Divorcing My Spineless Husband After His Family Humiliated Me,Now My CEO Revenge Goes Viral

My mother-in-law complained that the imperial banquet I'd ordered was too extravagant, then publicly praised my sister-in-law's homemade shredded potatoes as the mark of a proper homemaker.

I wanted to explain, but my husband grabbed my arm.

"Mom's been frugal her whole life. Just bear with her."

Later, she made a snide remark while pointing at the peanuts on the table.

"Even peanuts know how to produce. Some people, though..."

I understood then.

She was using the dish to mock me.

Never mind that it was her son's body that couldn't perform—somehow, the blame landed on me.

My brother-in-law and his wife piled on. The rest of the family snickered.

I looked at my husband. He kept his head down, silent.

I was done.

I called over the restaurant manager.

"Pack everything up and have it sent to my car."

My mother-in-law's face twisted with rage.

"What do you think you're doing?"

I met her glare head-on.

"I'm saying you and your precious daughter-in-law can go home and eat shredded potatoes."

1.

The private dining room was packed—sixty people crammed around three large round tables.

Waiters glided between them, setting down dish after dish.

"Jade Shrimp Rings... Ribbon-Wrapped Fragrant Pork... Golden Silk Crispy Sparrow..."

Graham Bennett, the restaurant manager, announced each course with practiced elegance.

My mother-in-law's face, however, had gone dark as a storm cloud.

"A hundred and eight dishes?"

She slammed her chopsticks onto her plate with a sharp clack.

"Stella Maxwell, are you trying to buy out the entire restaurant?"

The table fell silent.

I smiled faintly.

"It's New Year's Eve, Mom. It's rare for the whole family to be together like this."

Her eyelids lifted as she swept a cold gaze around the room.

"What's the point of everyone being here? Money spent is money gone. These dishes are overpriced and tasteless—not half as good as the shredded potatoes Joyce makes!"

I turned to look at my sister-in-law, Joyce Galloway.

She sat with her head bowed, sipping her tea, the faintest curl at the corner of her lips. She said nothing.

"Mom, Stella meant well."

My husband, Howard Fletcher, murmured beside me, playing peacemaker. His hand brushed my knee under the table—a signal to let it go.

I didn't pull away. But I didn't respond either.

The dishes kept coming.

No one touched their chopsticks.

Children reached for the food, only to be silenced by sharp looks from their parents.

"How much did all this cost, anyway?"

Darlene Hartwell, one of the aunts from Howard's side, broke the silence.

I kept my voice even.

"One hundred eighty thousand dollars."

A collective intake of breath rippled across the tables.

My mother-in-law's expression turned murderous.

"A hundred and eighty thousand!"

Her voice pitched higher.

"Howard, do you hear this? Your wife certainly knows how to burn through money!"

Howard rushed to explain.

"Mom, it's Stella's own money—"

"Her money is the Fletcher family's money!"

She cut him off, jabbing her chopsticks toward the freshly served "Pearl in Palm" dish.

"Look at this! All style, no substance. One bite and it's gone. Who is this supposed to feed?"

Joyce set down her teacup and spoke in that soft, honeyed voice of hers.

"Mom, please don't be upset."

"Stella runs a company—she has to keep up appearances for business. We're just ordinary folk, so we wouldn't understand. We just think... something more practical would be better."

She lingered on the word practical, letting it hang in the air.

One of the younger aunts jumped in immediately.

"Exactly! It's just a New Year's dinner—eating at home would've been fine. All this flashy nonsense at a restaurant... people who don't know us will think we're nouveau riche."

I'd had enough. I set down my chopsticks and started to rise—but Howard pressed down on my shoulder.

He shook his head slightly, whispering, "Mom's always been frugal. Just be understanding. Bear with it a little longer."

I exhaled slowly.

If she hadn't spent the past month telling me that this year's New Year's Eve dinner had to be done properly, I wouldn't have bothered organizing any of this.

Now I saw it clearly.

She never wanted a banquet at a restaurant.

She wanted me slaving away in the kitchen at home—exhausted, overworked, playing the dutiful daughter-in-law.

I had to be humble. Subservient. Suffering.

Only then would she be satisfied.