Just a Ruptured Cyst—Is Divorce Really Necessary? Chapter 1

I was working late at the office when I got a call from the hospital in the middle of the night. They said my wife, Serena Hayes, had suffered an ovarian rupture and that I needed to come in to sign the consent forms.

Standing in the brightly lit office, I was completely dumbfounded.

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“What kind of husband are you? Do you even know how dangerous an ovarian rupture is? If she hadn’t been brought in so quickly, she could’ve died!”

The moment I rushed into the hospital, the doctor lashed out at me. He scolded me for being careless, for apparently being too rough during intimacy and not considering my wife’s wellbeing.

I glanced down at the report in my hands. The words "ovarian rupture" practically screamed at me from the page.

I was completely stunned.

With the year-end approaching, my company was swamped. I had been working endless overtime, leaving early in the morning and returning late at night, even sleeping at the office on some nights.

“How...how does this happen?” My voice cracked as I hesitated to ask.

The doctor rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. “You really don’t know? Rough intimacy can cause it. Your wife is hemorrhaging and is still in surgery. She came here by herself, for crying out loud! You didn’t even accompany her! Here’s the bill. Go pay it.”

Without waiting for my response, he shoved the payment slip into my hand.

Standing at the payment kiosk, I pulled out my phone to look up the causes of ovarian rupture.

Moments later, my face flushed red with anger.

Serena and I had been married for three years.

Back in college, she was the sweetheart of our class, the type of girl every guy wanted to date.

It took me ages to win her over, but I finally did when we graduated.

Shortly after we started dating, she got pregnant, and we decided to get married.

But she had a miscarriage not long after.

For the next three years, every time I tried to get close to her, she’d push me away. She said thinking about the baby we lost made her feel guilty, like she didn’t deserve happiness.

I respected her wishes. Every time, I’d quietly go to the bathroom to take care of myself.

I never let her cook or clean, and I handed over my entire paycheck every month.

When she said she didn’t know how to cook, I asked my mom to move to the city and cook for her every day.

I worked myself to the bone to make sure she could live comfortably. Finally, I managed to buy us a small two-bedroom house.

The car and house? Both in her name.

And yet, here I was, paying for the medical bills caused by her cheating.

Grinding my teeth, I paid the fees.

By early morning, Serena had been moved to a private room after surgery. She was hooked up to an IV, pale and unconscious on the hospital bed.

She was undeniably beautiful. Even without makeup, her skin was smooth and flawless, the kind of beauty that seemed innocent and approachable.

Marrying her had always felt like the greatest blessing of my life.

I’d spoiled her in every way possible.

But now, looking at her lying there, she felt like a stranger to me.

The thought of me breaking my back working overtime while she was off with another man—enough to land her in the hospital—made my blood boil.

After calming myself down, I picked up her handbag and pulled out her phone.

Ridiculous—she’d never even shared her password with me.

Using her fingerprint, I unlocked it and scrolled through her WhatsApp, contacts, and messages, but there was nothing suspicious.

Just as I was about to give up, a notification popped up on her Instagram DM.

“Home yet, babe? You were incredible tonight!”