Chapter 1

For twenty-eight years, I never had to suffer, not even for a day.

My mom doted on me, my brother, Mark Jenkins, always had my back, and after I got married, my husband, Hardy Smith, pampered me like I was made of glass.

All my friends said I was lucky, and honestly, I couldn't agree more.

That afternoon, I was arranging flowers at home while Hardy and Mark were chatting in the living room.

Just as I was about to bring out the coffee, I overheard Hardy say, "Just an incompetent trophy wife. She can't survive a day without me."

Mark was quiet for a moment before replying, "Yeah, she needs to know what real life is like. She can't live in a bubble forever."

I stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, and the pot was scalding hot in my hands.

That night, I dug out my diploma and the resume I hadn't touched in five years.

*****

My name was Yolanda Jenkins, and I was twenty-eight.

My life had always gone my way, almost like it was carefully scripted for me.

When I was a kid, my mom always said girls should be raised in luxury, so I always got twice as much pocket money as Mark.

Mark willingly let me have the best of everything.

When I graduated from college, I never sent out a single resume before Hardy, my boyfriend back then, proposed to me.

Hardy came from a wealthy family, started his own company, and was one of the hottest young guys in our circle.

He said, "Yolanda, marry me. You won't have to do a thing. I'll take care of you for life."

I believed him.

And for five years after we got married, he really meant it.

I never had to work or do any chores. My days were spent arranging flowers, practicing yoga, or going shopping with my friends.

Hardy would regularly hand me a bank card with no spending limit.

He never missed an anniversary, and he always made sure every gift was unique.

He took care of me so much that it was like I couldn't take care of myself at all.

All my friends were jealous, saying I must've saved the galaxy in my previous life.

I always thought my life would stay perfect, until this afternoon.

The weather was gorgeous, sunlight pouring in through the big windows.

I'd just finished trimming a bunch of fresh roses, about to take them to Hardy and Mark, who were chatting in the living room.

The villa was well soundproof, and with my soft slippers, my footsteps didn't make a sound.

Just as I reached the kitchen doorway, I caught Hardy's voice, tinged with a mocking smile. "Just an incompetent trophy wife. She can't survive a day without me."

His words were soft, carrying that lazy, all-knowing tone that said he had everything under control.

My grip on the tray went rigid in an instant.

The living room went quiet for a moment.

I could picture Mark frowning.

A few seconds later, Mark's voice came through, low and resigned. "Yeah, she needs to know what real life is like. She can't live in a bubble forever."

I stood there, not moving a muscle.

The pot in my hands was scalding hot, but I couldn't feel a thing inside.

It felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water over me, and my whole body went numb and cold.

A spoiled trophy wife.

So that was how they saw me.

Just a pampered pet, kept in luxury, wings clipped so I couldn't survive on my own.

All my so-called happiness and comfort was nothing but a gilded cage they crafted for me.

Hardy's pampering was like feed.

Mark's protection was like reinforced bars.

They watched me wither away day by day, perfectly content. They were probably even a bit entertained by how domesticated I'd become.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my trembling fingers.

I didn't go out and question them. I quietly turned around and set the tray back on the counter.

Then I went upstairs and into the study.

The study was huge, with one whole wall filled with Hardy's books.

All I had was a small corner for my easel and a few random things.

I crouched down and dragged out a forgotten box from the bottom shelf. Its surface was covered in a thin layer of dust.

It hadn't been opened in years, and the combination lock was tarnished and grimy.

I entered my student ID. With a soft click, the lock popped open.

Inside, everything was neatly packed away—my whole college life, frozen in time.

My diploma, degree certificate, and a thick stack of honors: national scholarship awards, Outstanding Graduate certificates, and proof of winning various design competitions.

On top of it all was a printed resume.

The photo on the resume was taken five years ago.

The girl in the picture had her hair up in a high ponytail, her eyes shining with drive and ambition for the future.

I looked at that face. It was familiar, yet almost like a stranger.

I really was like that once.

I used to dream of making it on my own, of carving out my own place in the world.

When did I forget all that?

When did I willingly step into that cage and convince myself it was the whole world?

I pulled out the resume and ran my fingers over the name "Yolanda Jenkins" printed on it.