Strike Back With My Ex-Husband's Rival

I—Eve Delacroix used to believe love was the most beautiful thing in the world. A feeling so intoxicating, so consuming, that it turned life into a dream. And Malcom? He was the dream itself. Every touch, every whispered promise, every stolen glance—it was the kind of love that poets wrote about, the kind that made people jealous. Our marriage was built on power, wealth, and strategy, but I had convinced myself it was more than that. That beneath the contracts and business deals, there was something real. Something true. Malcom Delacroix was handsome in an effortless way. Tall, with sharp cheekbones, blonde hair always styled to perfection, and deep brown eyes that held secrets. I admired him. Loved him, even. I adored him. My husband—the man who made my heart race with just a look. The one who held me close at night, making me believe we were unbreakable. Every morning, I woke up next to him and thought, 'I am the luckiest woman alive.' I dreamt of a family. A child who would inherit Malcom’s intelligence and my artistic touch. And when I saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, my heart swelled with a joy I had never known before. Tonight was supposed to be special. But love is a cruel illusion, isn’t it? One moment, it’s the sweetest dream; the next, it’s the knife twisting in your gut. And mine? Mine shattered in the most humiliating way possible. ***** The night of the business banquet was supposed to be a celebration. Malcom had just secured a billion-dollar deal, and I had stood by his side, smiling, clapping, playing the role of the perfect wife. The entire room had been watching us—admiring us. "A power couple," someone had murmured behind me. "They make marriage look effortless." If only they knew. I had felt like I was floating on air, my hand wrapped around Malcom’s arm, my heart pounding with anticipation. I had news—news that would change our lives forever. We were going to have a baby. For months, I had been longing for this. Dreaming about it. I had imagined the moment I would tell Malcom, how he would pull me into his arms, kiss me breathless, and whisper about how happy he was. But dreams were for fools. And I was the biggest fool of them all. We had just stepped out of the banquet hall when Malcom’s phone vibrated. He didn’t even glance at me before checking it. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered—something cold, distant. Then, just like that, the moment I had been waiting for vanished. “I have to go,” he said abruptly, already pulling away. “Something urgent came up.” I frowned, gripping his sleeve. “Now? Malcom, I—” “I’ll send James to pick you up,” he cut me off, already turning to leave. “Go home.” Go home. I stood there, speechless, watching as he strode toward his car without a second glance. The perfect gentleman, the devoted husband—the man who never let me leave his side at public events—had just tossed me aside like an afterthought. My hands clenched into fists. My heart pounded in my ears. I wasn’t stupid. I knew. I knew exactly where he was going. Or rather, who he might be going to. I had heard the rumors, but I always thought that these were merely lies spread to defame Malcom. Or so I thought. And James? It was definitely going to be hours before he came to pick me up. ***** The drive home after several hours of waiting till he got to my pick-up point, was a blur. I barely registered James greeting me as he held the car door open. The city lights flashed past, cold and indifferent. My hands trembled in my lap, my nails digging into my palms. Then my phone buzzed. A notification. A video file. No sender. No name. Just a single message attached: [Watch this.] My stomach twisted. My hands trembled as I tapped the screen. I hesitated. My heart screamed at me not to look, but my fingers moved on their own. The second I opened it, my breath caught in my throat. Malcom. In a hotel room. With Her—Roxy. A woman I had once thought was his cousin. I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. His hands roamed her naked body the way they used to roam mine. His lips traced her skin, his voice husky with words I thought were meant only for me. The moans. The laughter. The way he looked at her. Like she was his world. A sound escaped my lips—a strangled, broken thing. My stomach twisted, nausea rising in my throat. My vision blurred, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It wasn’t just thoughtless s*x. It was intimacy. It was betrayal in its purest, most gut-wrenching form. And the worst part? The worst part was that I didn’t even know who had sent me the video. A warning? A taunt? A cruel joke? I didn’t care. I could barely breathe. The video cut off abruptly. Another message popped up. [You deserve to know the truth.] The excitement I had felt earlier, the dreams I had for our child, shattered like glass beneath my feet. I barely noticed when the car pulled into the driveway. I stumbled outside and into the penthouse, my legs weak, my mind spinning. Every step felt like I was walking through water, heavy and suffocating. I needed proof. I needed something—anything—to convince myself this wasn’t real and just an edited version of some cheap framework. Because if it was real… Then I had just spent months of my life loving a man who had never loved me back. ***** Our bedroom was pristine, just as I had left it. The scent of Malcom’s cologne still lingered in the air. Everything was perfect. Except it wasn’t. Not anymore. I tore through his closet, my fingers trembling as I searched. Suit jackets, silk ties, crisp dress shirts—everything neatly arranged, as if he hadn’t just shattered my entire existence. And then I saw it. A white button-up. The same one he had been wearing in the video. I lifted it, my breath hitching. My stomach dropped. Lipstick. Bright red. Smudged against the fabric. A laugh bubbled up in my throat—sharp, bitter. How poetic. The perfect husband. The perfect marriage. The perfect lie. I clenched the shirt in my fists, my nails biting into my palms. My entire body trembled with rage, grief, humiliation. Then, behind me— Click. The door lock turned. Footsteps. And then—his voice. “Honey, I’m home.”