Page 186 of My Ruthless Husband

“Ohmygod, yes! That would be priceless!”

After a few more minutes of chatting, we wrap things up, and I rush to find Vicky, eager to share the news. When I tell her, her eyes sparkle with delight.

“Come on, let’s go!” I urge, striding confidently toward the door. “We’re going for a drive.”

“Where to?” she asks, hurrying to keep up with me.

“I’m going to do something I always wanted to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Surprise my husband at work!”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Damian

Karma. It’s what everyone loves to preach when they’re too weak to get justice on their own. They clutch it like a lifeline, a sick comfort that lets them sleep at night, convinced that someone or something will make things right for them.

But Karma? It’s just a fantasy, a comforting lie wrapped in empty promises.

I’ve seen how this world works. It rewards the ruthless, the ones who can lie with a smile and snatch with a gentle hand. I’ve watched as monsters in suits stroll down red carpets, praised and loved, while good people are buried six feet under, all because they dared to hope, dared to be kind.

If Karma were real, there wouldn’t be so many graves lined with broken hearts and shattered dreams. If Karma were real, I’d have never been dragged through hell by the very people whopreach justice, who stand on stages and talk about integrity with blood on their hands.

The good don’t get rewarded in this world. They’re used. Chewed up. Spit out. I was one of them, once. I had faith in that kind of justice, that kind of naive belief that, eventually, the scales would tip, that the suffering would end, that people like me wouldn’t have to bleed just to survive. But all I ever got was more scars, deeper wounds. And all I saw was the corrupt rise higher, unscathed, untouched by any so-called retribution.

So I let go of that childish idea of Karma, tossed it aside like all the other fairytales I’d been fed. Because Karma isn’t some mystical force waiting to set things right. Karma is whoever’s left standing when the dust settles, the one who’s strong enough to wield it, to carve it into the bones of those who deserve it. And now? Now, that’s me.

I don’t sit around waiting for the universe to punish those who’ve wronged me. No, I’ve become their reckoning, the darkness they can’t hide from, the consequence they thought would never come. I am what they should have feared from the beginning. I’m here to tip the scales myself, to show them what justice really looks like when it’s stripped of all its hollow virtues. And when I’m done, they’ll finally understand what it’s like to pay. Because the universe doesn’t keep score. I do.

They wanted a villain, so here I am. The one they thought was too broken, too defeated to rise again. But I’ve risen from the ashes they left me in, forged in the flames of every betrayal, every scar they left behind. And I won’t stop until every single one of them has felt what I had—until they look into my eyes and see that I am their Karma, the nightmare they never saw coming.

A sea of flashing cameras, booming voices, and eager reporters flood the steps as soon as I come out of the court.

Hal and his team create a wall of solid muscle around me, moving with purpose, shoving reporters aside, no hesitation, no mercy as they guide me through with ruthless efficiency.

Cameras continue to flash, their words loud and desperate, trying to get a reaction. My sunglasses shield the hard, steely gaze beneath as I stride forward.

“How does it feel to finally achieve your goal?” A voice cuts through, dripping with an almost worshipful reverence, like they’re addressing a God.

“How does it feel to take something that’s been built for decades and just crush it under your boot?” A reporter sneers.

Amazing. It feels fucking amazing.

“Is it true that bribing senators and other influential figures was part of your strategy to win this lawsuit?” Another pipes up, daring me to react.

The words don’t matter. They never do. My expression doesn’t waver, the years of brutal self-control woven into every inch of me. It’s second nature now, this ironclad mask I wear. I’ve spent a lifetime honing it, conditioning myself to be unshakeable, to show no weakness, no sign of what’s boiling inside me.

The flashes continue along with their questions, but they don’t touch me. Nothing ever does. I’ve fought for too long, bled for too much, to let anyone—least of all these vultures—see any crack in my armor.

“Is this some sort of a revenge move?” Someone asks.

Revenge? I shake my head internally. They callthisrevenge?

The world loves a simple story, a black-and-white explanation for what’s really a storm of darkness.

The truth? This is payback, yes, but nothing in comparison to what I have originally planned. The man I just crushed thought he could destroy me. Thought his power, his money, could bury me in the dirt.

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