He Killed My Father for His First Love

My husband, Elijah, lied that he was trapped in the mountains behind my hometown and called my father for help. Despite the storm, my father rushed to his aid, but he was caught in a flash flood. His body was swept away for miles, and by the time rescuers found him, he was unrecognizable.

The rescuers told me that my father's last words were, "My son-in-law is still trapped in the mountains. Go and save him..." Even in his final moments, he was thinking of Elijah's safety.

Desperate, I called Elijah repeatedly. When he finally answered, he laughed and said, "Honey, say you love me three times right now."

Angry and confused, I demanded, "Why did you lie to my dad?"

Then I heard a woman's voice—his ex-girlfriend, Jianna. She giggled and said, "I'm sorry, I lost a bet. Elijah was just helping me out by making that call. Don’t be mad at him. It wasn’t his fault!"

I said coldly, "Tell Elijah to come back. I want a divorce."

Elijah sneered, "Over something so trivial? You'll never measure up to Jianna!"

I handled my father's funeral alone. Relatives urged me to cry if I was sad, but not a single tear fell. No one asked about Elijah's whereabouts, and I didn’t care.

For two days, I wandered aimlessly around the house, numb. Then, Elijah finally returned. He kicked off his leather shoes, loosened his tie, and collapsed onto the sofa, looking exhausted.

"Go run the bathwater!" Elijah barked. When I didn’t move, he frowned, "Why are you still standing there? Are you deaf? Did you not hear me?"

When did he start speaking to me like this? I can’t even remember. I used to think of the man who knelt on one knee to propose, crying like a fool, promising that after marriage, he'd earn the money while I'd be responsible for being beautiful. But now, I had become a tired, worn-out woman, and he looked at me with increasing disgust.

In the living room, the most prominent wall still displayed a scroll he’d written: Marriage is a thousand lights, and there is always a light left for you. I used to find that phrase romantic. But as he came home later and later, sometimes not at all, the words began to feel painfully ironic. He might have returned physically, but his heart and soul were with another woman.

"Are you still mad? It's just a small thing. You're not over it yet, are you?" Elijah’s patience wore thin, his tone sharper.

I didn’t want to argue, but his dismissive attitude made my blood boil. "A small thing? It was pouring rain, and my father’s legs weren’t strong. How could you be so heartless, playing such a cruel trick on him? How can you call yourself human?"

He killed my dad—over a bet! The thought of my father, even in his final moments, worrying about saving Elijah tore me apart. The pain was so overwhelming, I could barely breathe. My only family in this world, a man who had endured so much suffering, met his end like this. How am I supposed to accept that?

Elijah finally noticed my red, swollen eyes. He tried to pull me into an embrace, but I shoved him away.

"Are you this upset because Dad complained to you? I already explained everything—what more do you want from me? Honestly, Dad blowing up over such a small thing..."

"Shut up!" I snapped, my voice trembling with rage. "You have no right to even mention my dad!"

As Elijah tried to approach me again, I noticed faint lipstick marks on his shirt collar—Jianna’s favorite red pear color. The image of them embracing intimately flashed through my mind, making me feel sick. I stumbled to the bathroom and retched for a long time.

Elijah leaned against the doorframe, his brow furrowed. "What’s wrong with you? Are you pregnant?"

His tone held no expectation or surprise, only a hint of panic. He didn’t want me to be pregnant; a child would interfere with his pursuit of freedom.

I stood up and looked at him coldly. "Are you afraid?"

"Look at what you’re saying. Why would I be scared? It’s just that my career is taking off, and with you being pregnant, I don’t have the time or energy to take care of you!"

He pulled out an exquisite silk box from his pocket and tossed it to me. "Here’s the custom necklace I promised you, with your name engraved on it."

I opened the box and recognized the necklace immediately. Jianna had posted a photo of it on Twitter, accompanied by a caption: He said that a gift of at least seven figures would be worthy of me.

Jianna’s necklace featured a blood diamond, while mine did not. As a jewelry design major, I knew the market value of these two necklaces differed by hundreds of thousands. After eight years of marriage, I had dedicated myself to him, yet I didn’t even rate a seven-figure gift.

I picked up the necklace with my fingertips and said flatly, "I'll consider this necklace a divorce gift."