no rush."

"I'll just wait here."

Tristan grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "Hurry up and sign the damn papers. Don't push me."

I planted my heels into the concrete, ripping my arm out of his grasp. "Are you trying to manhandle me? In the middle of a public courthouse? You really have zero shame left, do you?"

Right on cue, Layla started squeezing out pathetic crocodile tears behind him. "Please, stop fighting. Please" she whimpered, playing the fragile victim perfectly.

Chapter 4

Bile rose in my throat. "Tristan, if you hadn't brought your trash here to insult me, I would have signed that paper immediately. Now, you can either knock me unconscious and drag me inside, or you can get the hell out of my face."

Tristan's face flushed a mottled red, the veins in his neck bulging. He shot me a venomous glare, grabbed Layla by the wrist, and stormed off.

The suffocating tightness in my chest refused to fade. I needed an outlet. I marched into the nearest sporting goods store, bought a solid aluminum baseball bat, tested its weight in my hands, and hailed a cab straight to Layla's luxury apartment.

I called a locksmith and demanded the building manager meet me in the hallway. "Who is the registered owner of this penthouse?" I asked.

"Mr. Tristan, ma'am," the manager replied nervously.

I flashed my marriage certificate with a cold, pristine smile. "Marital asset. Open the door."

The locksmith popped the lock in seconds. I tipped them, dismissed them, and kicked the door wide open.

Framed photos of Tristan and Layla cluttered every surface. He wasn't smiling in any of them, but there were dozens. After college, Tristan was always "too busy" for photos with me. First came the back-to-back sleeping, then separate bedrooms, and finally, separate residences.

The marriage didn't just break; it rotted from the inside out the moment he started parading random women through his penthouse.

My eyes locked onto the vintage crystal grandfather clock in the center of the living rooman obscenely expensive piece Tristan had won at auction.

I didn't hesitate.

I swung the aluminum bat with everything I had.

CRASH.

Tens of thousands of dollars shattered into glittering shrapnel across the hardwood floor. Next went the eighty-inch flat screen. Then the gallery wall of custom art. I took the bat to the white leather sectional, ripping it to shreds.

I moved through the apartment like a cold-blooded demolition crew, reducing this monument of betrayal to rubble.

The physical exertion pushed my failing body to its breaking point. Drip. Drip. Hot liquid splattered onto the pristine floors.

I tilted my head back, roughly wiping the dark crimson blood from my nose with the back of my hand. When I lowered my chin, I locked eyes with a horrified Layla and a murderous Tristan standing in the doorway.

"Margot!" Tristan roared.

I mimed a dry heave. "Don't say my name. Hearing it from your mouth makes me physically sick." I stepped over the debris, jabbing the tip of the blood-smeared bat directly into Tristan's chest.

"Tomorrow. At the courthouse."

The suffocating weight in my lungs finally eased. I wasn't spending another twenty-four hours legally tethered to this man.

"I am so sick of your insane stunts!" Tristan snapped, the veins bulging in his neck. He lunged, slamming me hard against the wall.

The impact jarred my skull. Fresh blood immediately gushed from my nose. I pinched the bridge of it, tilting my head back to force the metallic taste down my throat.

"What's wrong with you?" he demanded, his iron grip faltering.

Taking advantage of his hesitation, I easily slipped out of his grasp, putting a solid foot of distance between us. "High blood pressure. Dealing with you and your cheap stray raises it." I casually rested the aluminum bat on my shoulder.

"Tristan, I've tolerated you long enough. Sign the papers tomorrow. You take your side of the street, I'll take mine, and we never cross paths again."

Not in this lifetime.

Not in the next.

The blood coated my tongue, thick and suffocating. My organs felt like they were being crushed in a vice. The physical pain was excruciating.

Tristan learned his lesson. The next morning, he showed up at the courthouse alone. Neither of us spoke a single word. We signed the papers in silence.

The clerk stamped the final seal, officially terminating our marriage.

Tristan didn't waste a second. He turned on his heel and walked away, never looking back.

I watched his tailored suit disappear down the marble corridor. A phantom memory flared in my minda freezing winter night years ago, him shoving a warm heat pack into my hands, telling me he'd watch my back until I was safe inside.

That warmth was dead now, leaving nothing but frostbite. I exhaled a shaky breath, swiped a stray tear with my thumb, and got into the black car waiting at the curb.

Tristan and I were finally, permanently done.

Chapter 5

I checked into a hospital and started going through the motions of my treatment.

"Bed 18! Did you pull your IV out again?!"

The one scolding me with her hands on her hips was Nurse Cleo. She was young, ruthlessly efficient at her job, and merciless when it came to lecturing patients.

I shrank my shoulders, taking the scolding like a reprimanded child.

"Do you just want to skip treatment altogether?! Tell me!"

I rolled my eyes, offering a half-truth. "The fluid is freezing. Seriously, can you just get me a small heating pad?"

The girl narrowed her eyes at me but still stomped off, returning a moment later with a compact heating pack.

"No more pulling the needle out," she warned, leaning in closer. "Doesn't it hurt?"

I looked into her eyes, and a rare, sharp sting hit the bridge of my nose. It had been a very long time since anyone bothered to ask if I was in pain. Everyone who ever cared about my well-being was already dead and buried.

"Doesn't hurt a bit. Thanks, Nurse Cleo."

Saying it didn't hurt was a complete lie. Over the past couple of weeks, the backs of my hands had been pricked so many times they were practically numb, yet deep down, the bone-deep ache kept me awake. Unable to sleep, I resorted to wandering the sterile hallways at night, dragging my IV pole behind me like a metal leash.

The nurses' station was empty except for Nurse Cleo, who was frantically wiping tears from her cheeks.

I tapped my knuckles lightly against the counter. "What's wrong?"

"Shh!" She snapped her head around to check for supervisors before whispering, "Why aren't you asleep?"

I pointed a thumb at my IV pole. "Can't sleep. Just taking a stroll."

She studied my pale complexion and reached across the desk to feel my forehead. "Is it the pain?" she asked, her voice lined with genuine worry.

I opened my mouth to brush it off, but for some inexplicable reason, I found myself nodding.

She waved me over. I pushed open the door to the station and dropped into the chair beside her. We split a sickeningly sweet pastry and binge-watched five episodes of a toxic, melodramatic soap opera, burning through an entire box of tissues. It wasn't until the sky outside started turning gray that she finally shoved me back toward my room.

"Wait for me to watch the next one," I warned her over my shoulder. "I memorized exactly where we paused. No cheating."

Cleo laughed. "Deal. Now go to bed!"

After three more late-night soap opera binges with Cleo, my phone vibrated in the dead of night. It was Tristan.

"Where are you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "None of your business."

He never had the right to demand my location when we were married. Why start pretending to care now that the papers were signed?

That shut him up instantly. The line went dead. I coldly hit the power button on the screen. "I don't have family. They're all dead."

Nurse Cleo pointed at the vibrating phone. "Then what about the guy blowing up your phone?"

I scoffed. "Just a bloodsucking ex-husband I'm throwing out with the trash. He's throwing a tantrum."

A single phone call wasn't enough to make a dent in my routine. I spent my days sleeping through treatments and my nights prowling the hospital corridors, crashing at the nurses' station whenever Cleo was on shift.

But Tristan was like a cockroach; he never just appeared once. A week later, a message popped up from an unknown number.

[Did you block me?]

I sneered, tapping the screen to block that number, too.

Chapter 6

Tristan had made some serious money over the last few years, and someone along the way had convinced him that he was entitled to get exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted it. I had finally managed to fall into a shallow, exhausted sleep, only to be jolted awake by my phone vibrating relentlessly against the nightstand. Right. I almost forgot. He was raised as a spoiled rich kid, too.

I snatched the phone, keeping my eyes squeezed shut against the harsh screen light. "What?"

"Why aren't you at the house?" Tristan's voice clipped through the speaker.

I rubbed my temple, a dull headache already forming. "Why are you calling me?"

"Which account do you want the money wired to?"

"Pick one at random. Are you seriously waking me up for this?"

"Don't hang up."

I pulled the phone closer to my mouth. "Spit it out, or I'm ending the call."

"Why aren't you at the house?" he repeated, talking in circles.

Then it clicked. I opened my eyes in the dark. "Are you at my estate right now? I highly suggest you get out. I already gave the listing to a broker, and they could bring a buyer by at any second. So kindly drag yourself off my property and don't block my cash flow."

"You're selling it?" His voice spiked an octave. "You're putting the house on the market?"

I swallowed the urge to scream into the receiver. "What else am I going to do with it? Let it rot? Cut the bullshit and get out of my house."

"Where are you?" he demanded, his tone dropping into a deadly serious register.

"None of your damn business." My patience snapped. I ended the call, immediately hit block, and deleted the thread.

But the damage was done. I stared at the sterile hospital ceiling tiles until the sun came up, mentally murdering Tristan a million times over.

No matter how pissed off I was, morning eventually came, and Nurse Cleo practically dragged me to my next round of treatment. Being back in my hometown meant it was only a matter of time before I bumped into a ghost from the past.

"Margot?"

I turned toward the voice. Standing there was my best friend from high school. "Cora?"

Running into an old friend required catching up. After swearing up and down to Nurse Cleo that I wouldn't overdo it, she finally granted me a brief hall pass. We ended up at a local diner.

"How have you been?" Cora asked carefully.

I offered a small smile. "Not bad. My bank accounts are loaded, but my expiration date is coming up pretty fast."

Her fork slipped from her hand, clattering against the ceramic plate. She stared at me, completely frozen. I was busy chewing my food before I realized heavy tears were streaming down her face.

"Hey, what's wrong?" I awkwardly grabbed a few napkins and reached across the booth to dab at her cheeks.

"What kind of sickness?" she choked out.

I waved it off. "The incurable kind. Don't worry, I'm not dropping dead tomorrow." I turned my gaze to the window, watching the pedestrians rush by.

"I just want to hold out for a sunny day. Winter is too damn cold to die in."

"Can I ask you a favor?" I asked as we stepped out of the diner, stamping my boots against the freezing pavement to keep warm.

"Anything."

"Keep it to yourself that you saw me. But if you have the time, come visit."

The bitter wind seemed to make her eyes water again. "I will."

"Does Tristan know?"

"No. We're divorced. He doesn't need to know."

Cora didn't push. We stood there in silence, both of us staring down the gray street.

Back in high school, Tristan and I had been the golden couple. The north wind howled past us. No matter how good the old days were, they were nothing more than ash scattered in the wind, gone in the blink of an eye.

Chapter 7

Back in my room, Nurse Cleo caught me red-handed with the diner food and chewed me out. I nodded along, swearing I would strictly follow the diet plan from now on.

But instead of dropping it, she pulled out a pair of electric clippers and aimed for my head. I guarded my hair with my life. We argued about it for two days straight.

"I just sneaked out for one meal! I won't do it again, okay? Why do we have to shave my head?"

Nurse Cleo used her patient-explaining voice. "You're starting chemo soon. Chemo means hair loss. It's much better if we just cut it off now."

I pretended to think it over. "So, if I just skip the chemo, I get to keep the hair?"

She glared at me, ready to blow a gasket. I laughed, waving my hands to placate her. "Alright, alright! I'll think about it. Just give me some time to think."

She opened her mouth to lecture me again, but a tall shadow stepped into the room, striding directly toward my bed.

"Can I help you?" Cleo asked.

He completely ignored her. Tristan just stood there, his face carved from ice, staring at me like he was trying to dissect whatever new scheme he thought I was running.

"He's here for me," I said. "Go back to your rounds, Cleo. My hair is safe for now."

She frowned, scanning the man up and down before leaning in close. "Hit the call button if you need anything." I nodded, waiting for her to step out into the hallway.

I shifted my gaze back to Tristan. "Don't you have a New Year's Eve party to attend with Layla?"

Valentine's Day, Christmas, New Year'sLayla always had some pathetic excuse to drag him away.

There was a time when I dreaded the holidays, the empty house amplifying the deafening silence of my isolation. But I got used to it. I actually learned to prefer the quiet. And now here he was, ruining it again.

"What kind of stunt are you pulling now?" he demanded.

My chest seized. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the skin nearly broke. You can get used to the blade, but ripping the wound back open still burns