Ex-wife's Perfect Revenge

I knelt on the cold, marble-tiled floor, my knees screaming in protest as I scrubbed with what little strength I had left. Sharp, searing pain shot through my arms and legs, a cruel reminder of how long I had been at this, not just today, but every single day since I married Peter Henderson.

This was my life now. Cleaning, scrubbing, cooking, endless chores that Peter insisted were for my own good.

“You need this,” he’d said with that charming smile of his, shortly after firing all the maids. “It’ll help you lose weight and stay active.”

I had believed him. What choice did I have?

I paused, panting like I’d just run a marathon. My chest heaved, my body trembling, begging me to stop, to rest. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

How long can I keep doing this? The thought gnawed at me as I wiped sweat from my forehead. Slowly, I stood, wincing as pain lanced through my knees like needles piercing bone. Swallowing the groan rising in my throat, I forced myself upright and surveyed the space I had just cleaned.

The floor sparkled under the light of the chandelier. It was spotless. Perfect. At least it was worth it, I thought bitterly. With a shaky breath, I gathered the cleaning tools and trudged toward the janitor’s closet. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if my body were collapsing under the weight of its own exhaustion.

But I kept moving. I had to. These chores weren’t just tasks, they were my lifeline. My only way to get in shape. My only way to keep Peter happy.

I dumped the tools into the closet and leaned against the door, my mind drifting to the memories that had brought me here. Memories I had tried so hard to bury.

I was always too much. Too big, too heavy, too wrong.

With a BMI of 30, I didn’t fit into society’s rigid mold of beauty. And because of that, I didn’t fit into anyone’s idea of love, either.

My first date? A disaster. I had met him at one of New York’s finest restaurants, desperate to impress. I wore a dress so tight it bit into my skin, the fabric digging into my ribs with every step.

But all my efforts had been in vain. The moment he saw me, his face twisted in disgust. He barely masked his disgust, staying through dinner only because he realized I was footing the bill. Afterward, he left without a goodbye, leaving me alone at the table, humiliated and broken.

That night, I cried myself to sleep in my mother’s arms, the only person who never judged me. But even she wasn’t mine for long. Fate took her and my father from me in a car accident, leaving me alone with nothing but their memory and the fortune they left behind.

Until Peter.

Peter was a miracle. The first man who looked at me without flinching. He didn’t judge me for my size, my looks, or my inheritance. When he saw me.

He showered me with the kind of love I had only dreamed of. He held my hand in public, unbothered by the stares and whispers. “I love you,” he’d say, loud enough for the world to hear, gripping my hand as if daring anyone to challenge him.

But love, I realized too late, can be a cruel illusion.

By the time I finished preparing his favorite breakfast, I heard the sound of his footsteps. My heart lifted instinctively, my body responding to the thought of him before my mind could catch up.

“My love, I made your favorite,” I said, my voice warm as I approached him. I leaned in for our customary morning kiss.

But Peter stepped back, cold and abrupt.

I froze, my smile faltering. “What’s wrong, honey?” I asked, my voice soft, unsure. My mind raced for answers. Did I smell of sweat from the chores? Why is he acting strange all of a sudden? “Do I stink? Don’t worry, I’ll shower before you leave for work.”

He didn’t respond. His dark brows furrowed, his jaw clenched. Without a word, he extended a file toward me.

“Sign them. We’re done, Martha.”

His words hit me like a blow. My chest tightened, and I struggled to catch my breath. My trembling hands took the file as if on autopilot. “What’s this?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, fear clawing at my insides.

Peter looked away, guilt flickering briefly in his expression before he hid it. He didn’t explain. He just stood there, silent and unyielding.

I opened the file with shaking hands, pulling out the neatly typed document inside.

Divorce Agreement.

The bold title blurred through the tears welling in my eyes. “Divorce?” I choked out, my voice cracking.

“Yes, Martha. I’m done with you,” he said flatly. His voice carried no trace of the affection it once held.

“No… no, Peter,” I stammered, tears streaming freely now. “You promised me. You said you’d never leave me. You said you loved me—”

“Enough!” he snapped, his voice cutting like a blade. “Did you really think I’d spend the rest of my life with this?” He gestured at me with disgust.

I staggered back, clutching the papers to my chest, shaking my head in disbelief.

“You’re pathetic, Martha. A burden. Sign the papers.”

I stared at him, desperately searching for some trace of the man who had once held my hand so tightly, who had stood by my side and declared his love for me. But he was gone.

The Peter I knew had been a lie.

I had given him everything. My love, my trust, my very sense of self. I had sacrificed my dreams, my dignity, and my freedom for a man who saw me as nothing more than a stepping stone.

And now, he was discarding me like I was nothing.

I clutched the papers tighter, the weight of his betrayal crashing down on me. Tears blurred my vision as my chest heaved, the ache inside me far greater than any pain I had felt from cleaning or scrubbing floors.