14/03/2026
Title: 📕He Thought I Was A Doormat, Until I Ruined Him
Full story 👉 👀 💥 https://eng.moboreader.com/17bugX/534446
INTRO
The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her.
Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. ""Mr. Kensington,"" the nurse's voice cracked, ""your wife... she's critical."" A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. ""Liam is in the shower,"" Seraphina's voice purred. ""Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low."" Then, Liam's bored voice: ""If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning."" Click. The line went dead.
A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living.
Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body.
Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.
Chapter 1
The sound was not a bang, but a steady, high-pitched whine. It was the sound of a heart monitor flatlining.
Skye Sterling could feel the cold seeping into her marrow, starting from her fingertips and clawing its way up toward her chest. The operating theater was blindingly white, a sterile purgatory where she was currently bleeding out. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the hemorrhaging caused by stress-induced organ failure, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her on the steel table.
She couldn't move her head, but her eyes, heavy with the weight of death, drifted to the phone held by the trembling nurse. The nurse had put it on speaker.
"Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, thick with panic. "Please, your wife... the surgery... she's critical. We need you to come."
There was a pause on the other end. A silence that stretched longer than Skye's remaining lifespan. Then, a giggle. It was a light, airy sound, like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Seraphina Miller.
"Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice came through, sweet and poisonous. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low."
Skye wanted to scream, but her throat was full of fluid. She wanted to say she wasn't faking, that she was dying, that the stress of five years of neglect and three years of watching her husband parade his mistress around had finally broken her body.
Then, a deeper voice mumbled in the background. Liam.
"Who is it?" he asked, sounding bored.
"Just the hospital again," Seraphina laughed. "She's probably having a panic attack because you didn't buy her a gift."
"Hang up," Liam said. His voice was cold. Detached. "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning."
Click.
The line went dead. And a second later, so did Skye.
The darkness was absolute. It was not peaceful; it was heavy, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret. Regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance. Regret for letting the Sterling family name rot while she played the role of the submissive housewife. Regret for dying without ever having lived.
Then, the air rushed back in.
It hit her lungs like a sledgehammer. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. She clutched her chest, her fingers digging into the silk of her pajamas, expecting to feel the thick bandages, the surgical staples, the wetness of blood.
But there was nothing. Just smooth, unbroken skin.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Thump-thump-thump. Alive. She was alive.
Skye sat up, disoriented. The room smelled of lavender and expensive polish. The moonlight filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating the familiar contours of the master bedroom at Kensington Manor. But it was wrong. The furniture was arranged differently. The vase on the nightstand was the one she had broken in a fit of rage three years ago.
Her trembling hand reached out and grabbed the smartphone on the bedside table. She tapped the screen. The light blinded her for a second.
May 12th.
She blinked. The year... the year was five years ago.
The phone slipped from her fingers and landed on the duvet with a soft thud. The realization didn't come as a wave; it came as a physical blow to the stomach. She wasn't dead. She was back. She was back to the day of her first wedding anniversary. The day the humiliation truly began.
The door to the bedroom opened without a knock.
Skye stiffened. Her instincts, honed by years of walking on eggshells, screamed at her to lay back down, to be small, to be invisible.
A maid bustled in, carrying a garment bag. It was Mary, a woman who had been fired two years into Skye's marriage for stealing jewelry, but right now, she looked smug and employed.
"You're awake," Mary said, not bothering to hide the disdain in her voice. She walked over to the bed and threw the garment bag down. "Mr. Kensington called. He said you are to be ready by seven. He sent this."
Skye stared at the bag. She remembered this day. She remembered the contents of that bag.
"He said," Mary continued, checking her nails, "that he wants you to look modest. No flash. He doesn't want you drawing attention away from the charity work."
Skye slowly swung her legs over the edge of the bed. As her feet touched the cold, hard wood floor, her knees buckled beneath her. A wave of phantom weakness washed over her—a terrifying, visceral memory of the atrophy that had claimed her muscles in the final months of her previous life. She gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, waiting for the trembling to pass. Her brain expected frailty; it expected pain. Slowly, she tested her weight again. The strength was there, hidden beneath the shock. It was solid. It was real.
She stood up, fully this time, inhaling the air that didn't smell of antiseptic. She walked over to the bag and unzipped it.
Inside hung a white dress. It was high-necked, long-sleeved, and shapeless. It was a dress meant for a ghost. A dress meant to make her fade into the background, to make her look washed out and sickly next to Seraphina's vibrant youth. In her past life, she had worn it. She had worn it and sat quietly while Liam ignored her, while the press speculated that the Kensington marriage was a sham.
She reached out and touched the fabric. It felt like a shroud.
"Well?" Mary snapped impatiently. "Start getting ready. I don't have all day to babysit you."
Skye turned her head slowly to look at the maid. Her eyes, usually soft and pleading, were hard. They were dark pools of ancient ice.
"Get out," Skye said. Her voice was raspy from the phantom tube that had been down her throat moments ago, but it was steady.
Mary blinked, taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"I said, get out," Skye repeated, louder this time.
She grabbed the white dress by the collar. With a sudden, violent motion, she ripped it. The sound of the expensive fabric tearing was loud in the quiet room—riiiip. It was the sound of a contract breaking.
Mary gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Have you gone mad? Mr. Kensington chose that himself!"
"Mr. Kensington has terrible taste," Skye said, tossing the ruined rags onto the floor at Mary's feet. "And you're fired."
"You... you can't fire me," Mary stammered, her face flushing red. "I report to the House Manager, not to—"
Skye took a step forward, looming over the smaller woman. "I am the mistress of this house. My name is on the deed, alongside his. Get out of my sight before I have security throw you out."
The sheer force of Skye's presence was something Mary had never encountered. The mouse had grown fangs. Terrified, the maid turned and fled the room, leaving the door wide open.
Skye stood alone in the silence. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking, not from fear, but from adrenaline. From rage.
She walked to the massive walk-in closet. She ignored the front section, filled with the pastels and neutrals Liam preferred. She went to the very back, where she kept the clothes from her life before Liam—the life where she was Skye Sterling, the heiress, the wild child, the girl who danced on tables and spoke four languages.
She pushed aside a grey wool coat and found it. A garment bag covered in a thin layer of dust.
She unzipped it.
Crimson. Deep, blood-red silk. Backless. A dress she had bought in Paris on a whim, thinking she would wear it to her engagement party, only to have Liam tell her red was "too aggressive."
She carried it to the vanity. She sat down and looked at herself in the mirror. The face staring back was young, unlined by grief, but the eyes were old. They had seen death.
She picked up a cotton pad and aggressively wiped off the "natural" beige foundation she had applied earlier out of habit. She reached for the eyeliner. Sharp. Winged. Dangerous. She grabbed the lipstick—Ruby Woo.
She applied it like war paint.
Her phone buzzed on the vanity. A text message.
Liam: Don't embarrass me tonight. Stay in the background. Seraphina is coming as a guest of the foundation, be polite.
Skye read the words. In her past life, this text had made her cry. It had made her anxious, desperate to please, desperate to shrink herself so small that he wouldn't be embarrassed.
She laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound.
"The funeral is over, Liam," she whispered to her reflection.
She typed a reply. I'll see you there.
She deleted the message before sending it. He didn't deserve a warning.
She stood up and slipped into the red dress. It fit like a second skin, hugging her curves, exposing the porcelain expanse of her back. She stepped into black stilettos, the kind that could double as a weapon.
Skye Sterling was dead. Long live The Oracle.
Chapter 2
The entrance to the Grand Hotel was a chaotic sea of flashing lights. The annual Charity Gala was the biggest event in Sea City's social calendar, a place where fortunes were flaunted and reputations were either made or destroyed.
A sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. The crowd of paparazzi surged forward, shouting names.
"Liam! Liam, over here!"
"Mr. Kensington, is the merger happening?"
The door opened, and Liam Kensington stepped out. He was undeniably handsome, with the kind of sharp jawline and brooding eyes that made women forgive him for almost anything. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking annoyed by the attention, yet feeding off it.
He didn't wait for the valet. He reached back into the car and offered his hand.
A delicate, pale hand took it. Seraphina Miller emerged.
She was wearing white. Of course, she was. It was a chiffon gown, floaty and innocent, almost identical in style to the one Skye had just ripped apart at home. Seraphina looked up at Liam with wide, doe-like eyes, playing the role of the timid protégé perfectly.
"You look like an angel, Miss Miller!" a photographer shouted.
Seraphina blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She clung to Liam's arm, her knuckles white. "I'm so nervous, Liam," she whispered, loud enough for the microphones to catch.
"You're fine," Liam said, patting her hand. "You belong here."
He scanned the entrance, frowning. Skye wasn't there yet. Good. Maybe she had decided to stay home. He preferred her invisible.
Another car pulled up behind them. It wasn't a modern luxury car. It was a vintage 1950s Bentley, dark green and imposing. It belonged to the Sterling family estate, a car that hadn't been seen in public since Skye's father passed away.
The heavy doors swung open.
A red stiletto hit the red carpet.
The crowd went silent. The shutter clicks stopped for a split second, as if the camera lenses themselves were holding their breath.
Skye Sterling stepped out.
The red dress flowed around her like liquid fire. It was scandalous. It was magnificent. The back was entirely open, displaying the sharp, elegant line of her spine. Her hair was swept up in a severe, chic chignon, exposing the long column of her neck. Her lips were a slash of crimson.
She didn't look down. She didn't smile nervously. She looked straight ahead, her chin tilted up, radiating a cold, imperious power that sucked the air out of the vicinity.
"Who... who is that?" a reporter whispered.
"That's... Mrs. Kensington?" another answered, sounding unsure.
The cameras erupted. The flashes were blinding, a strobe light storm centered entirely on her. They had expected the mousey wife; they got a lioness.
Liam turned around at the sudden shift in noise. His eyes widened. His jaw actually went slack. He stared at her, unable to reconcile this vision with the woman who usually wore beige cardigans and made him tea.
Seraphina's smile faltered. She looked at her own white dress, then at Skye's crimson masterpiece. She looked like a flower girl standing next to a queen. Her grip on Liam's arm tightened painfully.
Skye began to walk. She moved with a predator's grace, each step deliberate. She ignored the reporters shouting questions about her "new look." She walked straight up to Liam and Seraphina, stopping only when she was close enough to smell Seraphina's cloyingly sweet perfume.
"You're late," Liam snapped, his voice tight. He recovered from his shock quickly, replacing it with anger. "And what the hell are you wearing? You look... vulgar."
Skye looked him up and down. Her gaze was dismissive, like she was inspecting a stain on a tablecloth.
"Hello, husband," she drawled. She turned her eyes to Seraphina. "And... guest."
Seraphina's eyes welled up with instant tears. "Mrs. Kensington, I... I just wanted to support the charity. I didn't mean to intrude."
"I see you're wearing white," Skye observed, her voice flat. "Trying to salvage a reputation that doesn't exist?"
The reporters nearby gasped. They leaned in, hungry for the drama.
"Skye!" Liam hissed, stepping between them. "Apologize. Now. You are making a scene."
"I haven't even started making a scene, Liam," Skye said softly. She leaned in closer to him, her red lips curling into a smirk. "I didn't want to match with your charity case. It confuses the donors."
"She's a scholarship student of the Kensington Foundation!" Liam argued, his face flushing.
"Then maybe she should study more and socialize less," Skye countered. She sidestepped him smoothly. "Move. I'm here to spend money, not waste time on cheap melodrama."
She brushed past them, the silk of her dress whispering against Liam's suit. She left him standing there, fuming, impotent in his rage.
Upon the second floor, in the shadowed VIP booth overlooking the grand hall, a man sat in a leather armchair. He held a glass of amber whiskey, the ice clinking softly.
"Damn," a young man next to him whistled. Felix Carter leaned over the railing. "Is that the Sterling girl? The one everyone says is a doormat?"
The man in the chair didn't answer immediately. Alistair Thorne leaned forward, the shadows retreating from his sharp features. He had eyes the color of a stormy sea—grey, turbulent, and intelligent. He was the outcast of the Thorne family, the dangerous "black sheep" who controlled the city's underground while his cousins played in boardrooms.
He watched the woman in red cut through the crowd like a knife. He saw the way she held her shoulders—tense, but strong. He saw the rage vibrating off her.
"She's not a doormat," Alistair murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in his chest. "She's a bomb waiting to detonate."
Skye paused at the entrance to the ballroom. She felt a gaze on her. A physical weight on the back of her neck. She looked up, scanning the balcony.
Her eyes locked with Alistair's.
Distance separated them, but the connection was instant and electric. He raised his glass to her in a mock salute.
Skye didn't smile. She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than was polite, acknowledging him. I see you watching, her eyes said.
She turned away and walked into the gala. Her heart was racing, slamming against her ribs. Alistair Thorne. In her past life, he was a myth, a shadow who eventually took over the city after the Kensingtons fell. She had never spoken to him.
But in this life... in this life, she would need a monster to kill a monster.
Chapter 3
The Grand Ballroom was stifling. The scent of lilies and expensive cologne hung heavy in the air. Skye sat alone at Table 8. The other seats were empty; the socialites who were assigned to sit with her had mysteriously drifted to other tables, likely not wanting to be caught in the crossfire between her and Liam.
Liam and Seraphina were at Table 1, the prime spot, surrounded by sycophants laughing too hard at Liam's jokes. Every few minutes, Liam would whisper something to Seraphina, and she would giggle, touching his arm. It was a performance. A clumsy one.
Skye sipped her champagne. It was warm.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer boomed from the stage. "We now move to Lot 9. The West Harbor Industrial Zone."
A murmur of laughter rippled through the room.
The screen behind the stage lit up, displaying a drone shot of a desolate wasteland. Rusted shipping containers, patches of oil-slicked dirt, and a general aura of decay. It was the armpit of Sea City.
"A unique investment opportunity," the auctioneer tried to sell it, though even he sounded skeptical. "Starting bid: 50 million dollars."
Silence. Dead silence.
Someone at a nearby table snorted. "I wouldn't buy that for a dollar. It's a toxic waste dump."
Skye set the glass down. Her fingers brushed the plastic paddle. Number 88.
In her past life, this land sat unsold for another six months. Then, the government announced the "Future Tech Park" initiative. The land values skyrocketed overnight, increasing by two thousand percent. The Sterling family missed out. The Kensingtons missed out. A foreign investor bought it and made billions.
Not this time.
Skye raised her paddle.
"100 million," she said. Her voice was clear, cutting through the murmurs.
The room gasped. Heads snapped toward Table 8.
Liam turned around in his chair, his face twisting in disbelief. He stood up and marched over to her table, ignoring the stares.
"Put it down," he hissed, leaning over her. "Are you drunk? That land is worthless. You're embarrassing the family."
Skye didn't look at him. She looked at the auctioneer.
"100 million to the lady in red," the auctioneer stammered, shocked.
"It's my trust fund, Liam," Skye said calmly. "I can burn it if I want to."
"You are insane," Liam spat. "I won't let you ruin our finances with this... garbage."
"Our finances?" Skye raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said my money was 'cute' pocket change."
From the VIP booth above, Felix Carter was laughing so hard he was choking on his drink. "Boss, she's actually bidding on the dump. She's crazy."
Alistair Thorne was not laughing. He was staring at Skye with narrowed eyes. He tapped his finger against his chin. He had heard whispers—rumors from his contacts in the planning commission—that the zoning laws might change. But it was deep intel. How did a socialite know?
Or was she just reckless?
"Bid," Alistair said.
Felix stopped laughing. "What?"
"Bid against her."
"But boss, it's trash!"
"Do it."
Felix sighed and spoke into the microphone connected to the floor. "300 million."
The announcement boomed over the speakers. "The VIP booth bids 300 million!"
The room erupted into chaos. Alistair Thorne was bidding? If Thorne was interested, maybe it wasn't trash.
Skye's heart skipped a beat. She looked up at the booth. The dark glass hid him, but she knew he was there. Why was he interfering? This was not in the script.
She couldn't lose this. This land was her exit strategy. It was her war chest.
She raised her paddle again. Her hand was steady, but her palms were sweating.
"500 million," Skye declared.
Liam looked like he was going to have a stroke. "Skye! Stop! That is half of your inheritance!"
"Going once..." the auctioneer yelled, sweating.
Skye stared at the black glass of the VIP booth. She willed him to stop. Please. Don't fight me on this.
Alistair watched her. He saw the desperation hidden behind her stoic mask. He saw the way her knuckles were white around the paddle. She wanted this. She needed this.
He smiled. "Let her have it."
"Sold!" the gavel banged. "To Mrs. Kensington for 500 million dollars!"
The room collapsed into noise. People were shaking their heads, whispering about the "mad Kensington wife."
Liam slammed his hand on her table, rattling the silverware. "You have ruined us. When the board hears about this..."
Skye stood up. She was the same height as him in her heels.
"If you're so worried about finances, Liam," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that only he could hear, "maybe we should separate our assets."
She leaned in closer, smelling the faint trace of Seraphina's perfume on his lapel.
"I want a divorce."
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than the 500 million dollars.
Liam froze. He blinked, his mouth opening and closing. He had threatened her with divorce a thousand times. She had always begged him to stay.
"You... what?"
"You heard me," Skye said. She picked up her clutch. "Enjoy the rest of the night with your charity case. I have paperwork to do."
She turned and walked away, leaving the gala, leaving the husband, leaving the life she had died in.
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