The Revenge Of The Hideous Ex-wife.

003.

“Yeah..I think,”

He took a pause and continues, “Danielle’s coming to stay for a few days. She's missing me,”he says quietly.

Silver lowers her arm, turns her head. “She’s back?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, small and boyish.

Silver continues, “I really envy the relationship you have with your sister, wish I had one,”

Kip smiles, then leans forward to plant a kiss on her nose bridge, “You’ve got me now. Huh? And Danielle’s really good at this stuff. Weddings, parties, the whole circus. Figured she could help us plan. Venue, flowers, whatever you want, she'd make it perfect.”

A soft laugh escapes her. “We’re really doing this. Planning a wedding. God..I'm fulfilled”

“Me too.” He leans down, kisses the corner of her mouth. “I told you—For the rest of my life. Starting now.”

She rolls toward him, cups his face, thumbs brushing the stubble along his jaw. “Okay. Invite her. I want it to be perfect too.”

They go on and on, planning their wedding. How many guests, where to spend their honeymoon till the day finally came.

**

The wedding of Silver Anderson and Christopher “Kip” Anderson is the event of the season: the Plaza ballroom glitters with roses and champagne, Silver radiant in ivory lace, Kip beaming as he slips the ring on her finger, and the internet crowns them the perfect couple. Her parents appear briefly—Victor escorting her down the aisle, Elena dabbing tears for the cameras—then vanish before the first dance, sparking whispers of disapproval that the tabloids devour for days. The night ends in sparklers, vows, and a kiss that promises forever, but the fairy tale begins to crack the moment they return to the penthouse.

Because reality settles in fast. But she chose to ignore it.

That first night back, Silver walks through the door late from a reshoot, expecting Kip’s usual warm embrace. Instead, he sits on the couch, arms crossed, eyes cold. “Why so late?” he asks, voice flat. She explains the director’s last-minute changes, the extra takes. He stares at her for a long beat, then mutters, “Sure. Whatever you say.” The words drip with doubt, hinting at something uglier—cheating, lies, suspicion. Silver’s stomach twists, but she chalks it up to him being pissed about the hours. She apologizes softly, kisses his cheek, and goes to bed alone.

The next morning, she wakes early, makes coffee, and apologizes again before leaving for work. Kip softens—smiles, pulls her close, kisses her deeply. “I overreacted,” he says. “I just miss you when you’re gone.” For the next two weeks, Silver makes sure to leave set early, coming home before dark, cooking dinner, curling up with him on the couch. She thinks they are healing.

Then work ramps up. Her fame surges after the series she's working on goes to the cinema, buzz, and the studio demands more—longer hours, weekend shoots, press junkets. Silver starts texting Kip ahead: “Running late tonight, love you.”

Most days, he replies sweetly—“Take your time, baby. I’ll wait up.” But some days, the responses turn sharp: “Again?” or “Fine, do what you want.” On those nights, he greets her with silence or a clipped “You’re home,” then turns away in bed. Silver tells herself he is just sulking, missing her the way she misses him. She kisses his shoulder, whispers apologies, and promises to make it up.

One crisp afternoon, she decides to surprise him—finishes early, grabs his favorite takeout, and slips home mid-day. The foyer feels wrong the moment she steps inside: too quiet, air thick, a faint scent of perfume that isn’t hers. Her pulse quickens. She sets the bags down silently and follows the sound—a low, rhythmic moan drifting from the guest room.

She stands frozen at the threshold of the guest room, fingers still curled around the door handle, mind refusing to name what her eyes are already piecing together.

Kip is there.

Not alone.

A woman kneels before him—one of her father’s house staff. Lila. Quiet, always averting her eyes whenever Silver passed her in the old Rowan mansion. Now Lila’s blouse is unbuttoned, skirt shoved high, Kip’s hands fisting her hair as he guides her mouth along his c**k with slow, deliberate thrusts. Lila’s lips stretch around him, cheeks hollowed, eyes half-closed in concentration. Kip’s head is tipped back, throat working on a low groan, hips rocking gently into the wet heat.

The world tilts.

Silver’s ears ring. Her vision narrows, like she’s underwater, like the room has pulled away and left her floating in something thick and suffocating.

Kip looks up.

Their eyes meet.

For a split second, nothing moves. Not Lila. Not Kip. Not Silver. The moment stretches—elastic, cruel—before reality snaps back.

Kip pulls out with a wet pop, c**k glistening, still hard. Lila gasps, scrambles back on her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Baby—” Kip’s voice is thick, hoarse, and panicked.

Silver stumbles backward as if struck.

The door slams shut behind her, the sound echoing through the hallway like a gunshot.

She doesn’t remember running. Only the burn in her chest, the way the walls blur, the way her name leaves Kip’s mouth over and over again as though it means something now.

“Baby—wait!”

She doesn’t.

She reaches the stairs and grips the railing as her knees buckle. The house she once loved—the house she decorated, defended, built a life in—suddenly feels hostile. Every picture frame, every soft rug, every shared memory turns sharp, accusatory.

She makes it outside before the tears come.

They come violently.

Her body folds in on itself, hands clutching her stomach as sobs tear out of her throat. Her lungs ache. Her head throbs. Her heart—God, her heart feels like it’s being ripped open slowly, deliberately.

Footsteps pound behind her.

Kip grabs her wrist.

She spins on him.

The sound of her hand connecting with his face is sharp, final.

Again.

Again.

“Don’t touch me!” she screams, hitting his chest, his arms, his face—anywhere she can reach. “How could you? How could you do this to me?”

He doesn’t fight back.

That, somehow, makes it worse.

“I was lonely,” he says, breathless, frantic. “Silver, I was lonely. You’ve been working so much, and I felt invisible. I felt—”

“Lonely?” Her laugh is hysterical. Broken. “You were lonely, so you humiliated me in my home?”

“I made a mistake,” he insists. “It didn’t mean anything. It was nothing.”

Nothing.

Silver stares at him like she’s seeing him for the first time.

He cries.

Real tears. Desperate ones. He kneels in front of her, grips her legs, presses his forehead against her knees like a penitent sinner.

“You’re my wife,” he says. “You’re everything. Please don’t leave me.”

And Silver—Silver hates herself for what come

s next.

Because she wants to believe him. After all, there's no perfect marriage.

But bad habits never die.