ETHAN’S ULTIMATE RISE TO POWER

DIVORCE HER

The construction workers didn’t even give Ethan a moment to breathe, let alone a chance to clear out his shop. As soon as the notice was handed over, the engines of the bulldozers roared to life and lurched forward, metal jaws biting into his garage like ravenous beasts. The crashing of iron against concrete and the shrieking of tearing metal filled the air as pieces of his livelihood were smashed and scattered like debris in a storm.

“No—wait!” Ethan cried out, voice cracking. He turned to the man in the suit, desperation carved into his face. “Please—just give me five minutes! Let me get my tools, my equipment—please!”

But the man didn’t even blink. His expression was cold, impassive, as though Ethan’s anguish were background noise. He turned his back, muttering something into a walkie-talkie.

Ethan ran toward the lead tractor, waving his arms, yelling over the engine. “STOP! This is everything I have! STOP!”

But before he could reach the cabin, two workers jumped down and grabbed him. One slammed his elbow into Ethan’s gut, winding him. The other landed a savage punch across his face. The world tilted. He hit the ground hard.

Then brutal fists rained down on him. A boot cracked into his ribs, another into his jaw. One of the men yanked him up by the collar and smashed his head against the metal siding of the ruined garage. Blood spilled down Ethan’s forehead, mixing with sweat and dirt.

By the time they let him go, he collapsed like a rag doll on the gravel. He lay there, dazed, chest heaving, his vision blurry with pain and blood. Around him, the shop continued to fall—his tools, the engine blocks, his carefully built workbenches, all crushed beneath the relentless advance of the machines.

Through the bright sunlight and swirling dust, a shadowy figure appeared.

At first, Ethan couldn’t make out the person’s face—the sun was too bright behind the person, turning the person into a dark outline. Then the figure spoke, with a voice that was smooth, deep, and laced with cold amusement.

“Tch. You look like hell, Ethan.”

Ethan’s eyes widened despite the swelling. He knew that voice.

Martin.

Martin sauntered toward him, hands in his pockets, the picture of smug satisfaction. He stopped and looked down at Ethan, shaking his head with theatrical pity.

“All of this… could’ve been avoided,” Martin said, clicking his tongue. “All I asked was one thing. Just one. Divorce Helena.”

Ethan groaned, dragging himself up with trembling arms. Blood dripped from his nose, his left eye nearly swollen shut. But still, he stood—barely—and faced the man who had shattered his life.

“You son of a bitch,” Ethan rasped. “You think you can get away with this?”

Martin raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Don’t pin this on me, Ethan. I gave you an option. Hell, I even tried to be a gentleman about it. Offered you money—more than you’d see in twenty years under a car hood.” He stepped closer, his voice a sharp whisper now. “But no. You thought you could keep her. And this…” He pointed behind him, at the rubble. “This is the result.”

Ethan didn’t think. He clenched his fists and hurled his entire body into a punch that landed square on Martin’s face. The force knocked Martin off his feet. He hit the ground with a grunt, blood already gushing from his lip.

Fueled by rage, Ethan lunged. He straddled Martin and pummeled his face—again and again—knuckles crashing into skin and bone with satisfying cracks. “You bastard!” he shouted. “You ruined everything! Everything!”

Martin flailed beneath him, trying to shield his face, but Ethan’s punches broke through, splitting his lip, bruising his cheek, and knocking out one of his teeth. Blood smeared across Martin’s face and shirt like war paint.

“GET HIM OFF!” a voice barked.

Suddenly, rough hands grabbed Ethan’s arms and yanked him backward. Two guards held him tight, dragging him a few steps away while Martin lay dazed on the ground.

The other guards rushed to Martin, helping him sit up. His face was a mess—swollen, bleeding, barely recognizable. One of his front teeth had been knocked loose and blood oozed from a deep cut across his eyebrow.

Martin spat a glob of blood to the ground, wiped his lip with the back of his hand, and glared at Ethan with eyes burning like wildfire.

“You want a war?” he growled, his voice a twisted snarl. “Then you’ll get one.”

He limped to a nearby piece of twisted metal—a thick, rusted rod. He picked it up and turned to his guards.

“Hold that bastard.”

The two guards gripping Ethan tightened their hold, forcing him to his knees.

Martin approached slowly, teeth grit. “You should’ve taken the money.”

And then the rod came down.

The first blow cracked across Ethan’s shoulder, sending a searing jolt through his body. He cried out. The second strike landed against his ribs. Then another, and another. Martin’s face twisted with fury as he beat him, over and over, until Ethan slumped, half-conscious and barely breathing.

Ethan was barely conscious as the thick metal rod came down again and again. His body had long given up the strength to scream; only strained groans escaped his bruised lips. Martin struck him with fury—across the back, the legs, even the shoulders—until his arms grew tired and his breathing turned heavy and labored.

At last, Martin let the rod clatter to the ground with a loud clang. The two guards holding Ethan released him with a shove, and Ethan collapsed forward, falling flat like a ragdoll, his blood-smeared cheek landing right at the polished toes of Martin’s expensive shoes.

The world spun around Ethan. The taste of copper filled his mouth. Dust stung his eyes. His fingers twitched as he struggled to breathe.

Then he felt it.

Martin’s shoe pressing onto the side of his head.

“There,” Martin sneered, looking down at him with cruel satisfaction. “That’s better. That’s exactly where scum like you belong.”

Ethan flinched as Martin pressed harder, grinding his shoe against Ethan’s battered face.

“You should’ve taken the easy way out,” Martin hissed coldly. “But since you didn’t, I’ll teach you the hard way.”

He leaned slightly more weight onto Ethan’s head, forcing his face into the dirt and gravel.

“In this world,” Martin continued, voice low and venomous, “the poor… the dirty… the worthless like you were made to bow to men like me.”

Ethan was burning inside—his ribs throbbed, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and it felt like his entire chest was being squeezed by a vice. But through the pain, a fire still flickered. With a shaky breath, he muttered hoarsely, “Go to hell, Martin…”

Martin froze.

Then he let out a soft, disbelieving chuckle. “Still talking back?”

He slowly lifted his foot off Ethan’s head, stepped aside, and crouched down.

“Tell me, Ethan,” he said almost mockingly, “are you ready now? Will you divorce Helena, or must I continue to ruin what’s left of your pathetic life?”

Ethan turned his head slightly, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth. With the little strength he had left, he looked up—his voice just a rasp. “I’d rather die… than give her to you…”

Martin’s expression darkened instantly.

“You stubborn bastard!”

With fury blazing in his eyes, Martin drew back his leg and slammed his foot hard into Ethan’s stomach.

The pain was explosive. Ethan’s scream tore through the air, raw and ragged. It felt like something inside him had cracked—perhaps a rib, perhaps more. The wind was knocked out of him, his limbs jerked violently, and he curled inwards, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come.

Martin, standing tall again, pulled his phone from his pocket, panting slightly as he unlocked the screen. “Alright then,” he muttered darkly. “You want to play it the hard way? So be it.”

He scrolled through his contacts, lips curled in hatred, and tapped a number labeled Chief Donovan.

The call connected on the first ring.

“Sir!” came the trembling voice of the chief of police.

Martin didn’t waste a second. “I want your boys at the downtown mechanic shop. Five minutes. Not a second late.”

“Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” the chief barked back, not a hint of hesitation in his tone.

Martin hung up with a swipe, his eyes never leaving Ethan’s crumpled form on the ground.

“You’ll regret crossing me, Ethan,” he said calmly. “By the time I’m done, you won’t even have a name left.”

He slid the phone back into his pocket, standing tall, triumphant… while Ethan remained motionless, struggling to stay conscious.

Martin stood above Ethan, brushing dust from his sleeves with practiced calm as if he hadn’t just beaten a man nearly to death. His face was still flushed from the adrenaline, his voice low and threatening.

“The police will be here any moment now,” he said smoothly, his polished shoe nudging Ethan’s side. “But you still have time to change your mind, Ethan. You’ve got a few minutes left to rethink this stubborn decision and agree to divorce Helena. Do that, and maybe… maybe I’ll call them off.”

Ethan, his body crumpled on the gravel, lifted his head slowly, his lips split and bleeding. He coughed, blood trickling down his chin as he forced out a pained, defiant snarl.

“Go to hell, Martin… I’d rather rot in a cell than give you the satisfaction.”

Martin’s jaw tightened. “You’re really testing me—”

But just as he raised his hand, ready to strike Ethan again, his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He paused, irritation flashing in his eyes. He slipped the phone out and glanced at the screen.

A slow smirk crept across his lips.

He turned to Ethan with mockery dancing in his eyes. “Guess who’s calling?” he said, kneeling beside Ethan.

With deliberate slowness, he lowered the phone until it hovered in front of Ethan’s bloodied face. Ethan squinted through his swollen eyes, and what he saw made his heart skip a beat:

Helena Rodriguez.

His wife.

His mind stumbled.

Why was Helena calling Martin?

His heart hammered in his chest. He had always known Helena despised Martin. She’d shut down his advances, scoffed at his public flirtations, and reassured Ethan every time that she had no interest in the bastard. So why? Why now? What had changed?

Martin didn’t wait for an answer. With a triumphant smirk, he tapped the green icon and switched it to loudspeaker.

“Hey, sweetheart,” came Helena’s voice, warm and affectionate through the speaker.

Ethan felt something snap inside his chest.

Sweetheart?

Sweetheart?

His mouth fell slightly open. His breath hitched. It was as if the world suddenly slowed, as if time froze around him. Did she just…?

Martin caught the shattered expression on Ethan’s face and grinned wickedly, feeding off the pain like it was wine.

“Hey, beautiful,” Martin replied smoothly. “What’s up?”

Helena’s voice came again, playful, almost teasing. “I heard the mechanic shop of my pathetic husband is getting demolished. I assume you’re behind it?”

Martin chuckled. “Of course I am. The idiot refuses to divorce you. I gave him so many chances. But he’s stubborn. I had to push a little harder.” He looked directly at Ethan. “Aren’t you proud of me?”

Helena laughed softly. “Very proud, actually. You did great.”

Martin grinned like a fool, practically glowing in self-satisfaction. He turned to Ethan, reveling in the devastation carved into the poor man’s face. “Oh, and that’s not all,” he said smugly into the phone. “Apart from destroying his precious little shop, I’ve called in the police. Planning to have him locked up. That should teach him where he belongs.”

Helena hesitated for a moment. “That would be great… but I don’t want you to do that.”

Martin blinked. His grin faltered. “Why not?”

She exhaled slowly, her tone turning cool and soft. “There’s a formal function this weekend. Very important. And Ethan has to be there—as the son-in-law. If he’s in jail, it’ll cause a scandal. The press will eat it up. The Rodriguez name could suffer, and my father won’t tolerate that. So… no jail. Not yet.”

Martin clenched his jaw, his free hand curling into a tight fist. He hated being told no. But the Rodriguez family name… That was untouchable. He knew better than to cross it.

“Fine,” he muttered, seething.

“Thank you, darling,” Helena replied sweetly.

Martin’s pride flared again. “Will you come to the mansion tonight?” he asked softly, already imagining her presence.

“I’ll think about it,” Helena said simply, before ending the call.

The line went dead. Martin stared at the phone for a second longer, then slid it back into his pocket. He turned toward Ethan, who still lay on the gravel, shattered—physically, emotionally, spiritually.

“You’re a lucky bastard,” Martin said coldly, standing over him again. “Even though you’re worthless to her now, she saved your ass. But don’t get comfortable, Ethan. This doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

He took one slow step closer, the shadow of his form falling over Ethan’s broken body.

“You have twenty-four hours,” Martin growled. “That’s all. Divorce Helena… or next time, not even she will stop me.”