At three in the morning on Valentine's Day, my husband's mistress bought herself a spot on the trending page.

"William Whitney just got my nickname tattooed on his most private area. Wifey, do take good care of him for the next few days, won't you?"

The internet exploded. The whole city was placing bets on whether I'd do what I did two years ago and pay a fortune to bury the scandal, or whether I'd go the route I took last year and show up at the other woman's door myself.

Everyone had an opinion. Everyone except my husband, who seemed to find the whole thing entertaining enough to fan the flames, dropping a breezy comment beneath the trending post:

"Don't be jealous, babe. None of them hold a candle to how gorgeous you were back in the day."

The Harbor City tabloids immediately dug up a photo from when I was eighteen, arriving in the city with William Whitney. He'd carried me off the boat that day, right in front of the cameras.

That image lined up perfectly with the bold headline splashed across the papers:

PREGNANT MRS. WHITNEY — WHAT A SAINT!

I stared at the gossip, the rumors, the noise. But this time, the anger I usually felt didn't come.

Calmly, I picked up my phone and posted a photo under the viral thread — me leaning against a broad, muscular chest.

"Taken. Don't bother."

——

After I posted it, I didn't get to see the firestorm I'd expected.

Within three minutes, my account was suspended.

The reason: spreading false information.

Meanwhile, my chat window with William — perpetually empty for years — was suddenly flooded with new messages.

"Who's that guy?"

"Where are you right now? Get home. NOW."

"Not answering? Fine. Don't let me catch you two together, or you'll regret it."

Seven years of marriage, and this was the first time I had to think about whether to reply to him — instead of dreaming up excuses to reach out first.

But then I saw that he'd changed his profile picture to match Martha McClain's for the fifth time this month.

My fingers hovered over the screen. Then they stilled.

Suddenly, none of it seemed worth the effort.

I switched off my phone and rolled over to sleep.

Half an hour later, the door to my hotel suite was kicked open.

Before I could react, a hand seized my arm.

William Whitney stood over me, chest heaving, his eyes sharp as a hawk's.

"Where is he?"

I tried to pull my arm free. I couldn't.

"Just left."

The two words barely left my mouth before he hauled me into the bathroom and shoved me into the tub.

His face was stone. He held the showerhead over me and blasted my body with water, watching me tremble from the cold, then yanked my collar open with one hand, searching for marks.

Crack.

I slapped him across the face.

A red welt bloomed instantly on his cheek — though it wasn't as red as the hickey on his neck.

William laughed. He tossed the showerhead aside.

The cold water swirling around me turned pink. Only then did I realize he'd torn the skin on my wrist.

"Sweetheart, I knew you were lying. You're just jealous, aren't you?"

"What man would want you? Everyone in Harbor City knows you followed me here from the mainland when you were eighteen. Without the title of Mrs. Whitney, what do you even have?"

He wrapped me in a towel and carried me to the couch.

The fruity perfume clinging to William mixed with the hotel suite's diffuser, and the combination made my stomach turn.

"I'll allow you to be jealous. But you are never to lay a finger on Martha. You should know she's more than just a mistress to me."

I lowered my gaze. His hand — the one wearing a ring that said single — rested on my belly.

My voice was flat. "William, maybe I should just give up the title of Mrs. Whitney to—"

"What?"

He finished typing a text with a grin, then looked up.

I shook my head.

This time, both our phones buzzed at the same moment.

He replied to Martha McClain:

"Happy Valentine's Day, baby. Love you forever."

I replied to an unknown number:

"I want to go home. As soon as possible."

William watched me sitting there with wet hair, head bowed over my phone.

An inexplicable unease settled over me.

Every Valentine's Day for the past several years had ended the same way: me tearing into whatever woman William was seeing on the side, making such a scene that the whole city knew he'd married a jealous shrew.

And every year, after I'd dragged myself home from the latest confrontation, he'd look at me with undisguised irritation, then bury himself in his phone, flirting with mistress number three, four, and five.

Meanwhile, I'd hover nearby like a fool, hoping he might just sit with me long enough to share a quiet bowl of dessert.

William cleared his throat.

"At the family dinner last night, did you draw the golden lot this year?"

I froze.

The golden lot was an old Whitney tradition. Every bride who married into the family had to draw it before her name could be entered into the family registry, before she could truly be considered a Whitney.

But me? I'd been shaking that lot box for nearly ten years and had never once drawn it.

Meanwhile, some dancer William had casually brought home one night could toss out a golden lot on her first try.

So he'd always tease me about it. Said I was too sharp-tongued, too petty to fit in with Harbor City's elite. That was why the lot never fell my way.

Thinking about it now, I shook my head.

"Didn't get it this year either."

Something flickered in William's eyes. Confusion, maybe.

"That doesn't make sense..."

If I hadn't already known the truth, hearing those words would have moved me. I would have believed he was genuinely troubled that I couldn't draw a winning lot.

But his that doesn't make sense had nothing to do with sympathy for me.

I still remembered the phone call he'd made to his mother three days ago.

At first, I'd assumed it was his usual routine, calling to tell Martha her bedtime story.

But the more I listened, the more wrong it sounded.

"She's pregnant. Let her draw the winning lot this year. It wouldn't look good if she's showing and still not in the family registry."

"Mom, I know you don't like her... and I'm definitely not going to just forgive her either. That first year, when she actually drew the golden lot, wasn't I the one who secretly snapped it in half and swapped it with a fake?"

"She's been punished for what happened all those years ago. It's been long enough."

I'd been lying in that soft bed, listening, and every drop of blood in my body had turned to ice.

So all this time, all these years, he'd been blaming me for that.

William seemed about to say something comforting, but before the words left his mouth, a knock came at the door.

"Mr. Whitney, Miss McClain says everything's ready. She'd like you to come personally and... get a matching tattoo."

The moment he heard that, William shot to his feet so fast I nearly tumbled off the sofa.

Desire surged behind his eyes, raw and undisguised. I no longer existed.

He tossed out a careless "Take care of yourself and the baby," then opened the door and was gone.

A notification chimed on my phone. A calendar reminder.

After Valentine's Day: file for divorce.

I walked into City Hall and handed over the marriage certificate.

It took the clerk less than five seconds. She frowned and slid it back across the counter.

"Miss, this certificate is fake. The official seal is forged."

The air left my lungs.

"That's impossible. Could you check again..."

"There's genuinely no record in the system. You and Mr. Whitney are both technically listed as unmarried..."

She turned her monitor around to show me.

The room tilted. My vision blurred.

Memories crashed through my mind, one after another.

Our wedding day. William suddenly deciding he wanted to take me camping on a deserted island, so he'd asked his family to handle the paperwork on our behalf.

Coming back from the island. Taking the marriage certificate from his mother's hands. The strange, unreadable expression on Jemima Whitney's face.

And then, after that happened, William falling apart for days, crying himself to sleep every night.

I'd heard him once, drunk and unguarded.

He said he didn't want to be married.

It all made sense now. Maybe it was never about fearing marriage. He simply never wanted to marry me.

I stood up on unsteady legs.

By the time the world came back into focus, I was sitting outside an exam room at the hospital.

A few nurses pushed a cart past me, chatting.

"Talk about different fates for different people. You know that god-sister of William Whitney's, right?"

"Which one?"

"Oh, you know, his little mistress. The one they call his 'god-sister'—Martha McClain. She's something else. Came in for a full checkup because she had a hangnail she couldn't clip properly."

"And then there are others. Like that one." One of the nurses subtly jerked her chin in my direction.

"A while back, she was rushed in past midnight, hemorrhaging. From admission to discharge, not a single person came to see her. They incinerated the fetus and nobody even cared. Poor thing..."

My hand drifted to my lower abdomen without thinking.

That baby. William and I had both looked forward to her arrival once.

Even after William stopped caring, I'd still held on to that hope.

But maybe it was better this way. She was gone, and now I could leave with nothing tying me down.

I headed home to grab my travel documents.

But the moment I stepped through the door, I sensed something was off.

Martha was draped around William like a vine, coiled against his chest. Her eyes were red and swollen, as though she'd been crying.

The second she saw me, she pointed a finger straight at me.

"Serena, just because you married William doesn't mean you can challenge my sister's place in his heart!"

"Where did you hide my sister's photo? Give it back. Now!"

Ever since I'd married William, Martha had picked fights every other day.

One time she claimed I'd hired thugs to ambush her.

Another time she said I was the one leaking dirt about her on social media.

In the beginning, William still believed my explanations.

Later, he'd just watch me cry with cold indifference, then assign another dozen bodyguards to Martha's detail.

He'd brush me off with the same line.

"Her sister took good care of me. Now that her sister's gone, I owe it to her to look after Martha."

Even after I'd caught the two of them in bed together, I'd been naive enough to believe him.

Martha watched me standing there, seemingly at a loss for words, and a smug little smile tugged at her lips.

Then she heard me speak.

"Maybe your sister found out from beyond the grave that you've been seducing her ex-husband. Maybe she's the angry one."

"What did you just say?!"

Martha stormed toward me in her little heels, arm raised in fury.

Before the slap could land, I caught her wrist and gave her the gentlest push forward.

Just as I expected.

I hadn't used an ounce of force, but Martha crumpled into William's arms, instantly playing up a twisted ankle.

Her eyes glistened with tears.

"William, my foot hurts so badly. What if I can never dance again?"

"But my sister loved watching me dance..."

Sister. That word was the trigger. It never failed.

William's gaze turned glacial in an instant. The chill of it cut straight through me.

"Martha's still young. Why do you have to start things with her?"

"If you didn't take it, you didn't take it. You think I'd accuse you for no reason?"

I almost fired back. Accuse me for no reason? When has that ever stopped you?

But then I thought about our wedding night, how he'd snuck glances at that dead woman's portrait when he thought I wasn't looking.

How he'd actually gone behind my back to consult a fortune teller, asking whether marrying me was what had caused her death.

All the fight drained out of me.

"Apologize to Martha. If you won't—"

William didn't get to finish. He watched me bend at the waist in a deep bow.

"I'm sorry."

He blinked, caught off guard.

He'd probably forgotten. I'd lost every shred of pride a long time ago in this place.

The last time I'd refused to apologize, I'd been held down in the cold spring in December for thirty-six hours.

Martha had supervised personally, watching me with a smile.

"A homeless nobody from the mainland comes to Harbor City, she follows Harbor City rules."

Honestly? I was terrified of the cold.

My bow brought that familiar curl back to Martha's lips. She lifted her chin.

"The jade earrings. Take them off and give them to me."