Chapter 1

In the third year of my marriage to Tristan Stone, his first love, Claire Summers, returned home from abroad.

I saw the news in my best friends' group chat. Sophie Reed had sent a candid photo taken at the airport. The woman in the picture wore a beige trench coat and pushed a suitcase, her smile gentle and elegant.

The caption read: [Claire's back. Just landed. Tristan picked her up himself.]

The group chat went silent for a few seconds, then exploded.

[Holy crap, why is she back?]

[Eva, does Tristan know she's back?]

[Didn't she get married abroad? Did she get divorced?]

I stared at the photo for a long time, until my eyes started to sting, then finally typed back, slowly: [Yes, he told me last night.]

Last night, Tristan came home after midnight, carrying a faint scent of perfume that was not his usual cologne. As he loosened his tie, he said, "Claire is coming back tomorrow. Her flight lands at night. I'm going to pick her up."

His tone was as casual as if he were talking about the weather.

I was crouched by the sofa, feeding the cat. When I heard him, my hand trembled, and some of the cat food spilled onto the floor. "She's coming back alone?"

"Yeah, she's divorced," he said, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto the sofa. "She doesn't have many friends here, so it's the least I can do to help her out."

His words had been like a thorn in my heart for three years.

*****

Three years ago, I married Tristan. The wedding was extravagant. Everyone of status in Valeridge was there. But whenever they looked at me, I could always see a trace of pity in their eyes.

Tristan didn't marry me out of love. He married me because I was suitable.

We came from families of equal status. I was gentle by nature, and most importantly, I looked a lot like Claire.

On our wedding night, he got drunk and pulled me into his arms, murmuring Claire's name over and over. I lay stiff in his arms, awake the entire night.

The next morning, after he sobered up and noticed the reddish marks on my neck, he stared at them in silence for a few seconds before saying, "Sorry." Then he handed me a bank card. "Get yourself whatever you like."

That was the first time he ever gave me money. After that, it became a habit. Whenever he hurt me, he would compensate me with money.

I knew Tristan had a first love back when he was studying abroad in Norland. Her name was Claire Summers. They had been together for three years.

Later, her family arranged for her to continue her studies in another country, and she eventually married a wealthy businessman there. Only then did Tristan marry me.

For the past three years, I had done my best to be a good wife.

I remembered all his preferences: steak cooked medium, coffee without sugar, shirts that had to be hand-washed and neatly pressed.

He had a sensitive stomach, so I woke up early every morning to make him something light and easy to digest. No matter how late it was, I always waited for him to come home.

But we were never intimate.

We slept in the same bed, yet it always felt as though there was an invisible distance between us. Sometimes he would hold me in his arms, but I knew he wasn't really holding me. He was holding onto the memory of Claire.

My best friend Sophie tried to talk me out of it. "Eva, what are you really getting out of this? Tristan doesn't care about you. You're still young. Why not leave and find someone who actually loves you?"

I shook my head.

It wasn't that I didn't want to leave. I was just too afraid to.

I had loved Tristan since I was sixteen. He once came to our school to give a speech in a white shirt and black trousers. He was confident on stage, like a beam of light cutting through my dull, ordinary teenage life.

Later, our families arranged for us to meet, with marriage in mind. I was so thrilled I couldn't sleep all night.

I thought it was destiny.

Now I knew it was fate's cruel joke.

My phone buzzed. Tristan texted: [Not coming home for dinner tonight. Claire just got back, and there's a small reunion with some school friends.]

I stared at the screen, typed something, deleted it, and then ended up replying with a simple "Okay."

I set my phone down and looked around the cold, quiet living room.