Yestin, unable to hold back his anger, punched me hard. Then he grabbed a stick nearby, gritting his teeth as he threatened, “I’ll break your other leg too.”
I scoffed, “Go ahead. Beat me to death if you want. As long as I’m still breathing, I’m divorcing Yessenia!”
Everyone thought I’d lost my mind, but I was set on leaving.
Yessenia, seeing my face swollen and blood dripping from the corner of my mouth, rushed forward in distress to shield me.
“Stop it! Jackson must be going through something. Give him a few days to calm down, please. Maybe we can talk things through. Maybe we won’t get divorced.”
The crowd shook their heads and pointed fingers, calling me a fool.
They said I must be possessed by something evil, throwing away a decent life for no reason.
I just let out a cold laugh and shut my eyes.
Later that day, Yestin posted a short video of me online.
[Look at this cruel man,] the caption read. [He didn’t lift a finger during childbirth, pushed my sister into postpartum depression and now wants a divorce just because they sleep in separate beds. What kind of woman deserves a husband like this? I feel so sorry for my sister.]
Following his lead, the internet exploded into a wave of hate.
They called me the ultimate scumbag; a freeloader who sponged off his wife, only to dump her right after childbirth. A man who thought with nothing but what's between his legs.
They even turned my face into memes, cursing me like I had personally wronged them.
I didn’t bother responding. I just shut off my phone, locked myself in the study and kept working.
“I saw what they’re saying online. It’s vicious,” said my junior, Rachel Sheffield, dropping off some paperwork. “Are you really going through with the divorce? You're still stuck in that wheelchair. Without help, even getting to court won’t be easy.”
I let out a faint sneer. “Isn’t that what Yessenia’s been waiting for?”
Two months ago, I left the house to get her breakfast. On the way, a drunk driver hit me.
I didn’t die, but I broke my leg. Since then, I’ve been in a wheelchair, barely able to move on my own.
Yessenia had to take care of the kids and me. When it got too much, she hired a nanny. But later, I found out the accident wasn’t an accident at all. Someone had planned it.
At first, I refused to believe it.
After all, Yessenia and I had been together for eight years, our love story was practically legendary. From school uniforms to wedding vows, we were the couple everyone admired.
Our wedding photo still hung on the board for outstanding alumni. But the video evidence the private investigator sent me shattered that illusion.
Two months after my leg was broken, I finally understood the truth. The accident hadn’t just taken my mobility, it had turned my life into a cage.
I was stuck in my study, unable to move without help, relying on the nanny for everything.
Only later did I realize the nanny wasn’t hired to take care of me, she was there to keep an eye on me. And Yessenia spent the nights hiding in the closet.
Every time I woke up, the bed was cold.
Ever since that disastrous party, we'd been locked in a cold war. She tried to talk to me a few times, but I shut her out.
Still, every few days, she’d try to soften things, offering me an opening, a hint of vulnerability.
That day, she brought her son over. “Jackson, I just had the nanny give him a bath,” she said softly. “Can you hold him?”
