How To Confront Him For Treating Me Like A Doormat?

Three years into her marriage to Caleb Hampton, Sydney Wilson finally learned the truth: the woman he loved was his sister-in-law. On the night his brother died, Sydney saw Caleb's true nature. At the funeral, she did not even flinch when Caleb took a slap meant for his sister-in-law. She always knew he had married her because she was quiet, obedient, and easy to control. She proved it, even in the way she left him. No dramatic fights. No tearful confrontations. Just a divorce quietly signed, sealed, and hidden. What Caleb didn't know was that they were already divorced. Sydney had stopped being quiet and was already seeing someone else. The day Sydney's breakthrough cancer drug took the world by storm, she received accolades and glory. Everyone cheered—except Caleb, who dropped to one knee, his eyes bloodshot with desperation, begging for a second chance. But a possessive arm wrapped around Sydney's waist, declaring to the world, "Sorry, but she's getting married. To me."

He has been sleeping with her. I know. I’m his mate. For now. I rejected Orion last week, but instead of getting my freedom, all I managed to do was pissing off the arrogant Alpha heir. He didn’t accept my rejection. He left our mate bond half severed and slept with her, knowing his betrayal is setting my soul on fire. Just to teach me a lesson. “Ready to beg, little wolf?” My dear mate, the man who once swore me his soul, asks me in our mindlink when he rides her harshly, her moaning piercing my ears. He is asking which I would choose. Cave in? Or death. What I didn’t see coming, was him losing it upon the news of my death. He shouted with his eyes mad red: “I forbid you to leave me!!!...please, come back...”

My husband, Chandler Goodwin, claims that he doesn't understand what the phrases "silent treatment" or "giving the cold shoulder" mean. Yet, in the three years we have been married, he has never once spoken to me sweetly. The first time we have a falling out, I remain proud and dignified. We end up ignoring each other for seven days straight. The seventh time we have a cold standoff, I start to panic a little. However, despite trying all sorts of methods, he doesn't back down. The 11th time it happens, I have already learned to work through my emotions myself. Chandler doesn't even need to say anything before I take the initiative to apologize first. I simply think that he's just a naturally indifferent person, that nobody can warm his stone-cold heart. Then, on the third year of our marriage, I accidentally ruin his dress shirt while ironing it. Chandler doesn't say a word, but that very night, he packs his things and moves into a hotel. On the third day of being blocked, I head to his company with a handwritten apology. While passing by his office, I spot him leaning over to shoot his angry assistant a doting smile. "I'm sorry for raising my voice at you just now and upsetting you. It's been 57 minutes since you started ignoring me. Please stop giving me the cold shoulder, alright?" I freeze on the spot, the apology letter in my hand practically burning my fingers. As it turns out, it's not that he doesn't know what the silent treatment means—it's just that I've never been the person he wants to coax.

Loving Liam had become a major role in my life since I became his wife. I cherished him with everything I've got just the same way he does. It seemed perfect and a complete bed of roses. However, three years later, Liam turned around and became a completely different person, upon the arrival of his ex. I begged Liam for the bare minimum. Things I didn't need to ask for before he gave me in the past. He roamed around the city with his ex whom everyone thought were still together while I, his wife remained a home decor in his home. I accepted my fate. I accepted he could go on living his best life with his ex, while I remained his faceless wife, but why did he give me divorce papers?

My mom had a sudden heart attack, and the medical bills were piling up faster than I could breathe. I was desperate, so I turned to my rich boyfriend, hoping he could help, or at least offer some kind of solution. But instead of the support I expected, he unleashed a tirade that hit harder than anything I'd ever heard. "So this is why you're with me? Just for my money? You're no different from those other women throwing themselves at me. You're all the same—pathetic and shameless!" Before I could even react, he shoved me out the door. Later, when he finally understood the full story, he handed me a bank card, no questions asked. "Candice," he said quietly, his tone almost remorseful. "The password is your birthday." I didn't say a word. I just let the card drop onto the floor and walked away without looking back.

I had stayed up all night to get the merchandise. It was then callously discarded by my boyfriend. On that stormy day, I knelt beside a dumpster and searched through bags of trash. Yarden Scott stopped in his tracks. “What are you looking for?” “My merch.” I did not look up. “I reminded you three times. It was in the left drawer of the sideboard.” His shirt was soaked from the rain. He subconsciously said, “Yvonne’s car broke down. I went to pick her up. I forgot.” He forgot. Last week, he threw away the commemorative ticket stubs I had stayed up all night organizing because he thought they were scraps of paper. The month before, he threw away the brooch my grandmother left me because he thought it was an old button. Every single time, he brushed it off with the same excuse. I gave a mocking smile. “You always remember everything when it comes to Yvonne, don’t you?” Yarden carefully wiped the hair tie Yvonne Jordan had left behind and answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She’s your best friend. That means I have to treat her very well. “If I keep her happy, our relationship will last. Isn’t it all for your sake?” I watched his practiced movements and felt completely drained. I could not say another word. I had reminded him countless times before not to touch the drawers in my study. He ignored me and threw away my collection of rare stamps. I told him again and again that I was allergic to mangoes. At a group dinner, he still ordered a mango shake for me. But when Yvonne casually mentioned that she had trouble sleeping, he started sending her music to help her sleep every single day. If Yvonne wanted to eat at her favorite restaurant, he would pull every string he could to get a reservation. To him, everything about me was a burden. Everything about Yvonne was worth his time. If that were the case, then I should not bother him any longer.