A painful marriage: Mr. CEO, let's get a divorce

In a dark corner of the bar.

The man toyed with the glass in his hand, watching as the wine slid slowly down the inner wall of the crystal. His eyes showed neither sadness nor joy, as if he were entirely oblivious to the noise and indulgence around him.

Yet, among the crowd, a voice so familiar it seemed engraved in his very bones echoed out, immediately catching his attention.

In that voice was a mixture of humility and desperation.

At the center of the dance floor, the dancers were gone. Only a burly gang leader and a woman with loose hair remained; she was kneeling, head bowed low.

The man gripped her hair tightly, pulling it back to her waist, and spat:

"It's just a kiss, isn't it? You think a bitch like you can react like that? You think you're better than me, Claude?"

"I'm just a girl who serves drinks. I don't know anything else. Please, forgive me," the woman replied, her voice trembling, her head still bowed.

No one noticed how her short nails were nearly digging into the polished tiles beneath her.

Strands of hair still covered part of her face.

The man in the corner frowned and slowly set his glass down on the table.

"You don't understand? Don't you know what it means to be a bar girl?" The fat man kicked her in the waist. "Trying to act innocent here, are you?"

"I've angered Mr. Claude. I apologize. If Mr. Claude doesn't want me, I'll ask Aunt Lynne to find him another girl," she said meekly.

"Shut up." The man hurled another kick, harder this time, right into her abdomen.

The frail woman flew more than a meter away.

Amid the jeers and laughter of the crowd, she crawled back to his feet.

Head lowered, her face was hidden behind her long hair.

Her once-sleek hair was now messy, cascading like a dark waterfall over her thin frame, making her look like a small, frightened creature. Nearly every man watching felt a dark desire stir within.

The fat man sneered at her, grabbed a bottle, seized her by the head, and forced the wine down her throat.

The scene was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a glass falling.

Following the noise, before he could even curse, the fat man turned around and hurriedly bowed with exaggerated respect.

"Mr. Dante. I didn't realize you were here. Please forgive me if I've disturbed you."

The man who had been sitting coldly in the corner, observing the entire scene, was none other than the only son of the Hendricks family from City B, the most promising heir of the Hendricks Group, second only to the Carwyn family: Dante Hendricks.

Once one of the city's most dazzling young elites, he had sunk into a life of debauchery and drink ever since the death of his former lover.

Rumor had it that the Hendricks and Carwyn families would soon be joined by marriage.

Dante kept playing with his glass, seemingly fascinated by the movement of the wine within it.

"Mr. Dante?" Claude bent forward with a forced smile.

"Bring me another drink," Dante ordered the bartender, as though he hadn't heard Claude at all.

His voice was low and hoarse, clearly drunk.

After receiving his drink, Dante fixed his gaze on the woman still kneeling in the center of the dance floor.

Under the blue glow of the glass, the scent of mint drifted through the air.

In the middle of the room, the woman's lifeless eyes met those of Dante Hendricks, cold and filled with contempt.

Every movement Dante made exuded calm authority. Except for the uneasy DJ, no one dared make a sound.

Claude assumed Dante wanted to continue watching, so he approached the woman again with a cruel grin, ready to replay the same act.

The crowd once again cheered and whistled excitedly.

Reading the hatred in the woman's eyes, Claude shot her a warning glare.

By chance, she let her gaze wander across the room, rage burning in her chest, until her eyes landed on the man in the corner, whose expression remained just as indifferent as before.

For a brief moment, she looked away and finally obeyed.

A wave of nausea rose from her stomach.

When the fat man was finally satisfied, he glanced at Dante, hoping for a sign of approval. But Dante simply stood up and walked out of the bar.

"Damn woman. I'll deal with you later."

Claude pushed her forehead away and threw the empty bottle to the floor. Thinking his "performance" hadn't pleased Dante, he hurried after him.

"Mr. Dante, if you're not satisfied, I can do whatever you want."

His voice faded into the distance.

When Claude and his men disappeared amid whistles and mocking laughter, the woman slowly rose to her feet.

She had been kneeling so long that every step felt like knives cutting into the soles of her feet.

"Hey, girl, don't leave. I'm not as cruel as Claude. Stay with me, I'll treat you right. Isn't that so, boys?" shouted a man blocking her way.

Clenching her fist so tightly her nails nearly cut her palm, the woman kept walking.

Her steps were heavy, but at last she left behind that repulsive place where soulless people laughed and drank.

Again and again, she scrubbed her lips with soap. Her skin was already cracked and bleeding, but Abigail kept rubbing in front of the mirror, like a soulless machine.

Beneath the strong smell of soap, the metallic scent of blood was barely noticeable.

"Why didn't you fight back earlier?"

A deep male voice, not entirely unfamiliar, sounded behind her.

At some point, Dante Hendricks had appeared beside the sink.

Abigail's movements stopped. Her eyes passed over Dante's face with coldness, and her hands pressed harder against the bar of soap.

The pain in her lips grew sharper, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart.

"You're not like her. She would never have given up."

"Stop humiliating yourself like this."

Dante's words struck the most fragile chord in Abigail's soul.

"Humiliating myself? Do you think everyone can live like you, rich people? You eat, drink, and play with others like they're trash. We don't have that luxury." Her voice trembled, yet it was steady as she looked straight at him.

"You could have refused," he replied calmly.

"Refused?" Abigail let out a bitter laugh, stepped closer, and pointed at his chest. "Do you know a girl who once had broken glass shoved into her body for refusing a client? She took her own life afterward. Is that how you want me to end up?"

The smell of alcohol coming from him made her dizzy.

Dante fell silent at her sudden outburst, and by the time he regained his composure, the woman was already gone from the bathroom.

At the entrance.

"Aunt Lynne, you know what just happened wasn't my fault," said Abigail bitterly to a middle-aged woman who still retained a trace of beauty.

"Not your fault? I told you to take care of the bar owner properly. This isn't a charity house. If you keep acting like some proud student, you can leave," the woman replied sharply.

"It won't happen again," murmured Abigail, lowering her head.

"If it weren't for your sister, I wouldn't have taken you in the first time. Next time, you're out," the woman said, walking away with the click of her high heels.

When the echo of her footsteps faded, Abigail picked up her worn-out bag and left.

She had already changed her black miniskirt for a white T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans.

The night wind tugged at her loose clothes; under the dim light, her figure looked even thinner.

That T-shirt had been a birthday gift from a bartender three years ago. He had bought it one size larger, planning to exchange it, but she insisted on keeping it. "When I grow up, it'll still fit."

But as the years passed, she had only grown thinner. Her body seemed to burn away its youth just to survive.

That bartender had been the only person who ever showed her kindness since she started working at the bar at fifteen. But six months later, he was beaten to death by thugs.

For no reason. Just because "they didn't like him."

That was how cruel the world was. Without money or power, a life meant nothing.

She was only eighteen, yet the weariness in her face made her look much older.

Only the deep hatred in her eyes reminded anyone that she was still young.

Her steps were heavy, each one draining what little strength she had left.

As always, she took the path toward the school, a dark road with no streetlights. Suddenly, the whisper of wind through the leaves made her stop.

Was it just the wind... or footsteps?

Beneath the thick shadows of the trees, only faint moonlight filtered through.

She took a small knife from her bag and gripped it tightly. She kept walking, alert.

After turning a corner, the footsteps disappeared.

She couldn't have been mistaken. Someone was there.

Abigail trusted her hearing and her instincts.

A little farther away, Dante Hendricks had also lost sight of Abigail's figure.

Frowning, he stopped, deep in thought.

At that moment, he felt something cold press against his back - a blade of metal.

"Don't move."

The voice was both familiar and unfamiliar.

Dante remained still, almost entranced by that voice, unbothered by the edge of the knife at his back.

Abigail was holding the knife firmly. Her eyes burned with rage.

"Don't follow me anymore," she warned in a low, trembling voice.

She didn't ask questions. She just warned him.

She had seen too many of the dirty games rich men played.

Annoyed by his cold, silent stare, she pressed the knife harder.

"I'm telling you for the last time, if you keep following me, I won't hesitate to use it. Do you hear me?"

After a long silence, Dante finally spoke in a deep voice.

"It's not safe for you to walk alone at night. I'll see you home."

He only wanted to accompany her home?

His eyes, dark as the night sea, were filled with confusion.

"See me home?" Abigail let out a mocking, bitter laugh. "Don't be ridiculous."

But that smile faded beneath the seriousness in his expression.

"I'm warning you one last time," she said coldly. "If you follow me, I won't be responsible for what happens."

She put the knife away and stepped back, slowly retreating until she disappeared into the pale light of the street.

The moonlight wrapped around her, and her figure grew fainter, as if in that moment it wasn't Abigail at all, but Orabelle looking back into his eyes.

When Dante came to his senses and ran after her, the street was already empty.

Silence returned, deep and complete, like his heart - a still lake from which something vital had been torn away.

And then, a cold voice broke the air.

"Who was that woman?"

"Who was that woman?"

Dante Hendricks knew that cold voice all too well - the kind that could freeze a man to the bone.

He looked up indifferently and, upon seeing Randolph Carwyn, walked past him without stopping.

Randolph placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Tazanna is looking for you," he said in a dry tone.

Dante brushed his hand away with disdain.

"I've told you many times, I have nothing to do with her. Randolph, don't ever come talk to me about that again."

In his once dull eyes flashed a spark of hatred.

It was a completely different look from the one he'd had a few minutes ago.

"Tazanna has a fever. She's been delirious all day and night, calling out for you," Randolph insisted.

Meanwhile, Abigail, after climbing over the school wall as usual, finally felt she could breathe.

But her mind was still filled with the image of Randolph Carwyn.

Under the moonlight, his cold, sculpted face looked like marble. She would never forget that indifferent gaze, one that seemed to look down upon the world from an unreachable height.

It was a different kind of coldness than Dante Hendricks's.

Dante's was the coldness of a man who had given up on life; Randolph's was that of someone who ruled over the world and despised its misery.

For the first time, Abigail understood what true fear felt like.

Everything that had happened that night seemed like a dream. It was hard to believe so much had occurred in just a few hours.

The night wind grew colder. Abigail crossed her arms for warmth and walked toward the dormitory building.

"Abigail." A voice and a tap on her shoulder made her jump.

Acting on instinct, she pulled out her knife, but when she saw her friend Rishima, she let out a sigh of relief.

"Crazy cat. You scared me to death."

"Hey, I was just worried. You didn't answer your phone," Rishima said, sounding offended.

Abigail glanced sideways at her without replying. She let her friend take her arm as they walked to the dorm.

Fortunately, they lived on the second floor; otherwise, Abigail might have slept outside.

"Abigail, did something happen?" Rishima asked curiously.

On normal days, even if Abigail came back late from work, they always chatted a bit before sleeping.

But that night, her dull, distant face said everything.

"It's nothing," Abigail said, trying to sound natural. "But if you see any suspicious men around the school these days, tell me right away."

Her voice was tense.

"What? Gangsters at school? Abigail, did you offend someone?" Rishima asked, frightened.

"Don't ask so much. Just do it if you see something strange," Abigail said, trying to hide her fear.

She knew Claude wouldn't let her go so easily. She had to be prepared.

"Alright," Rishima nodded.

The two climbed up the building's drainpipe to their dorm window.

A week later.

"Abigail, wake up. You're going to be late."

Half-asleep, Abigail grumbled,

"What's the rush... I don't have class this morning... let me sleep... I worked all night..."

Rishima yanked the blanket away.

"Get up. Dante Hendricks is giving a speech at school today. Everyone's there, and you're still sleeping."

"Dante Hendricks? Who's that?" Abigail asked, eyes half-closed.

"You're unbelievable," her friend exclaimed. "Dante Hendricks, the future head of the Hendricks Group, is the only heir of the Hendricks family. Every girl's dream."

But as she looked closer at Abigail, Rishima noticed her red, swollen eyes and traces of dried tears.

Had she been crying last night?

School auditorium.

Abigail looked at the man on stage - the same face that had watched her that night at the bar - and a chill ran down her spine.

Now, dressed in a suit with a serious expression, he seemed completely different.

There was no trace of the decadent young man drowning himself in alcohol, yet his eyes were still clouded with sadness.

"So that's Dante Hendricks?" Abigail whispered, tugging at Rishima's sleeve.

"Yes, why do you ask? Hey, where are you going?"

Abigail didn't answer. She stood up and began pushing through the crowd.

"I don't want to hear any more," she said, walking away.

"You're skipping Dante? What a waste," Rishima shouted, confused.

But she stayed, fascinated by the chance to see such a famous heir in person.

"Don't push me."

"Watch my clothes."

"Ouch, my foot."

"Sorry, sorry," Abigail murmured as she moved slowly through the students.

I shouldn't have come, she thought.

Not far away, a rough-looking man with a nasty grin turned to another.

"Boss, isn't that the girl from the bar?"

Claude lifted his head.

"What? ... Ah, it's her. Get her."

He had been searching for her for days without success, and now she was right in front of him.

When Abigail heard the shouts behind her, her face went pale.

She started running, pushing people aside.

Behind her, chaos erupted.

"Students, please stay calm," the host shouted from the stage.

But amid the noise, a familiar cry made Dante raise his head.

That voice...

Through the crowd, he saw a woman throwing whatever she could find at the men chasing her.

Was it her?

Without thinking, Dante left the stage and ran after her.

He hadn't seen her in a week.

He hadn't gone back to the bar since that night.

He'd thought their paths would never cross again.

But fate seemed to have other plans.

"Mr. Dante, where are you going?" someone shouted behind him.