Divorced, I Exposed His Secret

On their wedding anniversary, Percival Churchill's first love attempted suicide again.

Percival left the reception without hesitation, abandoning Florence Wipere to face the hall full of guests alone.

Florence stood in place, champagne glass swaying, reflecting her delicate yet slightly pale face.

Whispers surged from all directions:

"It's that adopted daughter of the Churchill family—Yvaine Stewart again, right? How many times has she attempted suicide now?"

"Nine times, I think. Every time she threatens suicide, Mr. Churchill immediately rushes over, completely disregarding Mrs. Churchill."

"You don't know? Back then Yvaine and Percival were originally a couple. Mr. Cody Churchill forcibly separated them and sent Yvaine abroad. Now that Mr. Cody Churchill's health is failing and he can't control things anymore, Yvaine's been brought back by Percival."

"There's such history? Then what does that make Mrs. Churchill?"

"What? It means she has no self-awareness. Everyone knows she shamelessly insisted on marrying into the Churchill family back then. Mr. Churchill couldn't even be bothered to look at her..."

Florence listened to this gossip, smile frozen on her face, fingertips trembling slightly.

Three years ago, Cody had forcibly separated Percival and Yvaine.

Percival had seemed to lose half his life—refusing food and drink, falling seriously ill. It was Florence who'd kept vigil at his bedside day and night, personally cooking porridge and administering medicine, accompanying him through those darkest days.

The Wipere and Churchill families had a long-standing marriage arrangement. With Florence's attentive care of Percival, Cody saw everything and went with the flow, having Florence marry over.

Florence had liked Percival for a very long time. She'd agreed without much thought.

After marriage, Percival had always been lukewarm toward her. The two consistently slept in separate rooms.

But Florence didn't mind. She'd thought time could change everything.

She'd been wrong.

Percival had never loved her at all. The moment Yvaine returned, his entire heart was drawn away.

Florence walked to the banquet hall's center, facing the guests, and slowly spoke: "Everyone, I apologize. Percival has an urgent matter to handle. Today's reception ends here. Thank you all for attending. I've had farewell gifts prepared—please remember to take one when you leave."

Over three years, her greatest skill had become cleaning up Percival's messes, maintaining his dignity before everyone.

Guests dispersed in twos and threes. Some glanced at Florence before leaving, eyes holding sympathy, mockery, and schadenfreude.

Florence smiled back at each one.

Only after the last guest left and the banquet hall stood empty did Florence drop the smile from her face.

She stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the city's night scenery outside. Neon lights flickered, countless homes glowed, yet there was no warmth.

"Mrs. Churchill, are you alright?" Housekeeper Rhea approached, asking cautiously.

Florence turned around, voice calm: "I'm fine, Rhea. You go ahead. I'll clean up here."

Rhea hesitated, ultimately sighing before leaving.

Florence stood alone in the empty banquet hall, pulling out her phone. Her Instagram had already exploded.

Yvaine had posted twenty minutes ago.

Florence opened the photo, breath catching.

In the photo, two hands were intertwined, fingers interlaced. The one with prominent knuckles belonged to Percival, the slender one to Yvaine.

The background showed white hospital sheets. Yvaine wore a patient gown, leaning against Percival's shoulder with closed eyes, lips curved in a peaceful smile.

Below was Yvaine's caption: [We'll be together forever], tagging Percival, who had liked it.

Florence stared at that photo for a long time—so long the screen automatically dimmed, then brightened again in the darkness as she reopened it.

Fingers interlaced.

She'd been married to Percival for three years. He'd never once held her hand.

Once she'd accidentally touched his fingers. He'd jerked back as if scalded, gaze cold as if looking at a stranger.

Back then she'd told herself it was fine—he needed time.

Now she finally understood. He didn't need time. He simply didn't need her.

That place in his heart had always belonged to Yvaine—from past to present, never changing.

Florence exited Instagram. Her phone screen reflected her own face.

Since marrying Percival, she'd given up the opportunity to study abroad, willingly becoming a housewife.

Three years had long since ground her from that once-brilliant socialite into a haggard housewife.

Looking at that pale, lusterless face, she suddenly felt very unfamiliar with it—and ridiculous.

She'd loved someone with all her strength. In the end, what she'd received was him abandoning her for another woman.

Florence turned off her phone, placing it in her purse, taking a deep breath.

Enough.

She was truly tired.

When Florence returned to Churchill Villa, it was already eleven at night.

She didn't turn on lights, sitting alone on the living room sofa. Moonlight filtered through the window, coating her in a layer of cool silver-white.

She didn't know how long she'd sat when Percival finally returned.

The door was pushed open. Percival walked in.

He didn't turn on lights, seemingly assuming no one was home, heading straight for the stairs.

"You're back."

Florence's voice rang out in the darkness like a water drop breaking the stillness.

Percival's steps halted. He turned his head toward her on the sofa, casually acknowledging her without a second glance, continuing upstairs.

Soon, the sound of the second-floor bathroom running came down.

Florence stood up, walking to the staircase railing, picking up the suit jacket Percival had tossed there.

The jacket still carried the lingering scent of women's perfume.

Florence turned the jacket over. At the collar, she saw a lipstick mark.

A soft, gentle color—Yvaine's favorite shade.

Florence stared at that lipstick mark for several seconds, then slowly folded the jacket, holding it close, and went upstairs.

The second-floor master bedroom bathroom door stood ajar. The water had stopped. Percival emerged wrapped in a towel, hair still wet, water droplets sliding down strands onto his broad shoulders, following taut chest and abdominal muscles downward.

He possessed a face no woman could resist—at a young age becoming a household name on Wall Street as a business elite, taking over Churchill Group in his early twenties to become Silverlight City's youngest CEO.

Seeing Florence standing in the doorway, Percival's steps stopped.

He raised those deep eyes to look at her, brow slightly furrowed: "What is it?"

Before Florence could speak, Percival's magnetic voice sounded again: "I'm very tired today. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow."

With that, he moved to walk past her into the bedroom.

Florence extended her hand, blocking him.

Percival stopped, staring straight at her, impatience showing between his brows.

"Percival." Florence spoke, voice not loud but every word clear: "Let's divorce."