Seven Years of Marriage, My Husband Let Her Write BITCH on My Dress
Chau · Completed · 4.8k Words
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Introduction
On the seventh wedding anniversary, I woke up in the lounge and found a big word "BITCH" sprayed with red paint on my chest.
The culprit, holding a spray-paint can, had a naive-looking smile on her face and said, "I'm doing you a favor. Your white outfit's way too boring."
I was just about to take action when my husband rushed in to protect her, frowning and scolding me: "She's just a little girl; she doesn't know any better. Do you have to be so petty?"
At this moment, looking at the man in front of me who had risen because of my family's influence, I suddenly laughed.
He probably forgot who had given him this overwhelming wealth.
I unscrewed the red-tipped thick paint pen and walked step by step towards the trembling girl.
"Your face is boring, too. Let me do you a favor."
As for my husband?
I'll make him know that without me, he's worse than a dog.
The culprit, holding a spray-paint can, had a naive-looking smile on her face and said, "I'm doing you a favor. Your white outfit's way too boring."
I was just about to take action when my husband rushed in to protect her, frowning and scolding me: "She's just a little girl; she doesn't know any better. Do you have to be so petty?"
At this moment, looking at the man in front of me who had risen because of my family's influence, I suddenly laughed.
He probably forgot who had given him this overwhelming wealth.
I unscrewed the red-tipped thick paint pen and walked step by step towards the trembling girl.
"Your face is boring, too. Let me do you a favor."
As for my husband?
I'll make him know that without me, he's worse than a dog.
Chapter 1
The sharp smell jolted me awake from my dream.
I looked down and saw a bright red word dripping across my coat.
"BITCH."
The paint was still running down.
"Oh, you're awake."
A young woman was shaking a spray paint can in her hand, looking down at me.
"I'm doing you a favor. Your white outfit's way too boring," she said with a smile.
Blood rushed to my head. I took a deep breath, then suddenly stood up, grabbed her long hair, and yanked it hard backward.
"Ah—!"
She screamed, her whole body falling backward out of control.
I gripped her hair, forcing her face close to the paint puddle, and shouted, "Clean it up!"
"Let go! You crazy bitch! Let go of me!" Victoria struggled desperately, her nails scratching several bloody red marks across the back of my hand.
"Amelia!" The break room door was pushed open, and Michael strode in.
He didn't fly into a rage like I'd expected. He barely even frowned.
He walked to the bedside, gently gripped my wrist, his tone mild but firm. "Let go first, okay? You're hurting her."
I let go.
Victoria immediately acted like she'd suffered some terrible injustice, stumbling into Michael's arms.
"Michael... it hurts so much..."
Michael looked down at her, his eyes going all soft and protective.
He lifted his hand and started gently massaging where I'd grabbed her hair. "You're safe now. I've got you."
After comforting Victoria, he finally turned to look at me.
"Amelia, are you just having a bad day or what? Why are you so pissed?" He sighed. "Victoria's just a little girl; she doesn't know any better. You're a grown woman—why are you putting your hands on her? What's everyone gonna think if this gets out?"
I pointed at the word on my chest and demanded, "A little girl would do something like this?"
Michael's gaze swept over the word "BITCH" on my chest.
His face finally darkened a little. "Victoria, you can't just call her that. Say you're sorry and we'll call it square."
Victoria's head shot up from his embrace. She raised her voice in disbelief. "You said I could do whatever I wanted at the company! You said no one could tell me what to do! Michael, you're going back on your word! You're a liar!"
Michael rubbed his temples, looking annoyed, but kept his mouth shut.
Victoria shoved Michael away and ran out. "I hate you!"
A trace of helplessness crossed Michael's face.
He automatically started to go after her, but then remembered I was standing right there and stopped dead.
He tried to explainm "Look, she just speaks her mind, okay? She doesn't mean anything by it. I'll have a word with her later and make her say sorry."
I forced down the absurd chill in my heart and took off the paint-stained coat with that nasty word on it.
He walked into the bathroom, came out with a hot towel, and bent down to wipe the few drops of red paint that had splattered on the back of my hand.
"Michael, who is your wife?" I asked.
His movements paused. "What kind of question is that? You are, obviously."
"Really?" I pulled my hand back, staying cool. "Then why are your employees calling her Mrs. Johnson?"
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