Revenge on My A-List Wife Chapter 1

As a notorious paparazzi, famous for digging up every juicy bit of celebrity gossip, I was staking out a hotel garage, following a tip. A black car pulled up, and a man and a woman stepped out. The camera clicked, capturing a clear shot of them locked in a passionate kiss—the celebrity, it was my wife, Olivia Vance. As the man wrapped an arm around her waist and led her into the hotel, she glanced back, her eyes flashing a warning.

Before I knew it, a black-clad bodyguard smashed my camera, dragged me to a corner, and broke my arm. “That’s a lesson for you.” I wiped the blood from my mouth, fumbled for the memory card in my pocket, and dialed a gossip blog: “Top-tier actress, late-night make-out photos. What’s your offer?”

* * *

I lay in a hospital bed for three days. Olivia didn't show up, didn't even send a message. It wasn't until a rival tabloid offered a higher price for the photos that she burst into my room, fully made-up and dressed. “Delete the photos!” Her hand went straight for me, as if she couldn’t see my arm in a cast. “Rumors are flying everywhere, I need to do damage control.”

My hand, holding a glass of water, froze. “No explanation for what happened that night?”

She looked exasperated. “How was I supposed to know you were there?! It was just a business meeting, my agent was there too. Don’t believe me? Ask him!” Her voice suddenly rose. “Do you know how important that movie deal is? You have to trust me!”

I gave a bitter laugh. The glass “slipped” from my hand, splashing water all over her. She jumped back, her eyes reddening. “Just this one time, and you hate me enough to try and ruin me?”

“One time?” I stared at her. “Running into you kissing someone, or running into you having your sugar daddy’s bodyguards break my arm?”

She clenched her hands, taking a deep breath. “You’re fine, aren’t you? This kind of thing happens all the time in this industry. I didn’t even cross the line.”

“So what does count as crossing the line? Do I not even have the right to ask questions?” I pointed to my cast. “I’ve been in the hospital for three days. Did you ask me a single thing? My co-workers even came to visit me. Where were you?” She finally looked at my injured arm, freezing. We’d been together since I was eighteen. She’d never lifted a finger for anything; I’d practically spoon-fed her. After a long moment, she said, “I’m busy. Your injury seems to be healing well anyway. Handle the photos yourself. I’ll come when I have time.” With that, she rushed out. My heart felt a chill. Ten years, and she still acted like this when she felt guilty.