Dear Husband, I Have Nothing To Lose Now, So Let Me Ruin You

Helen's POV

“You’re traveling with your girlfriend again?”

I stood by the bedroom door, watching him toss designer shirts into a leather suitcase. He didn’t even look up. He didn’t have to.

The silence in the room was as usual, filled with the familiar scent of his expensive cologne and my mounting despair.

“Hmmm, you should be used to the frequent traveling by now, my lovely wife,” he said, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that cut deeper than any knife.

“The last time you traveled, you stayed away for three months, Leo. I kept calling and calling, but you ignored me.”

I felt the heat rising in my chest, that familiar mix of anger and helplessness.

“Leo, you left your family for three whole months. I had to lie to your children every single day. I had to find the words to tell them their father was away on an important business trip, but the truth?” I paused, a stray tear rolling down my cheek. “The truth is that you left your wife and three lovely children to hop from country to country with your different girlfriends. Do you even care how that feels?”

Leo finally stopped packing. He straightened his back and turned to face me. There wasn't an atom of remorse in his eyes. He looked at me with the kind of cold indifference you’d show to a stranger on the street.

“So what, Helen?” he snapped. “If you’re so tired of this marriage, you know where the door is. You can walk away whenever you like.”

He stepped closer, his presence looming over me.

“Oh, wait. I forgot. You can’t leave, can you? Because I am your life. If I wasn’t in the picture, you wouldn’t be living this life—not even in your wildest dreams. You should be grateful, Helen.” He let out a dry, mocking laugh. “I picked you up from the gutter. I took you out of the dirt and made you who you are today. I made your family who they are today.

Don’t you ever forget that.”

He snapped his suitcase shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. He brushed past me, hitting my shoulder slightly as he walked toward the door. I stood there, frozen. I knew that look. I knew this routine. Seeing him again would probably happen in another three months, if I was lucky. Or unlucky.

To the outside world, I was the luckiest woman alive. People saw the cars, the designer bags, and the mansion in France, and they assumed I was living a fairy tale.

But inside these gold-plated walls, I was the loneliest soul on earth.

Leo has never loved me the way a husband should love a wife. To him, I was a trophy he bought and paid for, a piece of furniture that was supposed to stay quiet and look pretty.

He disrespected me to my core. It wasn’t just the traveling; it was the way he brought different women into our home, into our matrimonial bed.

Whenever I tried to find my voice, whenever I complained, he beat the hell out of me. He used his fists to remind me of my place. The last time I gathered the courage to confront one of his side chicks, I ended up in a hospital bed. She had called him, crying about how I "scolded" her, and he came home like a madman. He beat me mercilessly that night, leaving me bruised and broken while he went back out to comfort her.

Eight years of this nightmare called marriage.

And then there were the infections. Every month, I found myself back at the clinic, treating something new. I have begged him, cried at his feet, and pleaded with him to at least use protection if he wouldn't stop cheating.

But the last time I brought it up, he landed a hot slap across my face that made stars pop out of my eyes. My ears rang for hours afterward.

Since then, I stopped interfering. I learned to look and overlook. I had everything money could buy, but I had nothing that mattered. Leo would build apartments for his girlfriends and take them on lavish vacations to the most exotic corners of the globe, yet I, his legal wife, had never even stepped out of the four walls of France since we moved here. I was a prisoner in a palace.

I couldn't deny the truth in his cruel words, though. He did make life comfortable for my family. Before Leo, we were struggling to put food on the table. He moved my parents into a good house, sent my siblings to the best schools, and made sure they never lacked. He was right; we were nothing without his money. That was the chain that kept me bound to him. But at what cost? Will I live like this forever?

The memories of his cruelty were constant, but the most painful one was from just a year ago.

Leo was planning a trip to the Maldives with his main girlfriend, Lucia. At the time, I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant with our third child. I was heavy, exhausted, and terrified.

The night he was set to leave, I grabbed his arm, my voice trembling.

“Leo, please. My due date is so close. I need you by my side this time. Please don’t go.”

He didn't even blink. He just shook my hand off his arm as if I were a piece of lint.

“You have a phone, don’t you? Call your best friend Betty. She lives on the next street; she can stay with you. I have a flight to catch.”

He left that night without a backward glance. A few hours later, the contractions started. If it wasn't for Betty, I don't know what would have happened. She has been my only lifeline in this cold city. When I called her, she didn't hesitate. She rushed to the house, drove me to the hospital, and stayed with me through the grueling hours of labor. I gave birth the next morning.

I messaged Leo to tell him his son was born. He didn't call. He didn't fly back. He stayed in the Maldives with Lucia for another month, enjoying the sun and the sea while I sat at home healing from a tear and nursing a newborn all by myself.

Betty hated him. She never hid it. Every time she saw a new bruise or heard about a new girlfriend, she would blame me for staying.

“Helen, look at yourself,” she would say, her eyes filled with frustration. “You are dying slowly in this house. This isn't a marriage; it’s a death sentence. Leave him!”

I would always give her the same tired excuses. “Betty, think about my background. Think about my parents. What will happen to my children? It’s not that easy.”

Eventually, Betty stopped pushing. She told me she wouldn't advise me anymore. “When you’re ready, Helen, you’ll know the way out. I just hope it’s not too late when that day comes.”

It was a hot afternoon, the day after Leo left for his latest "Zanzibar trip." I woke up feeling terrible. My body was wracked with a fever that wouldn't break, and a strange, unnecessary cold shiver kept running down my spine. I had no appetite; even the smell of my favorite soup made me nauseous.

A pit of dread formed in my stomach. My last child was only a year old. Was I pregnant again? The thought sent a surge of panic through me. Another child meant another decade tied to Leo. I couldn't do it.

I decided to go to our family doctor to run some tests. I needed to know what was wrong, secretly hoping it was just a severe bout of malaria or perhaps the exhaustion finally catching up with me.

I sat in the waiting room of the hospital, my hands shaking in my lap. I looked around at the other women—some were glowing, some were tired, but none looked as hollow as I felt. I kept thinking about my children. What kind of future would they have with a father like Leo? What kind of mother was I, staying in a house where I was treated like a dog?

“Excuse me, ma’am? Mrs. Helen Whitmore?”

I startled, standing up quickly. “Yes, that’s me.”

“The doctor will see you now.”

My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. God, please, I whispered under my breath. If you save me this time, I will be more careful. Please don't let me be pregnant. I wondered if it was another infection. My mind was a rollercoaster of "what-ifs."

I walked into the office, and the doctor signaled for me to sit down. He was a middle-aged man with a kind face, but today, his expression was unreadable.

“You can have a seat, Mrs. Whitmore,” he said politely.

I sat on the edge of the chair, my knuckles white as I gripped my handbag. The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity. He was looking at the folder in front of him, flipping through pages while I held my breath. I couldn't take the suspense anymore.

“Doctor... please,” I blurted out. “Am I pregnant?”

He looked up at me, his eyes softening. “Mrs. Helen Whitmore, you are not pregnant.”

A massive weight lifted off my shoulders. I heaved a sigh of relief so loud it filled the room. I actually felt a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. Thank God. I wasn't trapped by another pregnancy. I could breathe.

“Mrs. Helen,” the doctor said. His voice was lower now, almost a whisper. He didn't look relieved. “The tests show something else,” he continued, his voice steady but heavy. “You’re HIV positive.”