“So what if I did?” I replied flatly, expressionless.
Smack!
A loud slap landed squarely on my face.
Chest heaving with fury, Ronald pointed toward the door. “Get out! You want a divorce? Fine! But it won’t be Ava who leaves with nothing—it’ll be you, you ungrateful bastard! My legal team will see to it!”
At that moment, a relative I was on decent terms with leaned in and whispered urgently, “Liam, the old man means business this time. You’re already in the wrong. If you don’t back down now, you’ll walk away with nothing.”
Any sensible person would weigh their options at this point. But I simply licked the metallic taste of blood off the corner of my lips and said, “Fine. See you in court.”
Without another word, I turned and walked out of the house, leaving behind a room full of stunned, judgmental stares.
Outside, a black van screeched to a halt.
Inside was Daphne, a former classmate of mine who now worked in media.
She took one look at the injury on my face and sighed.
“I’ve already contacted a private investigator I know,” she said quietly.
“If what you suspect turns out to be true, this is going to be huge. A complete media firestorm.”
She hesitated for a moment before asking, “But how did you even find out something like this?”
I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror, at the jagged wound across my face, and said coldly, “My wife’s Alaskan Malamute.”
“A dog?” She blinked, confused. “Isn’t it normal to keep a dog? I have a golden retriever at home.”
“This dog...” I said slowly, voice low and cold, “...has a long surgical scar—starting from the back of the neck and running all the way down to its waist.”
“You mean... it had a major operation?” she asked, still puzzled.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I pulled out my phone and handed her a surveillance video.
In the footage, Ava was stepping out of the bathroom with a towel.
And that Alaskan Malamute was lying on the couch—legs spread, lazily smoking a cigarette.
Daphne gasped, instantly covering her mouth.
“Oh my God... Don’t tell me that dog is—”
A thick, eerie silence filled the car.
I clenched my teeth, fists trembling.
After all this time... I was finally going to expose the truth.
After meeting with the private investigator, I decided to return home to pack my things.
But just as I entered the neighborhood, a group of neighbors out on their evening walk began whispering and pointing.
“That’s him—the guy divorcing Ava over a dog. Tsk. Idiot.”
“He’s got a free ride with the Powell family and still doesn’t know how to play his cards. If it were me, I’d have sweet-talked Ava until the company was mine.”
“He’s gotten too full of himself. Thinks he can act tough now. What a fool.”
I ignored them and walked right past.
When I opened the front door, the rich aroma of home-cooked food wafted through the air.
The dining table was covered in beautifully prepared dishes—all my favorites.
I turned and saw the room where the dog had been kept now stood open. Bailey was gone.
On the other hand, Ava, wearing an apron and covered in sweat, was seated at the table, nursing our daughter.
“Honey, you’re back?” She looked up at me with a gentle smile.
“I already sent Bailey away. Look, I’m feeding Zoe now, and I cooked all your favorite dishes. Can we stop fighting, please?”
Since we got married, she rarely cooked for me. Even when I was sick and craving a bowl of her noodles, she’d just tell me to order takeout.
This feast... it was clearly her last-ditch effort to win me back.
But I didn’t even glance at the table.
“Save it for Bailey,” I said coldly, walking straight to the bedroom. “I’m just here to pack.”
“Liam!”
Ava stood up abruptly. Her voice cracked with tears and barely contained rage.
