I was once the wife of tech mogul Julian Blackwood. For five years, he lavished me with affection, parading our perfect marriage for the media to see.

I had always believed he was deeply in love with me, that this was just his way of showing it—shouting from the rooftops how much he adored me.

Until one night, I overheard a conversation between him and his COO. "I've made countless enemies. Cora can't be a target. The only way to protect her is to make Rowan the perfect Mrs. Blackwood, to let her be Cora's shield."

It turned out that everything I had endured—the hostile takeover that nearly destroyed my career, the miscarriage that broke my heart—was all part of an elaborate, sickening game.

Fine. Two can play at that game.

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1

"Are you out of your mind, Julian? Rowan was hospitalized for stress-induced exhaustion, and you flew to Europe because Cora threw a fit over an art exhibit? You're playing with fire."

I recognized the voice of Julian's friend and COO, Griffin Reid, drifting from the crack in the study door.

I froze.

The soundproofing in this penthouse was flawless; you couldn't hear a thing unless someone was shouting.

A moment later, a glass slammed onto a table.

"Admire her? Is that what this is? Do you have any idea how many attacks, public and private, Rowan has taken for her? If you don't love her, then for God's sake, let her go! Just think—if Cora were in Rowan's shoes, she'd have sold your trade secrets to the highest bidder ages ago!"

"Shut up! If I don't use Rowan as a front, how am I supposed to protect Cora's creative freedom, her artistic integrity? Besides, she has everything that comes with being Mrs. Blackwood. It's not as if I've wronged her," Julian's voice was low and cold.

I leaned against the cold wall, my head buzzing as his words sank in.

All these years, he loved someone else? I was just a shield?

I stumbled back to the bedroom. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, one that had nothing to do with my exhaustion and everything to do with my shattered heart.

The water and pills Julian had poured for me before he left still sat on the bedside table, a silent mockery of his concern.

He had always been so good to me. Everyone envied his public adoration.

He was Julian Blackwood, a self-made titan who had built an empire spanning technology and finance.

For five years, being his wife made me a target for his every rival. To protect his image, I sacrificed my career, my studio, and even our child, whom I lost during a hostile takeover.

I had gambled everything on him, all because I thought he loved me, only to discover it was all a lie.

"Were you out of bed?"

His magnetic voice came from behind me.

Tears instantly welled in my eyes as I met his smiling gaze.

I had once felt so lucky to marry such a handsome man. Now, all I saw was the cold calculation swimming beneath the surface of his eyes.

"Rowan, did I startle you? What were you thinking about just now?"

He was an incredibly perceptive man. I forced a smile.

"I just woke up and you weren't here. It scared me. The doctor said it's just exhaustion and anxiety."

In the blink of an eye, I'd gone from a brilliant architect to the picture-perfect wife of a tech mogul.

After the hostile takeover and miscarriage, I developed severe anxiety. The panic set in whenever he was out of my sight—my hands would tremble, my heart pounding against my ribs.

He didn't suspect a thing, merely soothing me with a kiss. His long fingers brushed against my chin, his thumb tracing the shell of my ear before sliding down the column of my throat with an undeniable possessiveness.

A soft gasp escaped my lips.

Finally, his invasive hand came to rest on my waist. I could feel the heat of his palm, as if he meant to brand his mark onto my skin.

"I'm going to Europe tomorrow. Stay home and be good for me, hmm?" he murmured, his warm breath tickling my ear as he kissed the corner of my lips.

I shivered instinctively, gripping his robe to remind him, "Julian, my body... The doctor said I need to rest."

His expression darkened. He swiftly brought me the medicine and water, his gaze fixed on my pale face. His brows furrowed. "God, Rowan, you're going to be the end of me."

He fed me the pills himself.

I saw the genuine anxiety in his eyes, but the words I'd overheard screamed in my mind.

He was leaving tomorrow. For what?

To see the artist who mattered more than his entire empire?

That night, Julian slept soundly with me in his arms.

I lay awake the entire night, feigning sleep, my eyes squeezed shut until the moment he finally left the next morning.

It was just a few steps from our bedroom to the home office—what he called his shrine to me. From our first anniversary gift to my most recent design sketches, he had organized it all meticulously.

Anyone who saw this would be moved by his devotion.

Only I knew that hidden in the wall behind a bookcase was an encrypted private server he'd once mentioned in a drunken confession.

I remembered how remorseful he'd seemed. At the time, lost in the fog of love, I hadn't thought anything of it.

When he woke up the next day, he had no memory of revealing his secret.

With that in mind, I moved the bookcase, found the hidden port, and connected my laptop.

Accessing the server meant breaking through layers of complex passwords—a clear sign of how fiercely its owner guarded the contents.

I never expected that the information security course I'd minored in at university would come in handy like this.

After cracking the passwords, I opened the root directory. The first thing that caught my eye was a folder named with a single letter: C.

The first folders I opened were essentially a digital love letter to Cora, filled with unsent drafts crafted with a passion and restraint I had never seen from him.

He was always so effortless with me. I'd told myself he was simply past the age of feverish passion.

It turned out he just didn't love me.

The files in the last encrypted partition were a series of hasty, chilling notes.

"Someone is trying to attack Cora through the media. She was right. People like us can't afford to have a weakness! I have to protect her!"

The document's timestamp was from years ago.

"That girl is so easy to control."

"I was thinking about Cora's art exhibition today, and Rowan thought I was worried about her design competition. It doesn't matter. As long as Cora is safe, I'll let her believe whatever she wants."

"I'm sure she'd be willing to give up her career just to be my wife."

"I'll pay for this. I orchestrated the hostile takeover of her studio, ensuring everything fell under my control. She shattered, just as I'd planned. Now, she'll never want to leave my side. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to her."

I pressed my fingers hard against my eyelids, stopping the tears before they could fall.

So all along, I was never the one he wanted.

From our first meeting to falling in love and getting married... all of it was just a real-life version of The Truman Show.

I shut down the server and carefully returned everything to its place. I held my composure just long enough to leave the office. The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I shattered, collapsing to the floor in a storm of sobs.

I curled up on the cold marble, the memory of that vicious business attack replaying in my mind.

Back then, Julian and I were inseparable. I had just won a major design award and was about to surprise him with the news of my pregnancy. Instead, I returned to my studio to find it being maliciously shorted and taken over.

Those corporate vultures dragged me through the mud. They ruthlessly tore apart everything I had built, and the immense stress caused me to miscarry.

I was on the verge of blacking out when Julian burst in, scooping me into his arms.

It was around that time my trauma took root. I couldn't bear to be away from him, and my health spiraled.

He comforted me, assuring me it was okay if we didn't have children.

It turned out he never wanted children with me. He was the one who had made sure we could never have one.

The salvation I thought I'd found, the love I bore him—all a sham. He had orchestrated everything.

A wave of despair choked me. My body started to convulse on the cold floor.

After the wave of intense pain passed, I gradually calmed.

My moments with Julian began to replay in my mind, every detail scrutinized.

Over five years, I had weathered countless business attacks and public assaults, and each time, he had rescued me with lightning speed.

His concern had been real, yes. But it wasn't for me. It was the fear that if his shield fell, the one he was truly protecting would be exposed.

With a trembling hand, I picked up my phone and began digging into the art foundation under his name.

It was a foundation with almost no public income. Its funding came almost exclusively from Julian's personal fortune and allocations from the Blackwood Group.

Despite this, its portfolio was extensive. Every major art acquisition inevitably involved an artist named Cora Monroe.

Eventually, I found Cora's profile on an exclusive social media app for the art world. She lived in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, a life of high-society leisure. Her latest post was a photo of her hands laced with a man's.

The caption read: "I love you, till the end of time."

I zoomed in. On the man's ring finger was a custom band, a perfect match to the one Cora wore. I also noticed the faint tan line from a watch on his wrist, right where the limited-edition watch I had given Julian for our anniversary used to be.

Julian had told me he disliked wearing accessories for business. For our wedding, besides the necessary vows, all other details were kept simple, just as he preferred.

I had been naive enough to believe him, to pour my heart into selecting that watch. He had kissed it and told me it would be his lucky charm, something he would treasure forever.

Yet the moment he was going to see Cora, he had taken it off.

It turned out he didn't dislike wearing rings; he just disliked wearing one with me.

I kept scrolling. On Valentine's Day, Julian had bought her an expensive sculpture, a piece custom-made by a famous artist.

That same day, he gave me a print reproduction of it.

On our wedding anniversary, he bought Cora's entire series of paintings and held a grand solo exhibition for her.

That same day, he gave me an art book from that exhibition.

...

As I scrolled, I buried my face in a pillow and laughed—a hysterical, broken sound. In the throes of it, my heart seemed to stutter to a halt.

To Julian, I was just Cora's shield. A PR tool.

Every gift he'd ever given me was a hollow echo, a cheap reproduction of a treasure he'd already given her.

Five years of devotion, annihilated in a single day.

I cried all night.

In the middle of it, Julian texted. I once thought he loved me, that he wanted to know what I was doing at every moment.

It turned out he was just worried I would slip from his control.

I wouldn't make it that easy for him. The first thing I did the next morning was contact my data privacy consultant, instructing him to erase every trace of my digital footprint.

When Julian came home in the middle of the night, the first thing he did was bury his head in the crook of my neck.

"Rowan, did you miss me? I couldn't sleep a wink last night without you."

I could see the dark circles under his eyes. He really hadn't slept.

In the past, I would have been deeply moved. Now, I felt as stiff as a statue.

He didn't love me. This performance of affection was disgusting.

"Shy?" he chuckled, pulling me into his arms. A soft moan escaped my lips against my will as he reasserted his possession. The thought that he might be disturbing my rest never even crossed his mind.

Silent tears slid from the corners of my eyes, soaking the pillow, unheard and unseen.

The next morning, I woke to his grim expression. His sheer presence made me tremble.

"Your phone's buzzing. What's this email about deleting your personal data?"

I glanced at my phone. My consultant had just sent the confirmation: the process was initiated, and all my personal data would be irrevocably deleted in three hours.

I forced a smile. "It's nothing, just an old social media account I don't use anymore. Figured it was safer to delete it."

"Oh." He leaned in, his hand grabbing the back of my head roughly. He stole my breath until I went limp in his arms.

"Rowan, don't lie to me. Don't you ever betray me."

I nodded desperately, tears welling, my fingertips icy with fear.

Just hold on a little longer.

I'll be free soon.

Soon, there will be no Rowan by Julian's side.

Fortunately, his phone rang, stopping him from taking things further.

"What? Cora's having a creative crisis? Who let her come back? Wait for me, I'm on my way." His voice was stern. He left without a backward glance.

I kept reminding myself to breathe.

One more thing to do. Even if my digital footprint was gone, I didn't want my name associated with him ever again.

After I calmed down, a text came from my private investigator. It was a string of numbers—Cora's personal assistant's phone number.

"Hello, this is Julian's wife. I need to meet with Miss Monroe."