Chapter 2
Mallory was draped in a man's oversized outdoor jacket.
The jacket was a mix of black and white.
On the cuff, a hidden letter "Y" was stitched in a barely noticeable pattern.
My gaze locked onto that jacket.
Last month was Yannick's thirtieth birthday.
I had to visit three different stores just to get my hands on this limited edition.
The day he tried it on, he smiled at me in front of the full-length mirror and kissed my forehead.
Mallory pulled the oversized collar tighter around her neck, exposing a stretch of delicate skin.
"The wind outside was brutal, and Mr. Aguirre wouldn't take no for an answer. He insisted I wear his jacket so I wouldn't freeze," she said.
She smirked flamboyantly at the head of the table.
Her gaze cut through the crowd, landing unapologetically on me, as if daring me to respond.
After a few rounds of drinks, I excused myself and headed to the restroom.
The faucet was still running.
Mallory strutted in behind me, her heels clicking against the tiles.
She stood under the vanity lights, taking her sweet time as she touched up her lipstick.
"Lilyanna, I heard your blind date last week flopped again," Mallory said.
She looked at me through the mirror, her gaze dripping with condescending pity.
"A woman your age, and you can't even find a guy to lend you his jacket? That's pretty pathetic," Mallory sneered.
I grabbed a paper towel.
I wiped the moisture from between my fingers.
When I looked up and met her crimson lips, I chuckled quietly.
I didn't even feel like wasting my breath on her.
Mallory was just a girl barely out of school, yet she had the nerve to bare her claws in front of me.
That was all thanks to Yannick giving her the confidence.
Without the master's permission, she'd never dare to step out of bounds.
As I slipped back into the booth, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I glanced down and tapped the screen.
Yannick had sent me a message. [You did well tonight. You were mature, kept things classy, and didn't make me look bad.]
As I stared at his message, a sour feeling twisted in my gut.
I dropped my gaze and set my phone face down on the table.
I didn't lift my head to seek out his gaze.
Five minutes later, I picked up my phone again.
I typed: [I used to complain about being immature, but I won't anymore.]
He replied almost instantly with a pat-on-the-head emoji. [That's the spirit. I'll take you shopping for that bag you've been eyeing this weekend.]
Staring at the words on the screen, I forced a smile.
It was supposed to be a showdown that could have turned the place upside down.
But I diffused it with just a couple of words.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
He thought he had me under his thumb again.
I picked up the glass of plain water in front of me and took a big gulp.
The cold slid down my throat, coiling in my gut and crushing the last bit of hope.
He wanted an airtight shield for our secret marriage, something that would guarantee his safety.
He craved the adoration and starry-eyed admiration of a fresh-faced girl.
He wanted to flaunt his vanity, juggling two relationships and enjoying the best of both worlds.
I made it all possible for him, as long as I could make it through this stretch without any drama and keep the baby inside me safe.
Starting today, I'd lock away all my jealousy and bitterness.
I'd pretend to be someone who couldn't see or hear a thing—just a ghost in the background.
I could pull it off.
The team-building ran late into the night.
I grabbed a ride home by myself, heading back to my apartment alone.
Yannick sent me a message.
He said he was dropping off a few team members on his way and told me not to wait up.
Among the people he was dropping off, of course, was Mallory, the one wearing his jacket.
I didn't bother replying.
I opened the door and walked in, leaving the lights off.
I kicked off my heels, my feet aching from the long day.
I sank into the cold couch.
From the hidden pocket at the bottom of my bag, I pulled out the early pregnancy report.
The paper had been folded and refolded so many times.
Under the glow of the streetlights streaming through the window, the results on the report were still crystal clear.
I kept my eyes fixed on the report.
Suddenly, memories of that fight from a year ago hit me hard.
It was just three days after Yannick became director.
Over dinner, he casually suggested we erase any sign of our marriage at the office.
He even set his Instagram so I couldn't see any of his posts.
I hurled the ceramic bowl, shattering it.
It was the first time in all our seven years together and three years of marriage that I totally lost control.
My eyes were red as I demanded, barely holding back tears, "Is it that I'm not good enough to be seen, or are you just obsessed with the vanity of being the company's eligible bachelor?"
Yannick didn't bother comforting me or offering any explanation.
He just glanced indifferently at the broken pieces scattered across the floor.
He looked at me with obvious distaste and said, "Lilyanna, do you always have to be so sensitive and suspicious?
"Who do you think I'm out there busting my ass for? I did all this for this family.
"You just stay at home all day, and now you want to interfere with my professional life? If you're so narrow-minded, we'll never be able to communicate."
Every word was full of that arrogant superiority.
He crushed my sacrifice under his heel—the sacrifice of quitting my high-paying job at a big firm, all for him.
I just stood there in the middle of the wreckage.
My breath caught in my throat, and my chest felt so tight it hurt.
The boy who once braved a storm to carry me to the campus clinic, swearing he'd never let me be hurt, vanished completely in that moment.
From that day forward, I learned to stay silent.
I fixed my eyes back on the pregnancy report in my hand.
The edges of the paper were pale and creased from how tightly I was gripping it.
Divorce—that word was always right there, burning on the tip of my tongue.
But every single time, I choked it back, forcing myself to swallow the urge.