I Divorced Him After He Chose Her Nineteen Times

After five years of marriage, my husband has left me stranded nineteen times for a woman he rescued.

The first time, he took off with her because she scraped her knee, leaving me stuck on the roadside for three days.

The second time, he claimed the dirt on my clothes triggered her allergies, forcing him to stop the car, abandoning me in a desolate landscape for seven days.

...

It seemed that whenever I had a chance to be alone with him, his assistant conveniently fell ill.

The nineteenth time he left me behind, I hopped into his rival’s jeep, and that made him furious.

---

The jeep arrived at the refugee camp, and Thomas Sullivan led me over, chuckling as he said, "Estelle, it's been almost three years since you’ve been back home, right? I remember this vacation coincides with your fifth wedding anniversary with Dutton. You should make it special."

The word "anniversary" only brought bitterness to my heart.

Yes, almost three years in the refugee camp without returning home. And each time, I've been left here because of Lisa Stephens, who has gotten used to being cast aside by Dutton Ortiz.

Just as I was about to board the van, Dutton rushed over, blocking my path and speaking firmly,

"You need to stay here this time. Lisa’s anemia is acting up, and she needs to go to the hospital."

His tone was unwavering, leaving no room for discussion.

Lisa leaned against him pathetically, whining to me,

"Sorry Estelle, I’m really not feeling well. There's only one seat left; could you please let me have it?"

She blinked with such feigned innocence that it felt like I was the one being unreasonable.

I replied in an even tone,

"Not this time. I haven’t been back for three years, and soon I’ll be stationed here for another two. I need to go back now."

Lisa immediately collapsed into his arms, pretending to be self-sacrificing, and said in a tearful voice,

"Let her go first, Dutton… my life isn’t worth much; staying here to die might be easier."

Dutton soothed her, stroking her hair,

"Don’t say that. I won’t let anything happen to you."

When he turned to me, his expression darkened, the atmosphere growing tense as he coldly said,

"Three years isn’t that long. You’ll have other chances to go back. Right now, Lisa's situation is critical. Are you really going to fight over this chance?"

“Critical condition?” I asked, my smile sarcastic.

A year ago, when I was documenting the refugee camp and fell into a ten-meter pit, my knee was injured so badly I couldn't walk. I was worried about the inadequate medical facilities here and wanted Dutton to send me home for a check-up.

He brushed off my concern, saying,

"The camp needs people now. If you can bear it, do so; don’t exaggerate minor injuries."

Yet Lisa, suffering only from anemia, had been driven home three times.

At that moment, I realized that "exaggerating" was