Her Ex-husband Is A God Of War

Charles never believed in signs, but that night, the silence in the house felt... wrong.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand.

12:13 a.m.

She should’ve been asleep by now. He padded to the sitting room.

The TV was still humming. He expected to find her curled up with a throw blanket, phone in hand.

But the couch was empty. Her wine glass was there. Her phone, too.

“Emmy?” he called softly.

No answer.

He checked the back door. Locked. Kitchen? Empty. The lights upstairs were off—except one.

Then he heard it.

A sharp gasp.

“Faster!”

His heart stopped.

That wasn’t the TV.

It was coming from the guest room. His breath caught. His legs moved on instinct. The closer he got, the louder it became.

Moans. Skin slapping. Her voice. The door was ajar.

He pushed it open—slowly.

And froze.

His wife. Naked. On top of a man he had never seen before. Muscles like a regular gym hitter, a Rolex gleaming on his wrist as he grabbed her hips.

Her eyes met Charles’. She gasped, mid-moan. Froze.

The man turned. "Shit."

Charles didn’t yell. Didn’t cry. He lifted his phone.

Click.

One photo.

Click. Click.

Two more.

Then, slowly, he lowered it. “Happy early birthday,” he said.

It was just minutes ago that his search bar glowed on his phone's screen: what do you get for a woman who has everything.

He could answer the question himself without the help of the blog posts now. Nothing—you offer her nothing.

Charles bolted out of the room before the two could get off the position. Rush to their room downstairs, locked it.

He can't think right now. He's running crazy.

Leaning against the door, he opened the gallery. The photos glared back at him—undeniable.

He heard bangs. Before her voice. “Open this door, Charles! Stop acting like a kid!”

He slowly opened it.

“What?” His voice was calm—too calm. Deadly.

“You misunderstood—” she started.

“You were riding him, Emmy. I was here, searching for birthday ideas—like a fool.”

“You’re overreacting—as always.”

“Overreacting? You brought that man into this house. I was here, waiting for you to come to bed.”

Her face stayed blank.

“I have pictures.”

She blinked—fear, maybe—but it vanished as fast as it came.

“And what?” she snapped. “You’ll run to my parents? You think they’ll care?”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped closer. “You eat my food, sleep under my roof, and still have the guts to act betrayed? Charles, be grateful I even married you.”

He swallowed hard.

“Ever since we got married, what have you offered me?” she spat.

Charles raised his head. “Loyalty.”

She scoffed. “Pathetic.”

He turned. Grabbed a bag. Clothes. Whatever he saw. It was over. There was no way he'd spend another hour here.

“Grow up, Charles. Men like you should be used to disappointment.”

Charles said nothing. Not because he was stunned—but because silence hurt her more than any insult ever could.

“Babe, you okay?” A male voice—the damn man— asked as his footstep drew closer.

Charles threw a shirt inside the bag. He grabbed his shoes, those ones too went inside the bag.

“Has he deleted the pictures?” the man asked.

“No,” Emmy said.

The man came inside. “What are you waiting for?”

Charles didn’t reply. He zipped the bag.

A sudden kick to his back slammed Charles to the bed.

Pain flared through his ribs.

“Bastard,” Roger muttered, stepping closer. “I was going to take it easy on you.”

Charles turned his head just enough to see the man. The same man who’d just been inside his wife. Well-groomed, rich, polished—and now pissed.

“You think I’ll ask you to delete the pictures?” Roger sneered. “Guys like you? You’re born pathetic. You don’t deserve a woman like Emmy. Hell, I don’t know how she even ended up with you.”

He took a step forward. “Now hand over the damn phone before I count to three.”

Charles rose slowly, brushing dust from his shirt. Then he stepped close. Close enough to smell the cologne on Roger’s neck.

He leaned in, whispering, “Scared of what I might do with them?”

Roger stiffened.

“You should’ve considered that before walking into this house like you owned it.”

Suddenly, Roger’s hand shot to Charles' throat.

“You son of a—where’s the phone?!”

Charles chuckled, voice raspy under the grip. “Emmy, your man’s panicking. I thought no one would believe me?” He mocked.

Roger shoved him hard. Charles hit the wall with a grunt and slid down.

He looked up through the haze of pain.

Roger walked closer again, slower this time. “I was going to give you mercy. Man to man. But now?” He snorted. “You’re just a cockroach living in your wife’s shadow. Is this even the first time she’s been with me?”

From the doorway, Emmy hissed. “Roger, just get the damn phone. I’ll handle the rest.”

Charles glanced at her. Same face. But she looked different now—not like the woman he got married to almost two years ago.

“He was supposed to be asleep,” she muttered. “What was he even doing roaming the house?”

Roger squatted and grabbed Charles by the chin.

“Last warning. Where are the pictures?”

Charles’s knuckles cracked. Then, in one smooth motion…He punched.

Roger flew across the room, crashing into the dresser with a thud.

Charles stood, unbothered, brushing off his sleeves like he’d only dusted off a jacket—not a man.

Without a word, he picked up his luggage, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the front door.

“Charles!” Emmy’s voice cracked, running after him. “Don’t get past that door!”