Chapter 1

I'd been secretly married to Charles Rivers for three years.

One day, I gave his assistant a ride home. Halfway there, he got a call.

After he hung up, he smiled at me and said, "Mrs. Rivers is coming back tomorrow. We need to prepare for her arrival at the airport."

I slammed on the brakes and fixed him with a sharp stare. "How many wives does he have?"

The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a look of pity—like he was looking at an idiot.

"Ms. Summers, Mr. Rivers only has one wife—the future heir to Linwood Group."

*****

The tires screeched so loud I thought my eardrums would burst.

The car lurched forward, then snapped back from the seatbelt.

Zach nearly smashed his forehead into the glove box. He clutched his chest, breathing hard, fear in his eyes quickly turning to pure contempt.

"Ms. Summers, maybe try not to kill us."

His tone was dripping with condescension, like he was doing me a favor just by speaking to me.

I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white, my whole body trembling.

I ignored him, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

"How many wives does he have?"

His pitying look intensified, like I'd just told the world's stupidest joke. A mocking smirk twisted his lips.

"Ms. Summers, what kind of question is that? Mr. Rivers only has one wife—Ms. Claire Linwood, the future heir to Linwood Group. They're a perfect match. Everyone knows it."

He paused, his eyes raking over me like I was a cheap accessory, before delivering his verdict.

"You're the only one who doesn't know—his little secret on the side."

His little secret on the side.

Those words hit me like a sledgehammer. My vision went black, my ears rang.

I couldn't hear or see anything.

It felt like the air had turned thick and heavy, weighing down on my lungs so hard I could barely breathe.

I didn't know how I restarted the car or dropped Zach off at his building.

All I remember was him getting out, his voice cold and patronizing. "You're a smart woman, Ms. Summers. So act like it. Don't ask questions, and don't get ideas. Just stay in your lane. It's better for everyone."

I watched him disappear into the brightly lit apartment building.

I sat alone in the freezing car, feeling like a deserted island.

I'd driven this road home a thousand times, but tonight every mile felt endless.

The neon lights blurred past on both sides, streaking across the window like ugly scars slashed through the night.

Finally, I pulled into the garage of the home Charles and I shared.

The "safe haven" he always said was just for us.

I stumbled through the entryway, completely lost. The cold keys slipped from my trembling fingers and clattered to the floor.

There was still a cartoon portrait of us on the wall, one I'd drawn myself.

In it, I was all smiles, leaning against his shoulder. He looked stoic as always, but I'd painted a softness in his eyes—a tenderness I only ever imagined.

I used to think this was the warmest place in the world.

Now, that picture felt like a cruel joke, mocking how foolish and naive I'd been.

It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my heart, then hacking at it with a dull knife, one agonizing cut at a time.

I burst into his study.

It was forbidden territory.

For three years, Charles never let me step inside. He always said it was full of confidential files and that he needed absolute privacy.

I used to believe him completely, respecting our so-called boundaries, thinking I was just being supportive.

But now I knew it was just another carefully crafted lie.

The study door was locked.

I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed a screwdriver from the toolbox, and attacked the lock.

The sound of metal scraping echoed through the empty house, sharp and desperate.

Click. The door opened.

The smell of cedar and tobacco hit me—a scent that used to drive me wild for Charles.

Now, it just turned my stomach.

His study was spotless, every item perfectly placed—cold, rational, always in control. Just like him.

My eyes landed on the locked drawer on his desk.

I used to tease him about it, playfully asking what secret treasure he was hiding.

He'd smile, ruffle my hair, and say, "It's everything I own—my whole fortune. Gotta keep it safe in case you run off with it."

I'd just giggle, thinking it was the kind of joke couples made.

I jammed the screwdriver into the keyhole and twisted with all my strength.

The lock snapped, and the drawer flew open.

No love letters. No couple photos. Not a single trace of me anywhere.