When Lyndon came to pick me up for the concert, he introduced the woman in the passenger seat.

"This is Claire. I've mentioned her before—you should call her 'younger sister.'"

Oh, so she was the woman everyone in the circle gossips about. The one all the society wives were waiting to use as ammunition to laugh at me.

She was wearing a cheap dress, color washed out from too many hand-washes, yet she still managed to lift her chin with delicate, self-important arrogance.

I forced out a greeting. "Hello, sis."

She answered softly, "Hi."

Then I reached out and pulled open the passenger-side door. "You're sitting in the wrong seat."

——

The aloof pride on Claire's face collapsed in barely a second. Her eyes instantly reddened. "Lyndon..."

"I told her to sit there." Lyndon's voice was steady, carrying an unquestionable authority.

"Claire gets carsick, and she's sensitive to the cold. The front seat is better for her."

I didn't move. I simply smiled at him. "Oh? Carsick? Then why doesn't she drive instead? I heard drivers never get dizzy."

His eyes darkened. Claire stiffened.

"And," I added lightly, "there's still your body temperature on the driver's seat. That spot isn't cold at all."

"Reina, what are you saying?" Lyndon snapped.

I ignored him. My gaze stayed glued to Claire, unblinking.

Her cheeks flushed—whether in shame or triumph, who knew—and tears gathered beautifully along her lashes.

Finally, she stepped down from the passenger seat with a dainty, pitiful sway.

"Lyndon, thank you for today." Her voice trembled sweetly. "I—I won't go to the concert. Just because everyone rushes toward something doesn't mean it's good."

"Music is like people—it doesn't need a grand hall to show its worth."

"As long as I stay true to myself, that's enough."

I arched an eyebrow.

Over the years, I've dealt with countless women buzzing around Lyndon like bees.—the ones after money, the ones after his looks... I'd seen every type.

Except this one. Proud, self-sufficient, and radiating a quiet, unattainable beauty.

No wonder he hadn't been able to forget her ever since hearing her play on the street.

He sent her a violin, bought her flowers, sponsored her studies. And even invited her to our wedding anniversary.

How generous.

Lyndon got out of the car and grabbed her wrist as she turned to leave.

"Claire, this is a rare opportunity for you—don't miss it."

"I'll make her apologize to you..."

I cast a cool gaze at their intertwined hands. I noticed his wedding ring had been removed, leaving only a faint mark.

"No need. You don't have to force someone to apologize for me, Lyndon," she said.

"I won't forgive everything just because of a simple apology."

Claire lifted her head, trying to look composed, but cracks ran across her expression—her years of cultivated gentleness crumbling.

I almost felt an itch to do something about it.

But I held back.

I turned to get into the car—but froze.

On the beige leather seat was a stark, wet patch of dark red.

Blood.

The hem of dress was stained with it.

"Claire, you—" Lyndon's voice cut off abruptly as he saw it too.

He hurriedly shrugged off his six-figure suit jacket and wrapped it around her waist.

"I'll get something from the convenience store. Wait for me."

They exchanged a glance—silent, intimate. Claire's cheeks flushed as she nodded.

They looked sickeningly in sync.

I lifted the Hermès bag in my hand... and smashed it against the car door.

A loud crack echoed through the parking lot.

Just like that night years ago—when I stacked ten champagne towers to impress Lyndon at the bar he worked in.

And then smashed every one of them. Just to scare away all the women who dared covet him.

"Alright, tell me—this car is dirty. How much are you planning to pay for it?"

It had been a long time since I'd been this angry.

Probably even Lyndon didn't expect it. "Claire didn't mean to. I'll pay for the car wash myself," he said.

I scoffed. "A car wash? Do you think that will get rid of the stink inside this car?"

"I want the entire interior replaced. Or better yet—replace the whole car," I added.

Claire's face went paper white. "Ms. Miranda... I may not have money, but I have integrity. You don't have to humiliate me like this, do you?"

I gave her a faint, amused smile. "Having dignity means you don't have to pay? Did I humiliate you? Or would you like to smell it yourself?"

The words barely left my mouth before her tears fell like broken pearls.

Lyndon shot me a cold glance. "That's enough."

"All compensation will be mine. It has nothing to do with Claire. Don't use your malice to dirty someone's heart."

I wasn't sure if it was my imagination, but despite it being midsummer, a chill ran down my spine.

The smile on my face stiffened. Suddenly, I felt it was all pointless.

I watched him hurry into the convenience store, carefully selecting a brand and type of sanitary pads.

Claire spoke up unexpectedly. "Ms. Miranda, you'll never understand the connection between Lyndon and me."

"We are kindred spirits. He appreciates my music, and I understand his struggles. None of this has to do with money or social class." She sounded proud, almost radiant.

"I'm different from you. I don't have a rich father, but I have an honest heart."

"Back then, Lyndon only married you because he was forced into a corner. If I had appeared a few years earlier, maybe he wouldn't look so refined and complete on the outside, while feeling utterly empty inside."

Empty inside, Lyndon?

I remembered the year I met him—he was working four jobs just to survive.

A boy whose father had gambled away the family's debts, forced to quit school and work early.

In the dead of winter, he wore a worn black cotton coat full of holes, his frame all skin and bone.

Even those striking eyes of his were lifeless.

I didn't know about teenage pride—I only knew he needed something, and I just happened to have it. So I pulled him out of the abyss, forcing him to accept all my kindness.

Forcing him to lift his head and look at me.

By the end, everyone in New York knew: Lyndon married me because he had no choice.

They said, "An aloof, poor genius boy—how could he resist the demands of a spoiled rich girl?"

Until that boy was cultivated into a tree everyone admired, they finally said I was lucky.

But no one knew that my contribution to this relationship went far beyond luck.

"He's a man, not your possession," Claire kept whispering in my ear.

In the past, my temper would have made me slap her twice. But seeing the man rushing toward us and the timid yet deliberately provocative woman, I changed my mind.

"You're right—he is a man. But he's my man. If you want to flaunt him in front of me, you'll need my consent—and you'll need to ask if he's really willing to be a heartless man who swallows a thousand needles for you."

My voice wasn't loud, yet it carried just enough to reach Lyndon's ears.

He frowned. "Reina, there's nothing between Claire and me. The gossip outside may seem trivial between us, but for a single girl like Claire, it's a huge slander."

"Don't believe the rumors they spread," Lyndon continued.

Claire bit her lower lip, hesitating just enough to make it look like she was the one being wronged. That expression alone seemed to please her.

But I couldn't bring myself to smile.

"Go ahead to the concert first. I'll come after I help out Claire," Lyndon said.

The woman leaned into him, and he didn't pull away. Instead, he held her in his arms and gently placed her in the passenger seat.

"If you think the car is dirty, take a taxi. I'll go with you tomorrow to pick a new one."

At that moment, I suddenly remembered that year, when we were twenty.

He had done the same back then—those calm, clear eyes were watching me without ever saying no.

I used to be so happy, thinking his life had changed its color because of me.

He never grew arrogant from affection, nor did he flatter anyone. He simply let me "cause trouble" as I pleased.

Except now, I didn't know whether he had crossed any boundaries, but Claire clearly had.

I stood quietly by the roadside, watching the car slowly drive away, unable to say a word.

I still went to the concert. After all, the tickets were given by an acquaintance, and I had to show them face.

Truthfully, I wasn't that passionate about music. But Lyndon loved it.

He could stare at a painting I didn't understand all afternoon, or be moved to tears at music that made me want to sleep.

Only in these refined matters did his emotions show any fluctuation.

So when I received the tickets, I wanted to please him. I imagined him lost in music while I linked my arm with his, enjoying a quiet moment together.

I never expected the seat beside me would remain empty for the entire concert.

I listened half-heartedly, then had the flowers I'd prepared delivered to the overwhelmed musician in the crowd and left.

At home, I saw a car parked in the courtyard.

A bad premonition rose in me.

I pushed the door open. Lyndon sat in the living room, expression calm as ever.

His jacket—stained with Claire's blood—was carelessly draped over the sofa.

His rolled-up sleeves revealed firm forearms, damp as if he had just touched water.

Something was off.

"Why didn't you get the car cleaned?" I asked.

Before he could answer, a woman's startled cry came from the master bedroom.

I froze.

He strode over, knocking on the door with restrained force.

"Claire, what's wrong?"

"Sister-in-law's clothes didn't fit me... and I accidentally broke your wedding photo on the bedside table..."

I went insane, shoving the man aside. I threw open the door, not caring that the woman's clothes were disheveled.

Slap!

I struck with full force.

Claire fell to the ground, clutching her face, panic written all over her.

Inhaling sharply, I looked around.

The framed wedding photo lay shattered on the floor. My clothes were strewn across the walk-in closet. The bathtub contained still-pink water. The air smelled of his shower gel—and faintly of blood.

A wave of nausea hit me, sudden and overwhelming.

Lyndon grabbed the comforter from the bed and wrapped it around Claire.

"Reina, are you crazy?" he demanded.

"Claire just used the bathroom and borrowed some of your clothes in an emergency. Do you need to react like this?!"

He looked at me, utterly incredulous as though I was unreasonable.

But this was our bedroom!

The closet held countless dresses I had bought to please him.

The men's shower gel was carefully chosen, a matching set for couples...

"Apologize." He protected the woman in his arms, his voice sharp and commanding.

A bitterness lodged in my throat. I took a few steps back and spat coldly, "Never."