Sterilization Revenge

The rules in this circle have always been clear. Pretty boys can latch onto rich women, can scheme for resources, but they absolutely can't touch married women. That bottom line is like a commandment carved in stone; everyone tacitly respects it. That was until Ingrid Marshall showed up. Whenever they mentioned Ingrid, their tone always had a teasing, ambiguous edge. "Mrs. Quincy's face is truly a masterpiece crafted by God." "I heard her husband, Stephen Quincy, is as soft as a waterlogged marshmallow?" "Soft is an understatement. Last time at the charity gala, Ingrid linked arms with Mr. Zamora and toasted right in front of him—and he didn't dare say a word." "Who didn't know Stephen Quincy used to be a notorious control freak? Now he's just a scared little turtle." When these words reached Niccolo Butler's ears, he was sitting with me in the tea room of the clubhouse. Niccolo slammed the purple clay teacup down hard onto the tray, and brown tea foam splashed onto the off-white tablecloth. "Are these b*stards tired of living or what?" He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white, looking like they might crack. "Stephen, you should just divorce Ingrid Marshall. She's not worthy of you at all." I gently stirred the honey water in my cup with a silver spoon, the clink against the cup's edge crisp and light. "I can't leave." I looked up at him, my gaze steady and without any emotion, "She's still useful." Niccolo Butler froze, then his face twisted with bitter frustration. "Useful? Useful for what? For her to use your money to support some pretty boy?" He grew more and more agitated, his voice rising several tones. "You emptied all your connections to get her company listed, and now she turns around and cheats on you." I raised my hand to cut him off, my fingertip lightly tracing the warm rim of the cup. "She doesn't know I had her sterilized." That sentence hit like a bomb in the cramped tea room, instantly silencing Niccolo Butler. He opened his mouth but didn't say a word. After a long pause, he just sighed heavily, picked up his teacup, and drained it in one gulp. "Stephen, you're playing with fire." I didn't respond, just stared absentmindedly at the phoenix tree leaves drifting outside the window. The fire had already been burning for a long time. Ever since Ingrid secretly flirted with another man at a hotel for the first time, that fire had been spreading uncontrollably. When I got home, there was a pair of men's leather shoes in the entryway that didn't belong to me. Custom-made, shiny black patent leather—the exact same pair I gave Blake Johnson three years ago. My steps faltered for a moment, and my fingers unconsciously rubbed the buttons on my suit sleeve. On the living room sofa, Ingrid Marshall was nestled in the arms of a young man. The man wore my silk robe; the deep gray fabric made his skin look even paler, and the sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing smooth, toned muscles. Hearing the door open, both of them turned to look toward the entrance at the same time.