My Husband Chooses to Save His Lover's Daughter Instead

Chapter 8

The chaos in the room eventually died down, and the beating stopped. Miguel, bruised and humiliated, wasted no time calling the police. Unfortunately for him, I had already arranged for the hotel to disable the hallway surveillance.

The cameras inside the room had been strategically angled to avoid capturing any of the bystanders who had joined in. By the time security informed me of the police report, I had already ended the livestream and begun dispersing the furious patient families lingering inside.

As the crowd cleared out, Miguel, seething, grabbed the phone and called the hotel front desk. His voice dripped with fury. "What kind of security are you running here? Where's your manager? Get them up here, now! Do you want me to sue you? I'll make sure this hotel goes bankrupt! This isn't over!" He slammed the phone down, his chest heaving with rage.

Then, his phone vibrated. He grabbed it, expecting a response from the hospital, only to see his name plastered across social media. Half of the trending topics were about him. His fingers trembled as he clicked on one of the links, only to be greeted with clips of himself being beaten to a pulp.

Within minutes, netizens had dug up his identity, his full name, his hospital, his department. Panic gripped him. He frantically dialed the hospital president, desperate to explain. But the man's phone was overwhelmed with calls from reporters. Each attempt met the same cold, automated response: "The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable."

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he hastily typed out a long, pleading message to his superiors, swearing that the rumors were false and promising to explain everything once he returned.

The reply was swift and merciless.

[Don't bother coming back.]

Miguel's fingers slackened. His heart pounded in his ears. He turned off his phone, his mind racing, until something clicked. The livestream's camera angles. They had been… too deliberate. His eyes darted around the room until he spotted it, a hidden camera tucked discreetly in the corner.

Rage twisted his already swollen features. Just as he was about to call the hotel manager again, the sharp click of heels echoed through the room.

I stepped inside, a slow, cold smile playing on my lips.

"Looking for me, Miguel?"

His face contorted with a mess of emotions, fear, panic, confusion. He was deathly pale, though whether from the beating or sheer terror, I couldn't tell.

"Honey, why are you here?" he stammered, his voice quivering.

His eyes darted around, searching for any trace of Tricia. When he found none, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"You've seen the stuff online, haven't you? Don't believe it! It's all lies! I was framed!" His voice grew desperate. "Those people are just jealous of my success! They're trying to drag me down! Don't let them ruin what we have!"

He limped toward me, arms outstretched, trying to pull me into an embrace.

"Let's go home, and I'll explain everything. I swear, it's not what it looks like."

I took a step back. His bruised, swollen hand froze awkwardly mid-air.

Just days ago, he had been whining to his friends about how much he wanted to divorce me. How he couldn't stand being with me another day. But now that his world was crumbling, I had suddenly become his lifeline.

Pathetic.

The disgust in my heart was overwhelming. How had I ever fallen for someone like this?

Suppressing my disdain, I pulled out the divorce papers I had prepared long ago and tossed them in his face.

"Sign it. We're done."

His eyes widened as he scanned the document. "You want a divorce? Are you joking?"

"I don't agree to this!" His voice cracked with desperation. "I told you, I was framed! Why won't you believe me?"

"I love only you, honey!"

His knees buckled, and he dropped before me, clutching at my legs like a drowning man grasping for a lifeline.

If I hadn't seen the evidence with my own eyes, I might have fallen for his performance. But now? His theatrics only sickened me.

I had nothing left to say to him.