Chapter 2
On top sat a sleek, professionally bound document.
My hands shook as I opened it.
[Strategic Marriage Alliance Agreement between Rivers Group and Linwood Group.]
The written proof was unmistakable and staring right back at me.
I flipped to the last page. There, in bold signatures: Charles Rivers and Claire Linwood.
The signing date was a month before Charles and I got our marriage license.
While he was promising me forever, he'd already chosen someone else to be "Mrs. Rivers" in his grand plan.
My marriage was a lie from the very beginning—a carefully orchestrated deception.
Next to the contract was a deep blue velvet box.
I opened it.
Inside sat a diamond necklace—the same design as the one around my neck.
Only this one had a bigger diamond, brighter shine, and flawless cut.
There was a GIA certificate inside. Both the carat and clarity far surpassed mine.
The necklace I was wearing was his gift for our first anniversary.
He told me he'd designed it himself, that it was one of a kind—as unique as I was to him.
I'd cried from happiness, thinking I finally had everything I wanted.
When I picked up the real necklace, a small card slipped out from the velvet lining.
Charles' bold handwriting was on it—simple words with quiet affection.
[For my wife, Claire.]
His wife... Claire.
His wife...
Then what was I?
I crumpled to the icy floor, like every ounce of strength had drained from my body.
That was when the truth hit me—the so-called "one-of-a-kind" necklace around my neck was nothing but a cheap knockoff, something meant to stay hidden in the shadows.
Madness took over.
Like a woman possessed, I tore through the entire study, rifling through everything.
I ransacked his walk-in closet and discovered that every "couture" dress he'd ever given me had a record of a more luxurious, authentic version in his purchase history—and every delivery address was the Linwood estate. Every single one.
I opened his laptop—his private domain, the one I'd never dared touch.
I tried my birthday as the password—wrong.
Our wedding anniversary—wrong again.
Almost involuntarily, I typed in Claire's birthday.
The laptop beeped, and the screen lit up.
Feeling like a voyeur, I opened his private email.
Not a single message was for me.
His inbox and sent folders were packed with emails between him and Claire.
He was always updating her on his daily schedule, sharing his business struggles and successes—every word carefully chosen to please her, his tone cautious and flattering, almost reverent, like a lovesick suitor.
But with me? He was always distant, always issuing orders, never treating me as an equal.
I found an email he'd sent to Zach last month.
Short, but every word cut like a knife.
[Make sure Evelyn stays quiet. She's soft—just give her enough money and she'll be fine. And whatever you do, don't let Claire find out about her. Claire's health isn't great, and she can't be upset.]
[She's soft—just give her enough money.]
[Don't let Claire find out. She'll be upset.]
I was just something he could buy off and keep hidden, not even allowed near the woman he actually cared about, because it might upset her.
Three years of loving him. Three years by his side. Three years of sacrificing everything—and none of it meant a damn thing. All I was worth was "just give her enough money."
Despair crashed over me like a tidal wave, suffocating and crushing.
Just then, my fingers brushed against something at the very bottom of the drawer.
I pulled it out. Our marriage license—the so-called proof of our union. And beside it, a photo of us.
In the photo, I was beaming, my smile bright like I had the whole world, my eyes sparkling with hope.
Next to me, Charles stood in a crisp white shirt, his face cold and distant, not a hint of warmth in his eyes.
Back then, I thought he was just camera-shy, that it was his personality.
But now I understood—it wasn't his personality. It was coldness and indifference, straight from the heart.
As I stared at the photo, my eyes welled up and overflowed.
I collapsed on the floor, crying like my heart was being ripped apart, like a wounded animal.
Three years of love, three years of marriage—all just a one-woman show I'd put on for myself.
He wasn't my lover. He was my executioner, using the softest touch to carve away my love and dignity, one cut at a time.
I lost track of time crying, until there were no tears left, only a raw rasp in my throat.
Slowly, I pulled myself up from the floor and wiped the tears from my face.
Staring back at me in the mirror was a woman with swollen eyes, a ghostly pale face, and a haggard look.
I looked at her and gave a bitter smile.
That smile looked more sorrowful than tears.
I took the marriage license and clutched it tightly.
The sharp corners bit into my palm, stinging with every squeeze.
This was the only real thing I had left in this whole lie.
And it was my only weapon.
My heart was dead, ground to dust by his own hands.
But from those ashes, something cold and merciless began to flicker to life inside me—hate, slow and relentless, burning hotter with every second.