What Happened To Mutte'S Wife Herris?

I gave him nine years. Nine years of stretching every coin, raising our son alone, sleeping on my side of the bed because I could not bring myself to take his. Nine years of telling Dave his father was working hard so they could have a better life. I believed it myself. Until I saw him on a public street with his hand on another woman’s waist, looking at her the way I spent nine years waiting for him to look at me. When he crossed the pavement it was not to apologise. It was to tell me she was his wife. Six months married. He told me to keep things calm, walked back to her, and introduced me as his cousin. The divorce papers came that same night. I needed a job immediately. For my son. For the bills that would not wait for me to finish falling apart. So I pulled myself together the way I always do and kept moving. I did not expect Mac Harlow. I did not expect him to run three blocks to return my dropped folder or offer me a job despite his sister’s calls to have me removed. I did not expect his daughter to find my son within ten minutes and decide they were already family. I did not expect to discover that the man I was starting to trust was connected to everything I was trying to leave behind. He did not know. I believe that. But Marshall knows now that someone else sees what he threw away. And he wants it back. He is nine years too late. Mac is looking at me like I am worth staying for. Not fixing. Not managing. Staying for. I spent nine years being someone’s afterthought. Never again.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

In their two years of marriage, Helma King’s husband had been home no more than ten times. The last time he was home, he asked for a divorce. In her devastation, she got into an accident and lost her memory! No longer blinded by love, she refused to humble herself for the sake of peace. Instead, she resumed her position as the little princess of the wealthiest King family. With her headstrong and sassy personality, she kicked ass and taught all the scumbags a lesson. During a show, a reporter asked, “Miss King, is it true that you filed for a divorce because someone stole your husband?” Helma King smiled. “He’s just a man. If she wants him, she can have him. There are plenty of men to go around.” Hearing that, everyone turned to look at Young Master Guller, Helma King’s ex-husband, who was scowling with bloodshot eyes.

Three years after my wife's and daughter's deaths, they came back from the dead. Turns out, my wife hadn't died at all. She'd faked it and married the son of the richest man in Notingdun City. Ever since then, she'd stepped into the glamorous life of a wealthy socialite. When I uncovered the truth, the shock hit me like a bolt of lightning. I confronted her face-to-face. She didn't even flinch. Instead, she sneered, "You think a penniless man like you deserves to be my husband? I've remarried and taken on a new identity. Stay out of my life, or don't blame me for what happens next." Her words cut deep. Even our daughter turned her back on me. Crushed, I let go for good. But not long after, she came back regretful and begged me to remember the vows we made on our wedding day: to never leave, never forsake. I looked at her and laughed coldly. "Yes, I did make that promise once. But sadly, my wife died three years ago."

Three years into a cold, contract marriage, Evelyn Vance realizes her sacrifice was for nothing. Despite playing the part of the perfect, distant wife to the ruthless tycoon Rhysander Bert, her father secretly gambled away the bailout money Rhysander provided, destroying the very legacy Evelyn sold her freedom to save. The story flashes back to the day the deal was struck. Evelyn’s father had pathetically tried to force Rhysander into a marriage pact to save his failing shipping company, only to be met with cold mockery. Just as they were being ushered out, Evelyn stepped from the shadows and negotiated her own sale. Instead of a romance, she proposed a three-year "merger." She offered Rhysander a PR makeover and access to exclusive port permits in exchange for capital and protection for her family's business. Impressed by her calculated, business-like stoicism, Rhysander agreed, with the lethal warning that he would ruin her family if she ever embarrassed his name. Evelyn had sacrificed her freedom for help. Years later, she meets the woman who was Rhysander's first love and she knows that her time to leave has arrived. The first love tries to cause trouble, however, Evelyn is not one to take insults lying down. She immediately defends herself. Rhysander gets drugged and sleeps with Evelyn, then she leaves the next day. Seven years later, Evelyn comes back to the country with her children, who are also Rhysander's children and they bump into each other at the airport. Rhysander is shocked and surprised to see her at the airport.

Everyone in New York knew Damian Moretti loved his wife. He removed anyone who questioned my place beside him. After five failed rounds of IVF, I finally saw two lines on a pregnancy test. That same day, I learned my husband already had a one-year-old son. Yet Damian still held the test in trembling hands and looked at me with the wonder of a man becoming a father for the first time. He touched my still-flat stomach and said, “We waited six years for this child.” I almost laughed. We had not been waiting together. I had been enduring injections, procedures, and one failed treatment after another while Damian was secretly raising another woman’s child. He had given the boy the medallion passed down through generations of Moretti men, along with a private home, guards, and a family trust. Damian had not replaced me. He had simply built another family in secret and decided I never needed to know. So I stopped waiting. I boarded a plane that would soon disappear over the Atlantic. Damian believed he could keep his wife, his son, and every lie under his control. He was wrong. This time, he would lose the only weakness he had ever admitted to having.

In the late stages of her pregnancy, my wife slipped away into the mountains with her childhood sweetheart, seeking some reckless thrill under the open sky. Fate, however, had other plans. She suffered a massive hemorrhage, and the two were rushed to the hospital. As a doctor, I took one glance at her condition and instructed the nurse to prepare for the cremation. In my previous life, I had risked everything to save her. On that very operating table, she and the child inside her perished together. Her childhood sweetheart, overcome with grief and fury, rallied others to accuse me of seeking personal revenge. Their rage was relentless, and they broke my hands. "A butcher like you, without medical ethics, deserves nothing less than eternal damnation!" they shouted, their words burning like brands on my soul. Yet I distinctly remembered—the surgery had been a success. Her vital signs had stabilized. Clinging to hope, I begged my in-laws to conduct an autopsy, to uncover the truth buried beneath the accusations. Instead, they called the police, who swiftly charged me with performing surgery under the influence of alcohol. Stripped of my rights, I was thrown into prison, where suffering became my only companion. Years later, upon release, I stumbled across a sight that tore what was left of my heart to shreds—my wife, alive and well, behind the wheel of a luxury car, accompanied by her childhood sweetheart and their child, living off the fortune I had worked tirelessly to build. Their betrayal didn't end there. Coldly and methodically, they lured me into a trap, casting me into a cement mixer to erase every trace of my existence. When I next opened my eyes, time had rewound itself. I was back on that fateful day, the one when her hemorrhage began.