Early the next morning, Marc drove me to the hospital.

When I pushed open the ward door, I froze.

Vivienne had lost an alarming amount of weight; she looked like a shadow of herself.

"Vera, you're back," she said weakly, offering me a faint smile.

Guilt surged through me so hard it almost choked me. I walked over, patted her shoulder, and put the gift basket I'd gotten her on her bedside table.

"You silly girl, why didn't you tell me you were sick? Rest well. If you want anything to eat, just tell me."

Vivienne grinned. "Only you spoil me like this."

Seeing how loosely her clothes hung on her made shame wash over me again. Right now, even an S would be too big for her.

Relief finally loosened my chest.

Just then, Marc's phone rang. He stepped into the hallway to answer it. I faintly heard him say, "Got it. I'll take care of it right away," before hanging up.

"Who was that?" I asked casually. "Something wrong at the company?"

He came back in, gathering his things as he replied, "My secretary. Some work issue."

My heart skipped.

I remembered his secretary as a steady middle-aged man. But the voice on the call had clearly been a young woman's.

My pulse tightened, though I kept my expression neutral.

"You changed secretaries? I thought Brandon was doing a good job."

"Oh, we're preparing to expand into women's wear," Marc explained naturally. "So I thought it'd be better to hire a female secretary—someone who used to model and actually understands the market. Last month you were away, and Vivienne was sick. She filled in and helped fit the samples."

A mischievous smile tugged at his lips. "What, are you jealous? If you don't like her, I'll tell her to leave right away."

With him putting it that way, pressing further would only make me look petty.

"It's not that." I waved him off. "It's work. I get it."

But despite the calm front, a small thorn lodged itself quietly in my heart.

That afternoon, I found an excuse to visit his company as an investor.

The moment I stepped into the design department, I saw the new secretary. She was young, beautiful, and tall. She radiated that effortless, youthful energy.

A few senior employees spotted me and greeted me warmly.

"Vera, welcome!"

I smiled and exchanged a few casual words.

"How's everything at the company lately? I heard we got a new pretty secretary for the women's line?"

A seasoned female designer chimed in with a laugh.

"Oh yes, Vera. That girl, Amy Wynwood, is sharp. She's helped Marc with plenty of things. And her figure's incredible, practically a walking mannequin. We've used her to try on a ton of samples. Saved us so much time."

Another chimed in, "Marc has a good eye. Ever since she joined, the women's line has been progressing much faster."

The more they praised her, the more uncomfortable I felt.

Still smiling, I walked into Marc's office and discreetly placed a small astronaut figurine with a hidden camera on his desk.

For the next few days, whenever I had a spare moment, I checked the surveillance feed. Everything appeared perfectly normal.

Amy rarely entered his private office. Most tasks were handled through the internal phone system.

Even when she did walk in to report something, she stood properly in front of the desk and left within minutes.

There was nothing inappropriate between them.

And in one sudden moment, shame crept up my spine.

At work, he was a decisive, intimidating CEO. At home, he was thoughtful, always telling me his schedule without needing to be asked.

His desk was covered with our wedding photos—him standing on my left, smiling brightly. He called whenever he had a spare moment, always checking in.

Was I really being too suspicious? Too insecure?

Yet the blouse kept circling in my mind like a weight I couldn't shake.

A fashion designer with an eye so sharp he could guess someone's measurements at a glance—

would he really mistake a size?

As the new women's line moved forward, Marc began working overtime even more frequently—sometimes not coming home until one or two in the morning.

He said he'd hit a bottleneck in the new collection's designs.

I told him not to overwork himself, but he only smiled and said he was fine.

Then another detail put me on alert.

After he came home, the scent of his body wash changed. We had always used cedarwood-scented products, yet for the past few days, he'd smelled like a sweet, cloying floral fragrance.

When I asked him about it, he brushed it off.

"The company bought new shower products for the break room. I shower there if I work late so I don't wake you."

The explanation was flawless, yet the unease inside me kept spreading like wildfire.

Another late night, he texted that he might have to stay up all night again and told me to sleep first.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning, and without thinking, opened the surveillance feed again.

The lights in his office were on, but his seat was empty.

Frowning, I slid the timeline back.

Just minutes earlier, a figure had flashed past the camera—quickly stepping into the blind spot of the interior office camera.

It was only a brief glimpse, but I was certain it wasn't Marc.

I shot upright, changed clothes in seconds, packed the chicken soup I'd been stewing into a thermos, and rushed out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, I was downstairs at his company building. Only his office on the entire floor was lit.

My heart hammered as I approached the door.

It wasn't locked. I pushed it open.

The room was empty.

How? I had clearly seen someone go inside!

I searched everywhere—the design department, the break room, the storage closet—every possible hiding place.

Nothing. No one.

Breathless, I returned to his office.

Then I heard the sound of fabric brushing, mixed with a man's muffled breathing. It sounded like it came from the corner of the room.

I stepped quietly toward the sound.

Up close, I noticed a narrow gap where a panel met the wall, faint light seeping through it.

My mind went blank. I grabbed the panel and yanked it open.

"Marc! What are you doing in here?!" I screamed.

Behind the panel was a small space—like a miniature dressing room.

And inside stood Marc, staring at me in shock, holding the arm of a mannequin. There wasn't another living soul in the room.

He stared at my furious expression, utterly baffled.

“Babe? What are you doing here?”

By then, my emotions had already exploded, reasoning completely gone as I tore through the cramped, hidden space like a madwoman.

Marc finally snapped, shouting, "Vera, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

But I still found no one. So I yanked my phone from my pocket, opened the surveillance footage, and thrust the screen in his face.

"Where is this woman? Where did you hide her?!"

His eyes fell on the screen, and his expression darkened with fury.

"You're spying on me?"

But the glimpse of that figure had already drowned out everything else. I didn't care about his anger.

"I'm asking you—where is that woman?!"

"Woman?" A mocking laugh escaped him. He pointed to a female mannequin standing in the corner. "That's the woman you're talking about."

He walked over and positioned the mannequin in the same posture as the blurry figure that had flashed across the video.

I froze.

The silhouette of the mannequin did seem… strangely similar to the one in the footage.

Had I… really misunderstood him?

My clarity returned inch by inch, my limbs turning cold. Not only had I suspected him—I'd spied on him, stormed into his office, and practically accused him of adultery on the spot.

"I… I'm sorry…" I rubbed my forehead, my voice dry and shaky.

With his back facing me, Marc stayed silent for a long time. The line of his shoulders looked stiff, strained. When he finally turned around, his eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn with exhaustion.

"It's fine," he said quietly. "I know I've been working late and neglecting you. It's normal you'd start overthinking."

I blinked, stunned. He… was apologizing to me?

"It's my fault," he continued softly. "I shouldn't let work get to me and make you feel insecure."

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly, pressing his chin gently to the top of my head.

"We really haven't talked properly in a while. Go home first, take a shower, wait for me. I'll clean up here and come back right away, okay?"

His gentleness, his patience—every bit of it made my guilt swell unbearably.

What else could I say?

I nodded and went home.

But once I sat down in the living room, a strange unease twisted inside me.

Something still felt wrong. The thorn in my chest hadn't been removed—if anything, it sank even deeper.

I pulled out my phone and replayed the footage. Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty.

Then I slowed it to half speed, staring at the screen without blinking.

And in that fleeting moment, I finally saw it. I finally realized what had felt wrong from the beginning.

Marc had lied to me.