Her Mask, My Revenge

Chapter 1

Dark Vine, the sensational novel penned by my wife, Charlotte, took the internet by storm.

Adapted into a web drama, this melodramatic tale, brimming with infidelity and betrayal, captivated audiences, leaving them both heartbroken and enthralled. 

As the series gained traction, former classmates from Charlotte's middle school days emerged, confirming the story's uncanny resemblance to Charlotte's life.

The novel, told from the perspective of the "other woman," depicted a childhood sweetheart romance.

The male protagonist, blinded by the manipulations of the female antagonist, fell prey to her schemes, allowing her to usurp the rightful place of the female lead.

Throughout the narrative, the antagonist subjected the female lead to relentless bullying and false accusations.

Ultimately, the male protagonist uncovered the truth, embarking on a desperate quest to reclaim his lost love.

Their reunion, however, is short-lived as the female lead tragically fell victim to a heinous crime on the eve of their wedding, murdered by the antagonist's brother.

Unexpectedly, Charlotte wasn't the innocent female lead but the conniving mistress. And mirroring the tragic fate of the character, the real-life female lead, Mia, had met an untimely end just before her wedding.

Overnight, Charlotte became the target of online vitriol, branded as the most despicable author imaginable.

Netizens, unearthing her marital status, jumped to the conclusion that she had, in fact, ended up with the wavering, disloyal male protagonist. And they were convinced that I was the inspiration for this character.

But Charlotte's novel made no mention of me. I wasn't the male lead. My attempts to clarify this were swiftly deleted by Charlotte, who then proceeded to silence me entirely.

Instead of denying my supposed role in her novel, she fanned the flames, encouraging the attacks against me.

"So what if I wrote it from the other woman's perspective?" She taunted. "Without my novel, no one would even know Mia existed. She was just unlucky. I'll marry whoever I want. Why? Are you jealous?"

I knew she was doing all of this to protect the real male protagonist, her beloved Daniel. Success had gone to her head, transforming her into someone I barely recognized.

The harassment escalated, with radical fans lurking around our home.

As Charlotte was rarely present, I became their sole target. I was pelted with rotten eggs and vegetables, my car tires were slashed, and even the simple act of walking outside filled me with dread.

When I approached Charlotte, seeking a solution, her answer was divorce.

The once gentle and loving girl I knew had been replaced by a cold and hostile stranger.

"Ethan, how dare you come to me?" She spat, twisting the narrative to shift the blame. "A real man would handle this himself. Don't you dare point fingers at your wife!"

*****

It was my birthday, our first wedding anniversary. I waited for her all afternoon, hope dwindling with each passing hour. Finally, as night fell, she appeared.

Charlotte tossed a document onto the table, her voice laced with disdain. "Sign it."

"If you drag this out any longer, you'll only disgust me further."

Her demeanor was as haughty and impatient as ever. This was a far cry from the girl who had once held my hand, promising me that everything would be alright.

I paused, the steak I was about to eat suddenly turning to lead in my mouth.

"Tomorrow." I choked out, my throat constricting. "Let's talk about this tomorrow."

I couldn't bear to face this on my birthday.

The next second, she raised her hand and slapped me. The sting of her sharp nails was nothing compared to the pain that ripped through my heart.

"I've never met a man as pathetic as you." She seethed her words like venom. She grabbed my shirt, pulling me closer. "Get out! This isn't your home!"

"Ethan, you're nothing but a dog to me. And now I don't need you anymore. So get lost!"

She shoved me, forcing me to stumble backward, my bare feet unprepared for the cold, hard floor. It was only when she slammed the door shut that I realized I hadn't even had time to put on my shoes.

The ground was freezing, the wind biting at my exposed skin. I wandered aimlessly, my feet numb to the pain of the rough pavement beneath them.

As I left our building, I noticed several figures trailing behind me. Ever since Charlotte's rise to fame, danger seemed to lurk around every corner.

I deliberately led them toward a deserted alleyway, a reckless thought taking root in my mind: If something were to happen to me because of her, would she feel even a shred of remorse?

By the time I realized the gravity of my mistake, it was too late. I had underestimated their malice, their twisted sense of justice.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in my skull as an iron rod connected with the back of my head.

Blood, warm and thick, cascaded down my face. My vision swam, the world painted in shades of crimson.

There were several of them, men and women, their faces blurred and indistinguishable. I was outnumbered, powerless to defend myself against their fury.

"You disgusting scumbag! You two deserve to die!"

"This is for all the pain you caused! Rot in hell!"

Their enraged shouts drowned out my pleas for a reason. The pain was unbearable. My face throbbed, the metallic scent of blood filling my nostrils.

As their frenzy subsided, they finally took notice of my broken form, my breaths shallow and ragged. Fear flickered in their eyes.

"We went too far." Someone muttered. "Is he still breathing?"

"We didn't kill him, did we?"

A chilling voice cut through the panic. "It's too late to turn back now. We might as well finish him off."

"A scumbag like him? The world's better off without him."

Just then, the shrill ring of my phone shattered the tense silence. It was Charlotte's ringtone, a melody reserved solely for her. I wanted to silence it, wanting to protect her from this nightmare even now. But I was paralyzed, my body refusing to obey my commands.

One of them picked up the phone, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Well, well, well. Isn't Charlotte your wife? Why the formal address?"

He pressed the phone against my cheek, putting the call on speaker. Charlotte's voice, sharp and laced with irritation, pierced through the receiver.

"Ethan, if you know what's good for you, don't bother coming back. You're not welcome here."

They listened with morbid fascination, their laughter echoing in my ears. Then, a deep, unfamiliar male voice responded.

"Baby, are you done with your shower?"

The line went dead. My heart, already shattered into a million pieces, crumbled further.

Charlotte, did you really have to invite another man into our home the moment you threw me out?

Their laughter intensified, mocking my pain, my humiliation. They began to dig, their movements leisurely and deliberate, as if they relished the sight of my lifeblood seeping into the cold earth.

They left me there, buried alive, in a cruel jest to prolong my suffering. The weight of the dirt pressing down on me wasn't enough to suffocate me quickly. They wanted me to feel every agonizing second, to experience the slow, suffocating embrace of death.

My eyes, blinded by blood and dirt, could only perceive darkness. The sound of the earth falling around me was deafening.

As I drifted toward oblivion, I imagined Charlotte in the arms of another, her whispers filled with love and desire.

‘Charlotte, I owe you nothing.’

And with that final thought, I surrendered to the darkness.