My Mil Called Screaming That My Husband Was Dying Of Internal Bleeding. I Rushed Home From A Business Trip To Find Him Getting Married To His Ex. How Do I Destroy Them Without Getting My Hands Dirty?

Playing the Part

The morning sun pierced through the gaps in the dining room curtains, reflecting off the surface of the neatly set wooden table. Amara stood motionless in front of the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal with rhythmic, mechanical movements. She wore a comfortable home dress made of soft, light blue cotton with a loose fit, complete with a matching hijab that draped over her chest. Her appearance was simple and calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside her head.

She had only slept for two hours at the hotel before deciding to return to this house at 5:00 a.m., making sure her tracks were covered. She had to be the best actress today. She had to counter the theatrical stage built by Eleanor and Preston with a performance that was far more convincing.

The sound of the front gate sliding open and the roar of a car engine she knew all too well broke the silence. Amara’s heart pounded—a traumatic reflex she immediately suppressed. She took a deep breath, letting the savory aroma of cooking oatmeal fill her lungs to calm her tense nerves.

She heard the front door open, followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps and an incredibly poor attempt by her husband to act helpless.

“Amara, you’re back,” Preston’s voice was weak, hoarse, and filled with falseness.

Amara turned off the stove, turning her body with a facial expression she deliberately made to look swollen and full of anxiety. She ran towards Preston, who had just entered the living room. The man looked disheveled; his shirt wrinkled and his eyes red from lack of sleep, perhaps from exhaustion after the wedding night he celebrated on his wife’s suffering.

“Oh honey, my God, Preston!” Amara rushed over, grabbing Preston’s arm and helping him sit on the sofa.

She touched her husband’s forehead with the back of her hand. Cold. Of course it was cold; this man didn’t have a fever.

“Why did you come home alone? Eleanor said you were vomiting blood and in critical condition. Last night I was going crazy on the road. Why was your phone off all night?”

Preston leaned back on the sofa, closing his eyes while massaging his temples. “I’m sorry, honey. My phone died and I was too weak to find a charger. Last night was really bad. But after Mom gave me a massage and some herbal tea, I felt a little better. I forced myself to come home because I knew you’d be worried sick.”

Amara knelt beside her husband, hiding the glint of hatred in her eyes by looking down. As they were so close, Amara’s sense of smell caught something that made her stomach turn. Behind the scent of menthol rub deliberately applied to Preston’s neck, she could smell the faint, lingering fragrance of white roses and a sharp woman’s perfume. Jessica’s perfume.

The betrayal was so real that Amara felt like spitting in the face of the man who had been her companion for four years.

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better. I’ve made oatmeal and some warm ginger tea. You rest, okay? I’ll take care of everything,” Amara said with a trembling voice, pretending to hold back tears.

“You’re not mad that I made you panic?” Preston opened his eyes, looking at Amara with a gaze that feigned guilt, but Amara knew it was just fear that his secret would be exposed.

Amara shook her head slowly, her fingers adjusting the edge of her hijab. “How could I be mad at someone who’s sick, Preston? I was just scared of losing you. Eleanor sounded so terrified on the phone last night. She must have been devastated seeing you like that.”

“Yeah, Mom was really worried about me. She even called a spiritual healer because she thought someone had put a curse on me,” Preston lied so fluently, as if lying had become as natural as breathing for him. “Maybe from now on I’ll stay at Mom’s house more often so she won’t worry, at least until I’m fully recovered.”

Amara smiled faintly, a smile Preston interpreted as compliance, but it was the smile of a hunter watching her prey walk into a trap.

“Of course, honey. Anything for your health. I’ll pack a small bag with your clothes later, so if you need to go to your mom’s again, everything will be ready.”

Preston looked relieved. He gently stroked Amara’s head, a gesture that used to make Amara feel loved but now felt like the disgusting touch of a leech.

Gathering the Ammunition

Preston then went to the bathroom to clean up. As soon as the bathroom door closed, Amara’s expression changed completely. Her face, which had been full of affection, turned as cold as ice. She quickly got up and walked over to the shirt Preston had taken off and draped over the back of the sofa.

With quick, silent movements, Amara checked the shirt’s pockets. She found a small receipt from a jewelry store dated yesterday afternoon for the purchase of a pair of wedding rings. Not only that, but on the inside fold of the collar, there was a light-colored foundation stain that contrasted sharply with the dark color of Preston’s shirt.

Amara took out her phone, photographed the receipt and the foundation stain as additional evidence. Her hands no longer trembled. Every piece of evidence she found only strengthened her resolve. She placed the shirt back exactly where it was.

In her heart, Amara swore that her willingness to pack a bag for Preston wasn’t because she supported him staying at his mother’s house, but because she wanted the man to slowly and permanently leave this house. She returned to the kitchen, pouring the ginger tea into a mug with a steady hand.

In her head, she was already calculating which assets she needed to secure before the divorce papers were filed: the joint savings account, the deed to the house for which half of the down payment had come from Amara’s inheritance, and the car whose payments she had finished paying off.

The foolish and submissive Amara Reed had died at her mother-in-law’s window last night. All that remained was a woman counting down the days to her freedom while spoon-feeding her enemy with feigned affection.