The Ordinary Doctor’s Revenge

CHAPTER 3

Chloe picked up the paper with two manicured fingers.

Her eyes scanned the page, landing directly on the bold red seal at the bottom.

NO BIOLOGICAL RELATIONSHIP.

For a moment, the breath caught in her throat, her eyes sharpening with an intensity Ethan had never seen before.

But there was no panic. No pale cheeks, no trembling hands, no desperate scramble for an excuse.

Instead, she calmly gripped the paper with both hands.

Rip.

The sound of tearing paper echoed sharply across the room. She folded the halves together and tore them again, letting the scraps flutter down onto the table like snow, settling among the discarded lemon wedges and oyster shells.

"What is this supposed to be?" she asked, her voice dangerously low. She brushed a stray piece of paper off her cuff. "Some kind of sick joke?"

Ethan looked at the pile of shreds between them, his face devoid of emotion.

He had known she wouldn't break down and beg for forgiveness. Chloe was a global sensation; she played roles for a living, and she had spent sixteen years playing the devoted, perfect wife to an ordinary doctor.

"Do you know how many times I ran that test?" Ethan’s voice dropped into a low rasp. "Three separate times. Three different accredited laboratories."

He met her cold gaze dead-on.

"Every single one gave me the exact same result. Sophia is not my daughter. She’s probably another man’s child—the child you had while I was taking double hospital shifts to pay for your acting coaches.”

"Ethan, you—"

The warmth in Chloe’s eyes vanished, replaced by the chilling, haughty disdain she usually reserved for rogue paparazzi or incompetent assistants.

"You went behind my back, right?" she hissed, leaning forward. "You took our daughter's DNA and snuck it into a lab behind my back?"

Ethan almost laughed out loud. The absurdity of it struck him like a slap to the face. “You betrayed me for sixteen years, made me raise a child that isn't mine, and somehow I'm the one on trial for verifying the truth?”

"Sophia is fifteen years old," Ethan said, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth throbbed. "Add the nine months of pregnancy, and that's sixteen years. Sixteen years, Chloe. You looked me in the eye every morning and fed me lies."

"Enough!" Chloe slammed her palm onto the table, making the wine glasses clink against it.

"I think you’ve drunk yourself completely stupid," she sneered, looking at him as if he were a petulant child throwing a tantrum. "You sit there, hungover, repeating ridiculous fabrications like a lunatic. Look at you!"

She stood up, pulling a pair of gloves from her designer handbag with crisp, commanding movements.

"Get up. You're coming home with me right now. And until I decide you've regained your sanity, you are not leaving the house."

Ethan sat motionless.

In the past, whenever Chloe used that tone—that authoritative, adamant tone of a woman who commanded millions—he had always backed down. He had deferred to her, smoothed things over, and apologized just to keep the peace in their home.

He had lived like an obedient dog for sixteen years.

Something inside Ethan snapped. The last tether holding his dignity together shattered into pieces.

"What do you take me for?" he asked softly.

Chloe’s brows drew together in annoyance. "What did you say?"

Ethan slowly pushed himself up from the table, standing to his full height. He looked down at her, his expression numb.

"I'm not going back," he said. The words caught in his throat for a second, burning his chest, but he forced them out anyway. "In fact... I want a divorce."

The room went dead silent.

For the first time since he had met her twenty years ago, genuine, unscripted shock registered across Chloe’s face. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes widening in utter disbelief.

"A divorce?" Her voice pitched higher, laced with mounting rage. "You want to divorce me? Have you completely lost your mind, Ethan?!"

The air around her practically vibrated with rage. Years of fame, wealth, and control had given her a terrifying presence when crossed.

"Do you have any idea what my name is worth?" she spat, stepping closer to him, her eyes flashing with venom. "Do you have any idea what happens to someone like you if you walk away from me? Without me, you wouldn’t even have a life worth living!"

Ethan didn't flinch. He didn't argue. He just stood there, looking at her with hollow, dead eyes, like a man who had already walked through hell and no longer cared about the flames.

His utter lack of reaction infuriated her more than any shouting match ever could.

Chloe snatched her Birkin bag off the chair, turned on her designer heels, and stormed toward the exit. "You're pathetic," she threw over her shoulder before slamming the heavy door shut so hard the frame rattled.

Silence shrouded the room.

Ethan slowly sank back into his chair, his shoulders slumping as the last bit of strength left his body. All that remained was a deep, unbearable ache.

Sixteen years.

He remembered the cramped studio apartment they shared when they were twenty-four. He remembered cooking simple noodle soups for her after she failed auditions, wrapping her cold hands in his, promising her that one day she would shine. He remembered holding her in the delivery room, weeping tears of joy when the doctor handed him a little baby girl.

It had all been a stage play. A beautifully crafted lie.

A single tear escaped his eye, tracking silently down his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it away. He just sat there in the room, letting the grief wash over him.

Less than five minutes later, the handle turned.

The door opened softly, and Chloe walked back inside.

The rage was gone. Her posture was relaxed, her expression shifted into an impossibly soft, serene mask. She looked radiant, composed, and effortlessly breathtaking.

She walked over to the table, pulled out her chair, and sat down across from him again, as if she had only stepped out to powder her nose.

"Ethan," she spoke softly, her tone carrying a gentle, almost motherly warmth.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching her.

"Apologize to me," she said, resting her elbows on the table and leaning her chin in her hands. Her eyes searched for him with a sweet, coaxing smile. "Admit that you said something stupid because you are drunk."

She reached across the table, her warm, manicured fingers gently covering his tense knuckles, stroking his skin with practiced tenderness.

"And don't ever mention the word 'divorce' again," she murmured. "Promise me you'll stop drinking, too. Do that... and I'll pretend none of this ever happened."

Her smile widened slightly—the soft, perfect smile that millions of fans worshipped on TV screens across the country.

"We'll go home together," she whispered. "And everything will be just like it was before."