When I Stopped Being Jealous, My Billionaire Ex Went Mad

Ever since I remarried Vincent, I had cured myself of jealousy. I stopped being paranoid. I never crept out of bed in the middle of the night to check his phone anymore. Even when he brought random girls up to our second-floor home theater on a whim, I would thoughtfully tell the housekeeper to send up dessert and red wine. Everyone assumed I had sold my soul for his fortune, that I was just a pampered trophy wife with clipped wings, completely helpless without him. Later, when I was seven months pregnant, Vincent ordered me to brave a raging snowstorm just to deliver clothes to an Instagram model. I agreed with a compliant smile. Yet, seeing how calm I was, he grabbed my chin in a sudden burst of rage. "Why aren't you jealous? Don't you love me anymore?" Instead of throwing a fit, I met his gaze steadily. "Didn't you say that to be your wife, I had to stop being so jealous?" "Doesn't loving you mean giving you your freedom?" "I gave you what you wanted. Why aren't you happy?" At two in the morning, the winter wind howled outside. Groggy, I picked up my buzzing phone, saw the missed call, and dialed right back. Vincent answered. His voice sounded hoarse and low. "Asleep?" "Chloe wants to wear your designer kimono to soak in the hot spring. Bring it over now." I answered mildly, "Okay." There was a brief pause on the line before he hung up. I sighed and struggled to sit up. Hearing me move, Martha hurried into the bedroom and helped me out of bed. "Ma'am, was that Mr. Hayes calling again?" As my pregnancy progressed, even basic movement had become an ordeal. The heavier my belly grew, the more inventive Vincent became with his demands. One day, his executive assistant looked pale, so he made me brew soup and drive it to her. Another time, some starlet needed jewelry for a gala, so he demanded I bring my emerald necklace so she could look important. At first, I had been so hurt and furious that I spent sleepless nights sobbing into my pillow until dawn. Over time, numbness set in. Eventually, even when Vincent told me to wash his mistress’s feet, I just forced a smile, held my pregnant belly, and slowly crouched down. Martha looked at me with deep concern. "Ma'am, let me go instead. You’re heavily pregnant and the blizzard is terrible. I’m scared something will happen to you..." I smiled bitterly. "Martha, don't you get it? He wants me to do it. If you go, he'll fire you on the spot." "You're the only person left in this house who still talks to me." I got up, put on an overcoat, and wrapped a scarf around my neck. The chauffeur was already waiting by the curb. I took the garment bag and slid into the back seat. The cold draft stung my face. My hands were swollen from the pregnancy, making my diamond wedding band uncomfortably tight. I looked down and tried to pull it off, but no matter how hard I yanked, it wouldn't budge. Vincent had taken his ring off a long time ago. After we remarried, he claimed wearing it drew too much attention and upset his side chicks, so he simply tossed it into a random drawer. The car crawled through the snow for half an hour. The roads were slick, and the driver didn't dare speed. Vincent's call came through again, sharp with irritation. "Why aren't you here yet?" "Almost there," I murmured, watching the pitch-black night outside the window. My mind drifted back years ago. Right after I graduated from college, Vincent was flying all over the country closing an acquisition. To surprise me on graduation day, he showed up running a fever of a hundred and four, clutching a huge bouquet of sunflowers—my favorite. He had looked completely worn out, but the moment he laid eyes on me, his fatigue vanished. "Sweetheart, no matter how far apart we are, I’ll always come to you." "It's just a little bug. Don't worry about me." Back then, his love was fierce and unmistakable. But once he had me, he grew bored. And now, I was bored, too.The car pulled up to the Moonlit Springs resort. I took the garment bag and walked inside. Chloe stood behind me, wrapped only in a plush bathrobe. I kept my eyes down. "I brought your clothes. I'll take off now." Vincent sat submerged in the steamy thermal pool, his dark eyes fixed on me. "What's the rush?" He offered a shameless smirk. "It's freezing out. Doesn't Mrs. Hayes want to join us for a soak?" He emphasized "Mrs. Hayes" with deliberate bite. I pressed my lips together. "I won't interrupt you two." His expression darkened. "Serena, you live off my dime. I ask you for a simple favor, and you’re already throwing an attitude?" "What do you want me to do? I'll do it." I gave him a bright, spotless smile. Vincent frowned. "Chloe doesn't know how to tie a kimono properly. You need to dress her." "Sure." Chloe shrugged off her robe, revealing skin marked with fresh hickeys. Her eyes glittered with smug triumph. "Thanks for dressing me, Mrs. Hayes." I picked up the robe, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. The silk garment was intricate, requiring multiple sash ties around the waist. By the time I finished, sweat was beading on my forehead. Chloe went out of her way to be difficult. "Mrs. Hayes, you tied it way too tight. How is Vince supposed to undo it later?" I loosened it as told, but she immediately found another flaw. "The collar is completely crooked. Have you ever done this before? You're so clumsy." I stood up, bent down, and adjusted it again. A dull ache began throbbing in my lower abdomen. I bit my lip hard until the sash was finally secured. Vincent watched the whole display from the water, his expression icy. I had been married to Vincent for nine years. During the first five, I was the revered Mrs. Hayes. Everyone in high society knew the unwritten rule: offend Vincent and you might survive, but offend his wife and your family business would be ruined overnight. No one in our circle had dared utter a harsh word to me. Now, a cheap car show model could humiliate me openly, all because she had Vincent's backing. Chloe spun around barefoot on the marble floor. Her eyes curved into a sweet, girlish crescent. "Vince, do I look pretty?" Vincent’s eyes darkened. "Sweetheart, you look gorgeous in anything." Sweetheart. That was what he called every single one of them. I had zero interest in watching their little performance and turned to leave. Vincent called out again. "I bought you a diamond necklace. Come take a look." He was making up for taking my emerald necklace last time. It was his favorite routine: humiliate me, then toss me an expensive peace offering to give us both an out and keep up appearances. I found it almost laughable. "Vincent, you know I don't care about jewelry." "Save it for your other girls. I'm going home." Chloe bit her lip, jealousy flashing across her face. In a sickeningly sweet voice, she purred, "Vince, if your wife doesn't want it, why don't you give it to me?" The man who had been smiling a second ago snapped. "Who said you could speak while I'm talking to my wife?" "Get out!" Chloe froze, her face instantly draining of color. Vincent suddenly lunged out of the water, his hand trembling as he clamped onto my jaw. "Serena! Are you dead inside? She’s parading right in front of your face! Get jealous! Why aren't you throwing a fit? Don't you love me anymore?" Facing his manic glare, I slowly lifted my eyes. Every syllable fell cool and deliberate. "Didn't you tell me that to be your wife, I had to stop being jealous?" "Loving you means giving you your freedom. I gave it to you. Why aren't you happy?"That night, Vincent and I rode back to the estate together. He looked miserable, staring out the window the entire ride. As we neared the gates, he suddenly asked, "How many months along are you?" "Almost seven." Vincent let out his trademark mocking chuckle. "Get rid of it." He gave me a lazy, detached glance. "Bringing this kid into the world is just setting it up to suffer, don't you think, Serena?" He reached out with long, cool fingers and brushed them softly across my eyebrow. His tone was unnervingly tender. I froze, a chill sinking deep into my bones. "Just kidding. Look at your face. You went through hell to get pregnant—how could I make you abort it?" He pulled back, his usual indifference snapping back into place. When the car stopped, he got out without glancing at me once. My hand instinctively rested on my rounded belly. He was right about one thing: I had suffered endlessly for this baby. I used to hate anything bitter. Even swallowing a capsule made me cringe in disgust. When Vincent learned that, he used to keep gourmet chocolates in his coat pockets. Every time I took medicine, he would gently pop a sweet truffle into my mouth. Getting pregnant this time hadn't been easy. Vincent was always "too busy," and whenever he did have free time, he spent it blowing off steam with other women. To conceive, I had swallowed countless foul-tasting herbal concoctions without blinking. I was terrified of needles, yet I let fertility shots puncture my abdomen over and over until my skin was a map of dark bruises. Vincent remained in a foul mood all evening. When he wrapped his arm around me in bed as usual, he muttered abruptly, "I'm not seeing Chloe anymore." He held his breath, waiting for my reaction. I stayed silent for a long time. Impatient, he grabbed my wrist. "Your husband is talking to you. You're supposed to answer." I turned my head toward him. What difference did it make without Chloe? There would just be an Ashley, a Brittany, or someone else. I gave him another obedient smile, looking genuinely happy for him. "Whatever makes you happy." Vincent snapped. He threw back the duvet and stormed out of the bed. As he grabbed his clothes to leave, my quiet voice cut through the room. "Vincent, did you forget why we got divorced the first time?" Now it was Vincent's turn to go silent. After a long pause, he clenched his jaw, his voice thick with raw frustration. "Serena, what am I supposed to do with you?"I first met Vincent at a charity gala. I was a sophomore in college, interning at a marketing firm. Hearing that a major corporate investor we were courting would be at the event, I took a gamble and crashed the party to impress my boss. I mistook Vincent for that investor and chatted him up for nearly half an hour. I never forgot the dazzled look in his eyes when he first saw me. We exchanged numbers that very night. One thing led to another, and soon we were dating. Everyone said I had hit the jackpot. Less than a year into the relationship, Vincent proposed. He treated me like royalty. Expensive gifts and massive flower arrangements flooded my apartment constantly. He wanted the whole world to know he was madly in love with me. There were romantic getaway anniversaries, and despite his crippling fear of heights, he went skydiving just because I wanted to. Our lavish, high-society wedding still had articles floating around online. I never figured out exactly when his heart began to wander. All I remember was that after we slept together one night, he looked completely bored. While lounging on the terrace talking to a buddy on the phone, he brought me up. He said, "I'm tired of it. Married life with Serena is so dull." "She's constantly clinging to me. It's suffocating." He began looking for thrills outside our marriage. The women came and went in an endless rotation. At first, I went completely hysterical. I even tracked down his mistresses and confronted them face-to-face. I lost my mind and smashed every dish in the house. Then Vincent brought home a college student. She was nineteen, youthful and innocent. That time, he seemed genuinely infatuated. He showered her with gifts, pouring the same meticulous effort into surprising her that he had once reserved for me. Her name was Clara. Vincent kept her fiercely protected. She didn't even know I existed. Until I tracked down her university campus, slapped her in front of everyone, and tore into her with every venomous word I had. A crowd of students and professors watched as the girl broke down in tears. On my drive home, my car was rammed. Vincent had orchestrated it. I was six months pregnant at the time. I was rushed into emergency surgery, clinging to life by a thread. The baby was lost. When Vincent finally showed up at the hospital, his face was completely devoid of emotion. "Learned your lesson yet? Cross her again, and you won't be Mrs. Hayes anymore." Terrified that I might hurt Clara again, he shipped her off to London that very night. My screaming and sobbing only earned me his deepest disgust. After the miscarriage, severe depression pulled me under. Night after night, I dreamed of the child I had lost. In the dreams, she was a gorgeous little girl who clung to my neck, sweetly calling me Mommy. Insomnia set in, followed by auditory hallucinations. I could hear phantom baby cries echoing down the halls. When Vincent saw me again, this was what he walked into: Hair tangled and wild, clutching a tattered rag doll, running barefoot through the mansion. Not even the maids could hold me back.Vincent rubbed his temples in exhaustion. He felt no sympathy for me. He simply ordered the staff to lock me inside the estate, forbidding me from stepping foot outside without his permission. Then he went right back to his nightlife, bringing multiple women home at a time. During those months when my mind was shattered, one of his side chicks deliberately baited me toward the balcony, and I fell. My left leg suffered a catastrophic fracture, leaving me permanently disabled. To this day, I still walk with a noticeable limp, enduring constant, deep aches. When Vincent visited me in the hospital, his first words were pure accusation. "You're completely out of your mind!" "Serena, how can you be so consumed by jealousy? Every man in our social circle messes around, but at least I actually care about you! Did you really have to destroy yourself like this?" "A successful man like me was never going to settle for just one woman! Can't you just cure yourself of this pathetic jealousy?" He pinched a cigarette between his fingers, sounding thoroughly drained. "Let's get a divorce, Serena." "I can't stand being around you for another second." I stared at him, the light behind my eyes dying out completely. Every desperate plea for reconciliation I had held back withered away. My heart seized until I couldn't breathe. Crushed under the weight of mental and physical devastation, I fell apart for a very long time. After signing the divorce papers, my very first thought was that Vincent didn't want me anymore, so I might as well die. Over the next year, I tried to end my life countless times. Yet, miraculously, I survived every single attempt. The closest call left my wrist slit and a pool of blood soaking the floorboards. The cleaning lady found me just in time. She dialed 911, and I was rushed to the emergency room once again. During that month in the hospital, I existed like a ghost. Every day, I stared blankly out the window, refusing to eat or speak. A little sparrow frequently appeared on the ledge outside, hurling itself against the glass with all its tiny might. In that dead-silent ward, that was the only sound. My mother came to visit me. The moment she saw me, she burst into tears. "Serena, please let yourself go. Just let it go." "Stop torturing yourself like this. Mom is begging you." The graying, middle-aged woman wrapped her arms around my waist, weeping uncontrollably. Something shifted in my chest. Tears spilled over my hands, scalding hot, burning right through to my core. She was right. I shouldn't be destroying myself like this. My mother's love became the backbone that held me upright and kept me alive. I began to live properly again. I ate my meals, went to sleep on time, and took care of myself. Three months after I was discharged, Vincent suddenly showed up on my doorstep. He told me he regretted it. He regretted ever divorcing me. He claimed that during our year apart, he had thought about me every single day. "Serena, I can't live without you. Can we please start over?" He sounded remarkably sincere. Sunlight filtered through his long lashes, casting soft shadows across his face. For a split second, I thought I was looking at the Vincent who had once loved me more than life itself. Late-blooming devotion is cheaper than dirt. So I turned him down. I needed to move forward. I had clawed my way out of that hellhole; I wasn't stupid enough to jump back in. My rejection was met with cold retaliation. He set a trap for my father. My dad was a simple, honest butcher who ran a small meat stall. Out of nowhere, he got roped into high-stakes underground gambling. He racked up debts so massive he could never pay them off in this lifetime. Just as the loan sharks threatened to chop off my father's hand, Vincent swooped in. Playing the noble savior, he cleared every cent of my father's debt. He said he had only one condition: I had to remarry him, and I had to give him a child.