The line went dead—but I already knew what he meant.

Evelyn’s cycle. Naturally. He never once remembered mine. Hers, though? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was circled neatly on his schedule, highlighted and color-coded.

I headed straight for his private library without a second thought. Third drawer from the right—exactly where he always kept her things. Imported pain relievers. Unscented organic pads. Bottles of herbal mixtures. Once, he had torn into a maid for moving them even an inch out of place.

I didn’t pause.

I gathered everything she could possibly need, threw on a coat, and went straight down to the garage. His motorcycle was still there—black, heavy, vicious-looking. Even before I started it, the engine seemed to growl. It was the quickest way to reach the Hexagon Club. If I left immediately, I could make it in twenty-five minutes.

The rain began halfway through the ride.

Not a drizzle. A downpour. Violent, blinding sheets that slammed into the road like shards of glass. The asphalt turned slick and reflective, lights stretching into distorted streaks. I could barely see ten meters ahead.

Then it happened.

Headlights veered suddenly into my lane.

A drunk driver—reckless, fast, out of control—missed me by inches. My heart lurched violently as the bike fishtailed across the road. I wrestled with the handlebars, my body nearly thrown free, somehow forcing the machine back under control at the last second.

I didn’t pull over.

I didn’t even ease up on the throttle.

By the time I arrived at the club’s private entrance, my legs were trembling uncontrollably. I was drenched through, aching, freezing to the bone—and two minutes late.

I lifted my hand to knock.

Then I stopped.

Soft laughter drifted through the door.

Her laughter.

“Boss, seriously?” someone said with amusement. “You really made your wife deliver all this in weather like that? From the house to here is, what—almost an hour?”

“Evelyn’s not feeling well,” Viktor replied flatly. “She’ll come.”

Another laugh followed. “Everyone knows your wife’s obsessed with you. Six years and she’s never once complained. Not even when you were out all night with someone else.”

Someone else chimed in, half-teasing, half-curious. “But honestly, Boss… she’s gorgeous. You really never felt anything for her?”

Silence fell.

No one spoke.

I stood there, soaked to the skin, shaking, my heartbeat pounding so loudly it filled my ears.

Then his voice cut through everything.

“No matter if it’s her or Evelyn,” he said calmly, without hesitation. “I’ll always pick Evelyn.”

I stayed outside until the laughter faded, until the moment felt distant enough to breathe. Then I knocked.

When I entered the private room, every gaze turned toward me—some startled, some amused, some openly assessing. I must have looked miserable, hair plastered to my face, clothes clinging unflatteringly, but I walked in anyway. Straight-backed. Composed.

“Damn, you’re punctual!”

“Isadora, you’re drenched,” Viktor said, standing from the couch with a scowl. “What the hell happened to you?”

I held out the small bundle in my hands. Somehow, it was still dry. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting, so I took your bike.”

I didn’t mention the near crash. He wouldn’t have believed me. Or cared.

Something flickered across his face. He shrugged off his jacket and placed it over my shoulders. “Wear that.”

Then, gesturing toward the package, he added, “Take it to the women’s restroom. Evelyn’s there.”

I nodded.

Of course I did.

Silent. Compliant. Just like always.

When I knocked on the bathroom door, her voice answered—soft, weak, trembling in that fragile way she perfected.

“Who’s there?”

“I brought what you need.”

There was a pause. Then the door opened just enough for a hand to reach out. I passed the bag through the narrow gap. She never once looked at me.

I went home after that. Changed out of my soaked clothes. Let hot water burn against my skin in the shower until my body stopped shaking. I had just drifted toward sleep when—

BANG.

The bedroom door slammed open.

Viktor stormed in, fury radiating from him, sharp and suffocating. He didn’t say a word. He simply seized my wrist and dragged me out of bed.

“GET UP.”

“W-What is it?” I gasped, stumbling as he pulled me down the hall. “Viktor—where are you taking me—”

I never finished.

He shoved me without warning.

I fell backward down the stairs. My head struck the edge of a step, pain exploding as my body tumbled helplessly. Warm blood filled my mouth.

When I finally landed at the bottom, the world spun violently. A shrill ringing filled my ears. My skull throbbed like it might split open.

I tried to push myself up, vision blurred. “Why… why are you doing this to me?”

He stood at the top of the staircase, looking down at me. “Did you shove Evelyn?”

My thoughts stalled. “W-what are you talking about?”

“Don’t pretend,” he snapped, descending slowly, each step deliberate. “You’ve been acting like the perfect wife all these years just to fool me. You think I wouldn’t see through that?”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” he cut in sharply. “Did you think I finally fell in love with you?” He grabbed my chin, forcing my head up. “You were never anything but a replacement. A tool in a deal between two families. I don’t care what fantasies you clung to.” His voice dropped, cold and final. “I will never love you. Not now. Not ever.”

Blood slid down my temple as I stared at him. And for a fleeting second… I almost laughed.

He had it all wrong.

I never wanted his love. I never asked for it.

Before I could say a word, he hauled me to my feet by my arm.

“Get in the car.”

“Viktor, please—wait—”

“Evelyn fell from the goddamn fifth floor because of you,” he snarled. “And you’re standing there crying over a little knock to your head? You’re going to the hospital. You’re going to say sorry. And you’re going to get on your knees if you have to and beg her to forgive you.”

My legs were barely holding me upright from the pain, but he didn’t even glance at them. He shoved me forward and slammed me into the passenger seat like I weighed nothing.

The entire drive, I pressed my forehead against the cold window, screaming silently as waves of pain tore through my body. Every bump felt like it was splitting me apart. It honestly felt as though I might fall to pieces before we even arrived.

When we reached the hospital, Viktor didn’t slow down for me. He strode ahead, bursting into the room like he owned the building.

Evelyn lay propped against crisp white pillows, skin pale, eyes glassy. Thick bandages wrapped around her wrists, displayed so deliberately they might as well have been decorations. The moment she noticed me, her eyes widened in perfectly timed fear.

Bitch.

“Benny…” she whispered weakly, her voice trembling. “I—I don’t want her near me. Please… I’m scared of her.”

Viktor crossed the room in three steps. He sat beside her, took her hand gently, like she was something precious and breakable. “Hey. It’s alright. I’m here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Then he turned toward me.

His gaze froze solid.

“Well?” he demanded. “What are you standing there for? APOLOGIZE.”

I looked at Evelyn. At the frightened little act. At the white bandages. At Viktor holding her like a wounded angel.

Then I asked quietly, “Did I really push you?”

Evelyn’s lashes trembled. Tears spilled instantly. “Mrs. Thorn…” she sobbed softly. “If you don’t want to apologize, it’s fine. I never wanted to create trouble for you.” Her voice shook delicately as she wiped her eyes. “I know Viktor has been spending more time with me lately,” she continued gently. “Anyone would feel hurt. But you and him… your marriage is only business. There was never love. If my background hadn’t been what it was, he wouldn’t have needed to marry anyone else.”

The longer she spoke, the weaker she sounded. The more pitiful her tears became, the darker Viktor’s expression grew.

Then his voice cracked sharply through the room. “Isadora. I told you to apologize, not stir shit.” His stare cut straight through me. “Are you going to do it, or are you testing my patience?”

I stared at Evelyn—at her flawless performance, those wide eyes shining like cracked porcelain.

I knew she was lying.

I knew she hadn’t been pushed.

But I also knew this: if I didn’t cooperate, if I caused even the smallest problem between the Thorns and the Volkovs, my escape would vanish. The hundred million Mrs. Thorn promised would disappear. I would be trapped—this marriage, this cage—forever.

So I swallowed everything.

“I’m sorry,” I said calmly. “It was my fault.”

I turned to leave.

“Not so fast.” Viktor’s voice was colder than steel. “You pushed her. You owned it. So you’re staying.” His eyes were merciless. “You’ll take care of her until she’s discharged.”

I didn’t protest. My fingers curled slightly at my side—but I nodded.

“Alright.”

---

After that, I stayed in the hospital.

Every single day, I attended to Evelyn. I helped her change clothes, brought her meals, fluffed pillows, adjusted blankets—like some mindless service machine. I brushed her hair. Smoothed the sheets. Anticipated her needs before she even spoke.

And Viktor stayed too.

Of course he did.

He ignored cartel matters. Let calls from his men go unanswered. The entire Volkov operation could have collapsed overnight and he wouldn’t have noticed, because Evelyn had a bruised rib and a sprained wrist.

He fed her spoonfuls of porridge. Dabbed her lips with a napkin. Sat beside her bed until she drifted off to sleep.

He had never done any of that for me.

One morning, Viktor’s phone rang. I only caught fragments—“European investors… problem with Dubai… half an hour.” He kissed Evelyn’s forehead apologetically and stepped out.

The moment the door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted.

Evelyn glanced at the clock, waited a full ten seconds, then slowly turned to me with a lazy, mocking smile.

“Peel the orange, slave,” she said lightly. “And don’t bruise it this time.”

I peeled the orange.

Then she lifted the glass of orange juice and threw it straight at my face.

It splashed loudly against me, soaking my shirt.

“Oh dear,” she said sweetly. “My hand slipped.”

I clenched my teeth.

“Clean it up, Cinderella,” she added casually. “Before Viktor comes back and sees what a disaster you look like.”

Right on cue, the door opened.

Viktor walked in, expression unreadable. His eyes moved from Evelyn… to me.

The spilled juice. My soaked clothes. The shattered glass.

“Evelyn?” he asked, frowning slightly. “What happened here?”

Her eyes filled instantly. “I’m sorry, Benny,” she said softly. “My hand slipped. I didn’t mean to—” Her voice broke.

Viktor sighed. “You don’t need to apologize for her, Evelyn.” He looked at me coldly. “She’s here to serve you. Cleaning up after you is her responsibility.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

My heart should have shattered then.

But it didn’t.

Because there was nothing left to break—it had already turned to ash.

Before long, even the hospital staff began to notice.

One afternoon, while I was in the small pantry rinsing fruit for Evelyn, two nurses stood nearby, their voices lowered but not enough.

“Oh my god… that’s his wife? For real?”

“Yeah. They’ve been married for years, apparently. But it’s obvious he’s in love with the other woman.”

The younger nurse peeked toward the ward. “She’s so… composed. I don’t get how she does it.”

The older one let out a quiet sigh, the kind people make when they’re watching something painful they can’t stop. “You don’t understand. That’s love.”

“Huh?”

“She’s caring for the woman her husband loves. Not because she has to. Not because of pride. But because… somewhere inside, she still hopes he’ll turn around and see her. Even once.” Her voice softened. “That kind of love doesn’t scream. It just bleeds quietly. And it’s the most tragic kind there is.”

Outside the pantry, I heard footsteps slow near the nurses’ station.

Viktor.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes on me like a weight pressed between my shoulders.

---

The day Evelyn was discharged, Viktor came home only briefly. He tossed his keys onto the counter and looked at me like I was something spoiled.

“I’m taking Evelyn out of town for a while,” he said bluntly. “Don’t contact me unless someone’s dead.”

I nodded. “Alright.”

He never waited for a response.

I watched from the doorway as he helped her into the car, his palm resting lightly at her lower back, his coat settling over her shoulders. The door shut, the engine started, and soon the car vanished down the road—taking their laughter with it.

The house fell silent.

The next morning, I began packing.

I folded my clothes carefully, one piece at a time. No rush. No tears. My hands didn’t shake. My chest felt oddly still, like something inside me had finally gone quiet.

Then my phone lit up.

Evelyn.

My body stiffened.

And then the photos came.

Not just a few. Dozens.

They flooded my screen one after another—carefully chosen, deliberately cruel.

Evelyn sitting on Viktor’s lap at a vineyard in Tuscany, laughing as he kissed the side of her neck.

Evelyn tangled in white silk sheets, her back arched, one of his shirts draped loosely over her bare legs.

Evelyn standing before a mirror, Viktor’s arm wrapped around her waist as they took a photo together—his phone in one hand, hers in the other.

Evelyn holding his hand as he fastened a bracelet around her wrist.

My bracelet.

The one Mrs. Volkov had given me.

The final image was a close-up: her lips pressed against his bare chest.

Underneath it, soft pink text appeared like a knife dressed in ribbons:

“See, Isadora? On paper, he may be your husband… but never in bed. You’re such a pathetic parasite.”

My thumb hovered over the screen.

I didn’t delete anything.

I simply let the images remain and smiled—a thin, bitter curve of the lips.

---

Then came the birthday banquet for the Volkov patriarch.

Viktor didn’t return. He didn’t even bother to send a word.

So I went alone.

I wore a simple black dress—high neckline, long sleeves. Enough coverage to hide bruises beneath layers of makeup and whispered prayers. I pulled my hair into a tight low bun and walked in as if I belonged there.

The ballroom shimmered with gold and crystal. Marble floors reflected chandeliers like constellations. Guests floated through the room wrapped in couture, antiques glittering at their throats, carrying the effortless arrogance of families who had never known want.

The whispers began the moment I stepped inside.

But the first person to truly see me was Grandmother Signe Volkov.

She sat at the head of the table, spine straight despite her age, eyes sharp behind diamond-rimmed glasses. The smile on her lips vanished the instant her gaze locked onto me.

“Where is Viktor?”

Her tone was even. Controlled. The kind that stripped men of their confidence and left them silent.

I lowered my head. “He had urgent matters overseas…”

She laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Urgent, is that what he called it?” She reached for her wine—

And then the butler rushed in, pale, trembling, interrupting the moment.

He said nothing. Just placed a tablet in her hands.

“Viktor Volkov and Evelyn Beaumont photographed kissing in Tuscany.”

The headline screamed words like “romantic escape,” “secret affair,” “Volkov heir in love,” “future bride?”

The image beneath was worse.

Viktor wasn’t merely kissing her. He looked reverent—his palm cradling her face, eyes closed, foreheads pressed together like a still from some grand love story.

Signe’s wine glass shattered against the marble floor.

“Isadora,” she said tightly. “Come with me. Now.”

She stood, turned, and walked toward the west corridor without another glance. I followed, aware of every silent eye at the table watching us go.

She didn’t speak until we entered the ancestral chamber.

Dark wood. Faded oil portraits. Old lamps that always smelled faintly of iron and age.

She shut the door.

Locked it.

Then she turned and struck me across the face with enough force to snap my head sideways.

“Have you no dignity?” she spat. “Look at you—humiliated, ridiculed. You attend my husband’s birthday alone like a cast-off mistress while your so-called husband is off licking champagne from another woman’s skin.”

I said nothing.

“Do you understand what this looks like?” she continued furiously. “The Thorn name was meant to fortify us. Instead, we’re a joke. If your family had an ounce of pride, they’d throw you into a well and be done with it.”

I swallowed blood and replied quietly, “I didn’t release the article.”

She sneered. “Don’t insult me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Call Viktor right now and order him back—or face the consequences.”

I already knew.

He wouldn’t come. Not for me. Not if I begged. Not even if I broke.

“I’ll accept it,” I said.

Her brows lifted sharply. “What did you just say?”

“I’ll take whatever punishment you decide.”