Chapter 3: Breaking Point

Rachel’s anger boiled over. “Your mom’s dying, why should my family or friends help? Your problem, not mine!”

I pleaded, “Rachel, our mom is waiting for us to help.”

She laughed bitterly. “You’re calculating, aren’t you?”

I blinked, lost. “What do you mean?”

She accused, “You know I won’t use the wedding fund, so you want me to borrow from my people, then make me pay them back, forcing me to use it anyway.”

I tried to reason, “Isn’t that obvious? You said the wedding fund was your safety net—now’s the time to use it.”

She spat, “That’s my safety net. Mine alone.”

In her frustration, Rachel opened Facebook Messenger and sent a voice note to her family group.

Her voice shook, but she didn’t hesitate: “Listen, if my husband comes asking for money for surgery, don’t lend him a cent. I won’t pay it back. Whether that woman lives or dies has nothing to do with me!”

Responses flew in. Her Uncle Jeff replied, shocked, “Are you still human?”

Rachel snapped, “Uncle, you don’t know the whole story. He wants to use my wedding fund for bills.”

Uncle Jeff replied, “Then just use it! A life’s at stake!”

Rachel cursed, “Why should I? You’re not in charge of my money.”

She was the group owner and kicked her uncle out of the chat with a single tap.

Another message from Mr. Sanders flashed on the lock screen: “I’m coming to your place for the money. I’d rather die than let you get away with this.”

Rachel’s face darkened. She swiped away the message and immediately dialed 911.

While she waited for the operator, she turned to me. “You saw that, right? He threatened me. I’m calling the police.”

I raised my hands, pleading, “Don’t! He’s just angry. Your mom needs help—if he gets arrested, who’s left for her?”

She sneered, “Don’t plead for him. I see what kind of man you are—marrying you was a mistake.”

I felt the sting. “When did I ever make you suffer?”

She listed my crimes, voice rising. “First you wanted my wedding fund, then you wanted to borrow from my friends—now I’m being threatened, and you won’t let me call for help. Isn’t that enough?”

She spit in my face. I wiped my cheek, stunned.

The dispatcher answered. Rachel’s voice was suddenly calm as she reported the threat and gave our address. “Lock your door and only open it for the police,” the operator instructed.

Rachel hung up, smirking. “I’m not locking the door. I want him to pay.”

I asked, “What are you going to do?”

She said, “Didn’t you see his threat? I want him to try something—then I’ll have him arrested.”

She paced, arms crossed, a wild glint in her eye.

I said, “You’re actually going to send your dad to jail?”

She screamed, “He’s not my dad! You never took my side. I regret ever marrying you. I’ll never sign the marriage certificate, and you can forget about the wedding fund. If you don’t like it, sue me!”

I stared at the woman in front of me, realizing she wasn’t the person I thought I knew.

Somewhere in all this, I felt a strange sense of relief. At least it wasn’t my own mom in the hospital tonight.

A cold sweat broke out. I gritted my teeth. “Fine. I’ll go to court tomorrow and freeze the wedding fund until you return it.”

Rachel sat down, mocking. “Go ahead and freeze it. The family’s counting on that money—and it’s locked away. Just thinking about it cracks me up.”

I shook my head. None of this was funny. But at least tonight, Rachel had shown her true colors.

I made up my mind. I wouldn’t marry a woman like this, or take on debt for her.

Luckily, I remembered the prenup. Rachel had made me sign before we got engaged—her assets stayed hers, but if we ever got married, she’d get half of mine.

I grabbed her phone and called the lawyer, laying out the whole mess. He promised to get the paperwork ready by morning.

Rachel saw I was serious and sneered, “Yeah, freeze it. Better than giving it to your mom.”

I snapped, “It’s your mom who’s dying.”

A coldness spread through my chest. If she wouldn’t register our marriage, her mom wasn’t my family anymore.

She shot up, finger in my face. “Watch your mouth! Don’t curse my mom!”

I said, exasperated, “I’ve been saying all along, it’s your mom in trouble.”

She lunged at me, hands clawing for my face. She tried to jam the phone in my mouth, shouting, “How dare you talk like that! My mom never did anything to you!”

Her grip was fierce, her hands shaking. She slapped me, again and again, tears streaming down her face.

I’d never been hit like that before. Something inside me snapped. All the old wounds and insults came rushing back.

Before I knew it, my hand shot out. The look on her face—shock, betrayal—will haunt me forever.

Rachel stumbled back, one hand pressed to her cheek, eyes wide with disbelief. “You actually hit me?”

I said, hollow, “You started it.”

She shouted, “Go ahead, hit me again. I’ll have you arrested too!”

She lunged, but her movements were clumsy. Each time she tried to scratch me, I stepped away, avoiding her wild swings.

Seeing she couldn’t win, she started cursing—vicious, hateful things I never thought I’d hear.

“I hope your mom dies tonight, in the worst way possible.”

Her words were knives. I felt numb.

I told her coldly, “It’s your mom in the hospital.”

She screamed, lunging again. The living room was chaos—furniture askew, papers scattered. At one point, she grabbed a steak knife and charged, screaming.

I dodged, the knife clattering to the floor. I grabbed her wrist, twisting until she dropped it, then let her go.

She collapsed, sobbing, cursing my family. I’d had enough. I grabbed her, pulled her to the kitchen sink, and turned on the tap, washing her mouth out. Her cries echoed off the tile. I let go as soon as she sputtered.

"Have you had enough? Even if it was my mom, real couples help each other's families."

She spat water, glaring. “If it was my mom, I’d never make you pay. I wouldn’t drag you down.”

I frowned, my hands still shaking.

She raged on, “Real couples never drag each other down! You only care about my money. If it was my mom, I’d think of you. But you never think of me!”

I nodded, voice flat. “Fine. Remember what you said.”

Outside, headlights swept across the living room, throwing wild shadows on the walls. My heart skipped a beat.

Mr. Sanders’s car pulled into the lot, engine rattling. He climbed out, shoulders hunched, moving toward our building.

Rachel’s eyes sparkled with manic energy. “You’re done for! My dad’s here. You’re finished now!”

The tension in the room was razor-sharp, the night hanging by a thread.