They Took My Devotion for Granted — I Made Them Regret It for the Rest of Their Lives At a college alumni gala in downtown Chicago, my husband Brody's first love Destiny looked down her nose at me and sneered: "I heard you're just a graphic designer who does promotional brochures. Earning that pitiful little salary of yours must be exhausting." Five years ago, Destiny and Brody crashed their car together, and Destiny fled the country to dodge the charges, leaving behind two hundred thousand dollars in medical bills and legal debts. It was me who worked seventy-hour weeks and drained my entire savings to pay off Brody's mountain of medical bills. Back then, he knelt on the ground in tears, begging me to marry him, calling me the woman who saved his life, the love of his life. But the moment Destiny returned to the country, he snapped right back into the groveling lapdog he'd always been for her. In front of the whole table, Brody sighed loudly for everyone to hear, shaking his head with a bitter smile: "Marriage really does change a man. You think you're signing up for stability and warmth, and all you get in the end is someone nagging about money in your ear all day." If marriage had changed him, then this marriage was over. I slapped the expedited divorce papers right into his face, froze his bank accounts, and walked out without looking back. Next, I was going to make his life a living hell. Chapter 1 Cathy Webster's POV Five years ago, Brody Hamilton's wealthy girlfriend, Destiny Johnson, fled the country after a car accident she caused with Brody behind the wheel, leaving two hundred thousand dollars in medical bills and legal debts in her wake. To pay off that mountain of debt for him, I worked seventy-hour weeks at a brand strategy agency like a woman possessed. Back then, Brody dropped to his knees in that hospital room, kissed my calloused hands, called me the woman who saved his life, and wept as he begged me to marry him. And tonight, at a college alumni gala in downtown Chicago, Destiny made her triumphant return in a backless silk evening gown. All night, Brody had been hovering around her like a pampered lapdog — then turned around and introduced me to his friends as a "baggage he couldn't shake off." Destiny walked straight toward our table, tilting her manicured hand to angle her champagne glass. She stopped a few inches from my chair and looked down at my plain gray cocktail dress. "So you're Cathy," Destiny said, her voice dripping with unconcealed pity. "Brody told me about you. A graphic designer who does brochures. Earning that pitiful little salary must be exhausting." I straightened my spine and laid my napkin flat on the table. "I run full-scale premium brand campaigns," I replied evenly. "And it was exactly my money that paid off the mess you left behind when you walked away five years ago." Destiny gave a light laugh and simply turned her back on me. In front of more than twenty old classmates, she reached out and laid her hand on Brody's bare neck, her fingers brazenly sliding into his hair. "Brody, you're still wearing these stiff, buttoned-up shirts," Destiny murmured, leaning in so close her lips nearly brushed his earlobe. "You were so much more attractive when you used to leave the top few undone." Brody didn't dodge. He didn't push her away. Instead, his shoulders relaxed, a flush crept up his cheeks, and he even tilted his head to nuzzle into her palm. "No one in all of Chicago has taste like yours, Des," Brody whispered, his voice trembling faintly with excitement. He glanced around the table, clearly aware of every eye on them, and didn't move her hand an inch. He cleared his throat, looked at his old college buddies, and let out a theatrical sigh. "Marriage really does change a man," Brody announced loudly to the whole table, shaking his head with a bitter smile. "You think you're signing up for stability and warmth, and all you get is a never-ending list of bills, chore schedules, and someone nagging in your ear about the electric bill every night." The table went silent for a beat, then a few of the men laughed awkwardly. I picked up my wine glass and drained it to the last drop. The alcohol burned down my throat, but my mind had never been clearer. "If this marriage feels that suffocating, Brody, we can sign the divorce papers tomorrow," I said, my voice clear and cold, cutting through the clatter of silverware. Brody's smile vanished instantly, replaced by a sullen, cornered scowl. "Cathy, don't you dare make a scene here!" he snapped, waving me off like a pesky fly. "It was a joke. Can't you take a joke? Every single time everyone's having fun, you have to come out and ruin it." Across the table, Mark, Brody's old college roommate, leaned forward with a peacemaker's fake smile. "Oh, come on, Cathy. Destiny just got back from London," Mark cajoled. "She's an international art consultant now. Brody's just catching up, reminiscing about the old days. Don't be so sensitive." "That's right, Cathy," another woman chimed in. "Back in college, Destiny and Brody were the couple everyone rooted for. Fate just intervened. There was always something between them — you can't blame them for that." I looked at the woman and laughed out of sheer fury. Fate? Fate had nothing to do with what tore them apart. Selfishness and cowardice did. Five years ago, Destiny and Brody, both drunk, had sped down Lake Shore Drive at nearly ninety miles an hour and slammed headlong into a concrete median. Brody's pelvis was shattered and his spleen ruptured. Destiny walked away with nothing but a scraped collarbone, because the passenger side had absorbed most of the impact. Her wealthy family bought her a one-way ticket to Switzerland that very night, leaving Brody completely alone in the ICU — with no insurance payout to claim and a mountain of court summons piling up for the public property he'd destroyed. I still remember the sting of antiseptic in the air the first time I walked into his hospital room. Tubes ran through Brody's nose and chest. His face was swollen and purple, buried in a dirty pillow as he sobbed — because not one of his rich friends from the Destiny crowd would pick up his calls. "Cathy, please..." Brody wept, his trembling, IV-bruised fingers clamping around my wrist. "The bank is foreclosing on my mom's house... Without a deposit, the hospital won't do my second surgery... There's no one left who'll help me..." Back then I was just an ordinary classmate from the college design lab who had kindly dropped off his lecture notes a few times. But I was too soft-hearted, and I happened to have the savings my grandmother left me. I emptied my account. On top of my full-time job, I took on freelance work like a machine, working until three in the morning, every night, for two straight years. I cleared his hospital bills, negotiated with the city attorneys on my knees, and paid out of pocket for his rehabilitation equipment. When his mother, Betty Jean, rushed in from out of state, she was half-deranged with panic — at first she even pointed in my face and screamed, convinced I was one of the party girls who'd led her son astray. "Were you the one who lured him into that beat-up car?!" she shrieked at me in the waiting room, her face drenched in tears. From his hospital bed, Brody yanked his mother to his side and roared at her: "Mom, stop it! If it weren't for Cathy, I'd be dead! She paid to save my life! She's the woman who saved me!" Right there in that antiseptic-smelling room, Brody pulled a cheap silver ring from his pocket, seized my work-worn right hand, and dropped to his knees on the cold floor. "Marry me, Cathy," he begged through his tears. "I'm a cripple now, I have nothing — but I'll spend the rest of my life honoring you, loving you! I swear I'll never look at another woman as long as I live! Please, let me be your husband!" Looking at that tear-streaked, desperate face, I took pity on him, and I believed his vows. I shouldered the entire burden, held off the debt collectors, and soothed his mother's hysteria. For the first three years of our marriage, Brody really did play the part of a devoted, attentive husband. He cooked dinner every night, even though the roast chicken was always burnt and the soup always too salty. But I cleaned my plate with a smile every time, because to me, the intention mattered far more than the execution. He swore up and down that he was tired of the wild life he'd led with Destiny. He took a mundane clerical job at a logistics company, wore plain cotton shirts, and promised me solemnly that a quiet, ordinary life was all he ever wanted. Until three weeks ago, when Destiny Johnson came back to Chicago. And in a single instant, five years of marriage turned to dust.

Cathy Webster's POV The waiter stepped forward and set two filet mignons in front of Brody and Destiny. Destiny propped her chin on both hands and gazed at Brody with pleading, doe eyes. "Brody, my wrist has been so sore since the flight," she pouted, nudging her plate toward him. "You always used to cut my steak for me back at the campus bistro. Remember?" Brody didn't hesitate for a second. He picked up the steak knife, carved the beef into neat, bite-sized cubes, drizzled the peppercorn sauce evenly over it, and slid the plate back to her, his eyes brimming with doting tenderness. "Medium rare. It's always been your favorite," Brody said softly. I sat right beside him, staring fixedly at those hands. Three months ago, I pulled seventy-two straight hours to land a business pitch, and sprained my right wrist in the process. That single pitch brought home fifty thousand dollars for our household. My hand had been strapped in a rigid brace. When I asked Brody to open a jar of pasta sauce so I could make dinner, he was lying on the couch scrolling his phone. He didn't even look up. "There's a rubber grip mat under the sink. Twist it open yourself, Cathy," he grumbled impatiently. "I worked all day. It's just a little sprain — don't be so dramatic." Now, watching him carve meat for another woman like a professionally trained butler, I finally saw the truth with absolute clarity. A man's refusal to be gentle is never about fatigue or clumsiness. He simply doesn't care about the person asking. Destiny leaned forward, her gaze brazenly roaming over Brody's shirt, unbuttoned to the collarbone. "You've gotten fit, Brody," she purred, her eyes lingering on his exposed skin. "I like it." The memory of tonight's scene in our bedroom sent a wave of nausea through me. Brody had spent two full hours in front of the mirror — four shirts tried on, beard trimmed three times, doused in the expensive cologne hidden in the back of his closet. I'd assumed he was just nervous about seeing all those old classmates who were doing so well for themselves. Now I understood. He'd polished himself up like a show dog waiting for inspection, desperate to win back the approval of his former owner. Destiny reached out and hooked one finger into the silver chain around Brody's neck. She tugged the pendant out of his shirt. A small platinum ship's anchor. "You're still wearing this?" Destiny's delighted laugh rang across half the banquet hall. "I bought it for you at Tiffany for your twenty-first birthday. Six years ago!" Brody flushed red, like a shy teenage boy. "I've never taken it off," Brody confessed, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. "Not for a single day." The whole table erupted in whoops and whistles. "Holy hell, Brody! You're still hung up on her!" Mark shouted, raising his beer bottle. "Remember that weekend in Cabo? You two disappeared for three days straight! We thought you'd drowned!" "Drowned in something, all right — pretty sure it wasn't water!" another friend howled with laughter. I sat frozen in my seat. Under the tablecloth, my nails dug into my palms until the skin split. Only the sharp physical pain could hold down the urge to scream. Destiny looked at me across the table, the corner of her mouth curling into a victor's smirk. "Cathy, sweetheart, don't sulk," she said, elegantly taking a small bite of the steak Brody had cut for her. "We had our wild years, and the past doesn't just disappear because you want it to. While I was out seeing the world, you got to keep his bed warm. You should be grateful." On the white linen tablecloth, my phone suddenly buzzed violently. I glanced down. It was Brody's mother. Betty Jean. I picked up immediately, pressing the phone to my ear. "Cathy!" Betty Jean was gasping, her voice hoarse with panic. "My chest — the pain is terrible... I fell in the hallway, I can't reach the door lock. The paramedics are on their way, but I'm so scared..." I shot to my feet, shoving my chair back. "Hold on, Mom. We're coming right now," I said firmly. I grabbed Brody's sleeve, trying to pull him up. "Brody, your mom fell," I whispered urgently. "Her angina is acting up again. The ambulance is already called. We have to get to Northwestern Memorial." Brody looked down at my hand clutching his sleeve, his brows knitting in pure irritation. He glanced at Destiny — who was idly running a finger around the rim of her champagne glass. "Every bit of acid reflux, she acts like she's dying," Brody said, shaking off my hand. "The paramedics are on the way, aren't they, Cathy? I'm not a doctor. What good would I do there?" I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. "She's your mother, Brody," I whispered. "It's chest pain!" "But I haven't seen these friends in five years!" Brody roared, loud enough for the entire table to hear. "If you want to go play Florence Nightingale, go by yourself! You've always loved playing the suffering martyr anyway. Take a cab. I'm staying." The table fell into a heavy, dead silence — and not one person spoke up to stop him. Destiny even let out a contemptuous little laugh. "You really shouldn't let her dictate your whereabouts, Brody," Destiny drawled, leaning back. "She treats you like a three-year-old. It's embarrassing to watch." I looked at Brody's handsome face — the same face I'd wiped down with warm towels, over and over, when he lay soiled and broken in the surgical ICU. And in that instant, something inside me snapped clean in two. Five years of selfless devotion, countless nights of overtime, the penny-pinching, the uncomplaining endurance — all of it flushed away like filthy water down a drain. "You're right," I said calmly, picking up my handbag. "I'll never worry about you again." Destiny's lips curled in triumph as she leaned cozily against Brody's arm. "Good girl," she taunted. "Run along now. Pay for the ambulance with that pitiful graphic-designer salary of yours. Brody belongs at this table. He belongs to us." I turned and left. Brody didn't even lift his head. Just as I reached the doors of the banquet hall, his drink-slurred voice carried after me: "Truth is, Des — after you left, I only married her to prove I could start over without you! She was nothing but a safe backup option!" The whole room burst into laughter. I didn't turn around. I pushed through the heavy glass doors, walked into Chicago's freezing night, hailed a taxi, and went straight to the hospital.

Cathy Webster's POV By midnight, Betty Jean was finally stabilized. It was acute angina triggered by her blood pressure. The doctors kept her in the cardiac care unit for observation. I held her trembling hand at her bedside until she fell asleep, then took a taxi back to our two-story townhouse at two in the morning. The house was pitch dark. I didn't turn on the lights. I sat quietly on the living room sofa, hands folded on my knees, listening to the wall clock tick. At a quarter past three, the front door latch clicked softly. Brody slipped in, tiptoeing with exaggerated care. He reeked of cheap motel soap, expensive floral perfume, and sour tequila. Without so much as a glance toward the living room, he crept down the hallway into the guest bathroom and locked the door behind him. Fifteen minutes later, the shower shut off. Brody came out wearing nothing but gray sweatpants, towel-drying his hair. The weak moonlight through the blinds lit up his chest and shoulders. His left collarbone was covered in fresh red scratches, and three glaring deep-purple hickeys stood out on the side of his neck. I reached over and switched on the table lamp. Brody jolted violently, and the towel dropped to the floor with a slap. Panic flashed across his face for an instant — then his features twisted into a cornered scowl. He snatched the towel off the floor, threw it over his shoulder, and clumsily covered his neck. "Are you insane, Cathy?" he hissed, stumbling back a step. "Sitting in the dark in the middle of the night like some ghost? Trying to give me a heart attack?" "The alumni gala ended at eleven," I said, my voice flat as still water. "Where have you been for the last four hours?" Brody stared at the floor, tugging at the towel around his neck. "Traffic was a nightmare," he mumbled. "Then Mark's car had a dead battery in the garage, so I had to stay and help him jump it. My phone died too." "Mark lives in Lincoln Park," I replied evenly. "And the Westin on Michigan Avenue is four blocks from the venue. Destiny tagged herself there in her midnight post — room 814, checked in at 11:45 p.m." Brody went rigid, his hands strangling the corners of the towel. The blood drained from his face — then flooded back in a hot, offended crimson. "You tracked my phone?" He balled his fists and stepped toward me, roaring. "You're following me now? What kind of psycho, controlling wife does that?" I didn't blink. I picked up my phone from the coffee table, tapped the screen, and turned it toward him. "I didn't need to track you, Brody," I said. "Twenty minutes ago, Destiny sent this to my personal phone." On the screen was a high-resolution selfie. Destiny sat half-naked against pristine white hotel sheets, a glass of champagne in hand, her bare shoulders gleaming. And in the background, Brody lay asleep on the other pillow, mouth agape, half-dressed, a lipstick mark stamped plainly on his face. Beneath the photo, Destiny had sent exactly one message: "Thanks for warming his bed for five years, hag. He's gotten so much better in the meantime." Brody stared at the screen, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He couldn't produce a single word of denial. Looking at that photo, an ice-cold nausea rose through me. The Brody in that picture looked relaxed, hungry, burning with raw, animal want. In five years of marriage, he had never once touched me that way. Whenever I reached for him in bed, he would hunch his shoulders and pull away — blaming a bad back, complaining about money, or simply saying he wanted a good night's sleep. For years I blamed myself. I wondered if I lacked femininity, if the double shifts had worn me down into something dull and undesirable. Now I finally saw the truth. It was never low desire. He was simply not interested in me. My gaze slid down to his left hand, clenched around the pocket of his sweatpants. The plain gold wedding band I'd bought him five years ago was gone. In its place sat a heavy silver ring set with an emerald — a brand-new piece of high-end designer jewelry. "Where's your wedding ring, Brody?" I asked quietly. Brody pulled his hand out of his pocket, looked down at his bare ring finger, then at the emerald ring. He swallowed hard, unable to meet my eyes. "It... it pinched the knuckle. Too tight," he stammered, his bravado suddenly deflated. "Destiny gave it to me. A reunion gift. It's just jewelry, Cathy. Don't blow this out of proportion." I rubbed my aching temples and slowly stood up. I couldn't feel anger. Only a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. "I'm filing for divorce tomorrow," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "You can keep the furniture. I'm taking my clothes and Barnaby. Feel free to move in with Destiny." Brody stood frozen for a good half minute, staring at me as if I'd suddenly started speaking a language he didn't understand. Then his mouth curled into a harsh, jeering sneer. "Divorce?" He scoffed, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "You want to divorce me? Cathy, you wouldn't dare. These five years, you've been paying my bills. You worship me." "That was before." "Listen to yourself!" Brody took a step forward, panic and bluster tangling in his voice. "Every marriage has rough patches! Fine — yes, I slept with her, happy now? I admit it! But Destiny is my weakness, Cathy. I loved her before I ever met you. You can't expect me to just switch that off!" "I expect nothing from you," I said. "We still have a good life here!" Brody shouted, gesturing wildly at our modest living room. "Maybe we don't have Hollywood fireworks, but we have a stable home! A familiar routine! You can't throw away five years over one mistake!" "It wasn't a mistake," I said. "You abandoned your sick mother to run off with the woman who almost killed you." Brody snorted and rolled his eyes, shameless to the very end. "Destiny is married, Cathy!" he wailed, throwing his hands up in hysteria. "She married some billionaire in New York! Her husband's always overseas on business, so she's only here for three months! She's going back eventually! For us, this is just a brief fling! Can't you be gracious and let me have a little fun?" I stared at him, my stomach churning at the sheer depravity of the man. He was actually proud of being a rich woman's boy toy — and he fully expected his wife to cover for him. "Move," I said quietly. I walked straight past him toward the master bedroom. Brody seized my shoulders from behind, trying to wrench me around. "Cathy, you're not going anywhere! You're my wife! You vowed to take care of me for life!" I spun around, shoved him off with every ounce of strength I had, and slammed the bedroom door in his face. I turned the heavy deadbolt, locking him out completely. Brody pounded on the door, cursing, pleading, threatening, all the way until four in the morning. I didn't shed a single tear. I calmly packed my passport, my work laptop, and a change of clothes into a black suitcase. At some point, the noise outside died down. I drifted off against the headboard, dreaming of Destiny's taunting eyes and Brody's twisted face. But I no longer cared.