Chapter 1

My husband, Andrew Lane, the CEO of Starlight Entertainment, destroyed my voice, the one thing I was proud of. He did it with a cup of something he called "throat-soothing drink."

The second I drank it, my throat felt like broken glass scraping inside. I lost my voice and fell to the floor, curled up in pain.

Andrew held me and put on a desperate act for everyone, yelling about saving my voice.

Later, half awake in the hospital, I heard him talking to the doctor. That was when I learned the truth. He had given me a poison that permanently destroyed my vocal cords. I could never sing properly again.

The reason was ironic. I was nothing more than a stand-in for his cousin Evelyn Reed, the woman he truly loved.

Evelyn was coming back to start her singing career. Andrew was afraid my voice, which sounded like hers but was better, would take her spotlight. So he ruined me to clear the way for her.

He told me later that five years of fame was more than I deserved. In his mind, without my voice, I would finally settle down and stay by his side.

*****

Only after my third failed attempt to make a sound did I realize how broken I was.

It felt like hot glass was stuck in my throat. Every swallow hurt.

I opened my mouth and pushed the air out with everything I had. But only a rasp came out, weak and rough, like an old iron door someone forced open.

That wasn't my voice. I used to be the girl everyone talked about, the one with the perfect voice. But now, that girl was gone.

I lay there staring at the white light on the ceiling. Andrew's words kept coming back to me.

"A voice in exchange for room and board at Starlight Entertainment for the rest of her life. That's more than she deserved," he'd said to the doctor.

He called it "more than she deserved." Those four words were how he described the loss of my singing, the one thing I loved and lived for.

My phone screen flickered to life with a social media alert. My name sat at the very top of the trending list, paired with a harsh, eye-catching label.

The headline read: [Charlotte Summers lost her voice abruptly mid-tour and was rushed to emergency care, with legions of fans joining together to send well wishes and hopeful thoughts her way.]

Every corner of the comment section was flooded with messages of concern and warm support.

My loyal fans stayed up through the night in fan community spaces, sharing virtual tributes and quiet hopeful gestures in my honor.

They left sweet, heartfelt notes about my quick recovery. They spoke of how someone as gentle and kind as me deserved nothing but healing. They promised to wait patiently until I could step back on stage and sing for them once more.

None of them understood the painful truth. I hadn't lost some abstract sense of freedom or joy. I had lost the physical ability to speak and sing for good.

That cruel loss traced back to a simple drink Andrew had handed me. Inside that innocent drink lingered every ounce of warped affection and cold calculation my husband had hidden beneath his gentle exterior.

The hospital room door creaked open soon after. Andrew stepped inside, holding a warm bowl of oatmeal.

He wore a rich navy cashmere sweater that softened his features and gave him a calm, refined look. His gaze settled over me with careful, measured sorrow. He carried himself exactly like a devoted spouse overcome with worry for his sick wife.

"Charlotte, have some oatmeal," he said, sitting down by my bed and offering me a spoonful. "You look much better today. The doctor said you're recovering well. Be patient."

I held his gaze.

This man was my lawfully wedded husband and the CEO of Starlight Entertainment. His long, graceful hands hovered gently as he offered the spoon.

Those skilled hands had accompanied my live performances countless nights, playing piano backup for every show on my tour.

The same delicate, strong fingers had brushed soothingly against my neck to ease my fatigue after long, draining concert nights.

Those familiar hands were also the ones that pressed that cup into my hands before everything fell apart.

I kept my lips shut.

"Don't want to eat?" He frowned slightly, his voice softening. "Charlotte, I know you're feeling terrible, but you should try a little. Your health comes first."

I locked my gaze on his eyes. They held a cold, hollow depth with no trace of sincerity or genuine warmth.

I had spent five years believing tender affection lingered beneath that cold exterior. Now I'd finally faced the harsh reality. His heart had always belonged to Evelyn.

"Andrew," I breathed out in a raw, raspy murmur.

His eyes shifted, barely noticeable.

"Did you ever love me?" I asked.

I pushed the question out slowly, each word scraping my throat like a blade. But I had to ask, not because I cared about his answer, but because I needed to hear how far his pretense could stretch, straight from his lips.

Andrew set the bowl down, paused for a few seconds, and then took my hand. His palm was warm and dry, his grip gentle, as if holding something delicate that might break if handled carelessly.

"Charlotte, what are you talking about?" His voice was low and husky, with a faint tremor. "You're my wife, the most important person in my life. When you're better—"

"I can't sing anymore," I interrupted, forcing the words out with my broken voice. "Andrew, I'll never sing again."

His face froze for a split second.

It was so brief, so fleeting, that I would've missed it if I hadn't been watching him so intently. But I caught it. It was a flash of relief.

It was like the weight he'd been carrying for so long finally lifted. He could stop living in anxiety, stop looking over his shoulder.

"I've consulted top medical specialists. They believe your recovery remains possible." He squeezed my hand firmly. His tone held unshakable resolve. "I will find the most skilled medical experts across the globe at every cost—"

"I overheard every word you spoke outside this room," I cut him off.

The entire room fell deathly still.

Andrew's hold around my fingers tightened sharply. The pressure grew harsh enough to make my knuckles ache and creak.

He eased his grip moments later once he regained control over his reaction. He rose and crossed to the window, turning his back to me as he lingered in a thick, heavy silence for a long while.

Thick gray clouds hung heavy in the sky beyond the glass. His frame stayed tall and rigid. The pale, muted daylight draped over him and carved his figure into something cold and motionless.

"How much of that conversation reached your ears?" His tone carried an unnerving sense of steady composure.

"Every single word," I said.