From 104 Degrees to Triumph: The Wife They Tried to Kill

My husband, Matthew, was on a ski trip with his mistress, and his assistant, Stella, sweetly told me the Henderson project needed sorting, fever or not.

When I tried to call in sick, Matthew scoffed, dismissing my 104-degree fever as "drama."

After eight years of being treated like dirt, humiliated and controlled by him, I calmly told him I wanted a divorce, but he only laughed, reminding me he paid for my ailing father' s expensive medical treatments.

Minutes later, a company-wide Slack poll popped up: "Is Gabrielle's divorce threat for real this time?"

Matthew voted "Fake," and my colleagues piled on with ridicule.

When I typed "It's real. I've hired a lawyer. And I quit," I knew my life was about to explode.

Still reeling, I went to the office to deliver my resignation, only to be met by Stella.

In a horrifying live company video call with Matthew, she had maintenance workers dump buckets of ice water on me, drenching my feverish body.

I collapsed, hitting my head on a glass table, and the world went black.

Waking in the ER with a concussion, Matthew stood over me, fuming about the cost and the "scene" I'd made, completely devoid of concern.

Then came the news: my father's life-saving procedure had been cancelled while I was unconscious.

It was Stella, who had used my phone to cancel it and steal the $50,000 bonus Matthew had promised me, gloating that she was Matthew' s ultimate problem-solver.

My father was gone.

Killed by their casual cruelty.

But as the raw agony tore through me, I realized something cold and clear: they had pushed me too far, and now, they would pay.

I would take nothing from Matthew but my freedom, and then I would watch their carefully constructed world burn.

The thermometer read 104°F. My head felt like it was splitting open, and every muscle ached. I clutched my phone, my fingers trembling as I tried to dial my husband, Matthew.

I just needed to call in sick.

But my call went straight to voicemail. Again.

I tried the office line instead. Stella, Matthew' s executive assistant, picked up on the first ring. Her voice was sickly sweet.

"Gabrielle, darling. What can I do for you?"

"Stella, I can' t come in today. I have a fever, a really high one."

A theatrical sigh came through the phone. "Oh, you poor thing. But Matthew' s on his ski trip in Aspen, you know, with Tiffany. He left me in charge. And he specifically said that the Henderson project mock-ups need to be sorted. It' s just sorting files, Gabrielle. Even with a little fever, you can handle that."

Her words were laced with condescension. The Henderson project was a multi-million dollar deal I had single-handedly saved with a brilliant last-minute design, working myself into the ER for exhaustion. Now, Stella wanted me to sort the paperwork for it.

"I can' t, Stella. I' m really sick."

"Don' t be so dramatic," she snapped, her sweet tone gone. "Matthew hates drama. Get in here, or I' ll tell him you' re refusing to work."

The line went dead.

Desperate, I tried Matthew' s cell one last time. He answered, his voice distant and annoyed, the sound of laughter and splashing water in the background.

"What is it, Gabrielle?"

"Matthew, I' m sick. I have a 104-degree fever. I told Stella I can' t come in, but she' s forcing me."

He scoffed. The sound was like a physical blow. "Stella' s in charge. It' s just a little work. Stop being so dramatic."

That was it. Eight years of this. Eight years of being treated like dirt, of being isolated and humiliated. The fever, the exhaustion, his casual cruelty-it all crashed down on me.

"Matthew," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I want a divorce."

He laughed, a cold, ugly sound. "A divorce? And who' s going to pay for your father' s medical bills? That fancy treatment isn' t cheap. Don' t forget who holds the purse strings, Gabrielle."

He hung up.

A moment later, my phone buzzed with a notification from the company' s Slack channel. It was a new poll, created by Stella Ross.

"Is Gabrielle' s divorce threat for real this time?"

The options were "Fake" and "Real."

I watched as the votes for "Fake" poured in. One after another. Matthew' s name popped up, voting "Fake." Then came the comments, a torrent of mockery from my colleagues.

"She says this every year, lol."

"Drama queen needs attention."

"Matthew should just cut her off already."

Stella added a comment: "Don' t worry, everyone. I' ll make sure she gets to work. The Henderson files won' t sort themselves!"

I stared at the screen, a bitter smile touching my lips. They thought this was a game. They thought I was the same broken woman I' d been for years.

They were wrong.

My finger hovered over the screen, then decisively tapped "Real."

Then, I typed a message into the channel for everyone to see.

"It' s real. I' ve hired a lawyer. And I quit."

I didn' t wait for the fallout. I left the channel and blocked every single number from the Scott Development company. My escape plan was already in motion. For years, Matthew had controlled me with my father' s medical bills. He paid for the expensive neurological treatment but gave me no salary. He forced me to live in the unfinished, unfurnished basement of our lavish home while he paraded a string of mistresses through the master bedroom upstairs.

My hope, my entire plan, rested on a $50,000 bonus Matthew had promised me. The bonus for saving the Henderson deal. It was the exact amount I needed for my father' s upcoming critical procedure. He had promised it would be in my account today.

With that money, I could be free.

My resignation letter was simple and direct. I printed it, my hands still shaking, and drove to the office. The fever was a raging fire in my body, but my mind was a block of ice.

I walked into the sleek, modern lobby of Scott Development, a building whose original award-winning concept I had secretly designed in college, a fact only Matthew and I knew.

Stella was waiting for me at the reception desk, a triumphant smirk on her face.

"I knew you' d come to your senses," she said, reaching for the letter in my hand.

I pulled it back. "This is my resignation, Stella. I' m here to drop it off and clear out my things."

Her smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of fury. "You can' t be serious."

"I am."

She snatched the letter from my grasp and, without even reading it, ripped it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter to the marble floor.

"You' re not going anywhere," she hissed. "You' re going to go to your desk and sort those files."

When I didn' t move, her eyes narrowed. She pulled out her phone. "Fine. Let' s see what Matthew has to say about this."

She initiated a company-wide video call. Her face appeared on the large screen in the lobby, and a moment later, so did Matthew' s. He was in a hot tub, snow-covered mountains in the background. A young woman with bright blonde hair, Tiffany, was clinging to his side, giggling.

"Matthew, darling," Stella said, her voice dripping with fake distress. "Gabrielle is here, and she' s being completely insubordinate. She tried to give me this ridiculous resignation letter and even destroyed it when I told her you needed her to work!"

The company chat feed exploded on the side of the screen.

"Fire her!"

"What a psycho."

"Teach her a lesson, Matthew!"

Matthew looked from Stella' s pouting face to my image on the call. I must have looked terrible, pale and sweating, my eyes burning with fever.

He didn' t see a sick woman. He saw a possession that was malfunctioning.

"Stella," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Teach her a lesson."

"What should I do?" Stella asked, feigning innocence.

A comment popped up in the chat from one of the junior developers. "It' s hot in the office. Maybe she needs to cool down. Dump some water on her."

Stella' s eyes lit up. "That' s a great idea."

She gestured to two maintenance workers who were watching the scene unfold with nervous curiosity. "You two. Go get the water coolers from the break room. The big jugs. Dump them on her."

The men hesitated, looking at me with pity.

"Now!" Stella shrieked. "Or you' re both fired!"

They scrambled to obey. I stood frozen, not from fear, but from a profound, chilling sense of disbelief. This couldn' t be happening.

They returned, each hauling a heavy five-gallon jug of ice water.

On the screen, Matthew was watching, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Do it."

The first wave of icy water hit me like a physical assault. It shocked the air from my lungs, my feverish body seizing from the sudden cold. The second jug followed, drenching me completely, my clothes plastered to my skin, water pooling at my feet.

The room started to spin. The faces on the screen, the mocking comments in the chat, Stella' s triumphant face-it all blurred into a dizzying vortex. I took a stumbling step backward, my legs giving out.

My head connected with the sharp edge of the glass coffee table behind me.

There was a sickening crack. A flash of blinding pain.

The world went black.

The very last thing I heard was Matthew' s voice, no longer cruel and mocking, but high-pitched with panic.

"Stella! What the hell did you do? Get her to a hospital! Now!"