All of Manhattan knew my husband, real estate tycoon Ryker Blackwood, would rather be seen with a nightclub dancer on his arm than ever lay a finger on me.

The gossip columns had long ago dubbed me "the Untouchable Blackwood Bride."

At a charity dinner, in front of a sea of cameras, Ryker leaned close. His breath, thick with whiskey and cheap perfume, washed over my neck. "Our marriage is an open one, Aria. If you're lonely, feel free to find your own entertainment."

With that, he coolly adjusted his cufflinks and turned away.

That night, photos of him tangled with his new flame in a SoHo penthouse went viral.

And just when everyone expected me to swallow my humiliation in silence, I retreated to my art studio.

I tore the strap of a silk nightgown, splashed crimson paint across the white sheets in the corner, and staged a scene of post-coital chaos. Then, I took a picture.

Using an anonymous burner phone, I sent a single text to Ryker:

"A masterpiece, Blackwood. You should learn to appreciate her before someone else does."

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1

Less than half an hour later, Ryker stormed into my studio, radiating a cold fury.

"Aria! Is this your idea of revenge? Who the hell is he?" He shoved a printed photograph in my face.

It was a page torn from a gossip rag: one half showed my suggestive photo, the other, Ryker pinning a woman I recognized as Chloe Montgomery against a floor-to-ceiling window in a heated clinch.

The headline screamed in bold type: BLACKWOODS' OPEN MARRIAGE: HE'S GOT A NEW FLAME, AND SHE'S GOT A MYSTERY MAN.

I remained seated before my easel, calmly pulling the strings of my painting smock tighter.

"Isn't this what you wanted? Though, you really shouldn't have picked my father's illegitimate daughter. It makes me the laughingstock of New York."

Ryker’s breath hitched. He didn’t deny it. Instead, he gritted his teeth. "Who is he?"

"You don't need to know. That's what makes it fair."

Once, I’d foolishly sworn to learn the name of every one of his mistresses. I quickly learned it was a pointless effort; before I could even identify one woman, he’d already moved on to the next. I gave up. It only magnified my own humiliation.

Ryker let out a cold, sharp laugh. "You've got some nerve."

His gaze locked onto the crimson smear I’d painted on my collarbone, and then he shoved me backward, sending me crashing onto a palette of wet paints.

A scream tore from my throat as I thrashed against him.

He grabbed a shard from the shattered glass palette, its sharp edge digging into my skin. Blood bloomed instantly, mingling with the paint.

"Are you insane?! Let go of me!"

Ryker’s eyes were bloodshot as he pinned me, a vein pulsing at his temple. "This is the first and last time. I'll kill the story. Now, before I truly lose my temper, you'll go back to being my perfectly behaved wife."

Being his "perfectly behaved wife" meant feigning indifference to his affairs, playing the part of the blissfully ignorant spouse. It meant that when his flavor of the month flaunted their relationship in my face—sometimes even sending me the very gifts he’d bought them—I was supposed to endure it all with a silent, dignified smile.

Ryker's cold eyes bored into me for a long moment, only releasing his grip when he saw the tears I couldn't stop from sliding down my cheeks.

He retrieved a first-aid kit from a drawer and stepped toward me, but I shoved him back with all my strength.

"Don't touch me!"

Ryker straightened, his face a grim mask. "I know you did this just to provoke me, to get my attention. Is this all for show?"

In our struggle, the glass shard had sliced my arm again. Blood soaked my silk sleeve. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, but the sharp sting was a dull ache compared to the agony ripping through my heart.

Ryker’s gaze was merciless. "My mother was right. You’re a social climber with no real class! Was this whole thing just a performance? If you have the guts, then divorce me! Your half-sister is more real and has more grace in her little finger than you'll ever have!"

After spitting the vicious words, he turned and slammed the door behind him.

Not long after, a divorce agreement, already signed by him, landed in my inbox. It offered a grossly unfair 70-30 split of our assets.

He was always so sure I would never dare to leave him.

I printed the agreement, signed my name with a flourish, and then made a call to arrange my exit.

Oh, Ryker. What makes you so sure he doesn't exist?

After I hung up, the tears I’d held back for so long finally came.

I still remembered how Ryker had defied all of New York's high society when he’d insisted on marrying me. His family looked down on my humble origins; his business partners applied so much pressure he was nearly an outcast.

But he had weathered it all and given me a wedding that was the envy of the city. Everyone said I was the luckiest woman in Manhattan.

Unfortunately, I was far from the only woman drawn to this magnetic, almost god-like man.

On our wedding night, he took a call and left in a hurry. I waited alone in our bed until the sun came up.

He returned in the early hours, reeking of liquor, and patted my head with a detached fondness. "Do you know what I love most about you? You're sensible. You don't make waves. The Blackwoods need a matriarch like you."

In that moment, a bucket of ice water doused any fire in my chest. I learned to be docile. To never fight, never compete. I learned to be a beautiful ornament.

But now, he was parading around with Chloe—the one person I despised above all others.

I would never forget the day my father brought Chloe home, demanding my mother accept his illegitimate daughter. My proud mother said nothing, only held me tighter. She gave my father an ultimatum: send Chloe away, or she would leave with me.

My father stood on the terrace all night without a word. When he finally returned to their bedroom, he found my mother on the pavement below.

It was pouring that night, washing the blood away from beneath her body. Ryker had rushed to my side, holding me tight as I beat against his chest, murmuring, "It's okay, it's all going to be okay…"

But now, he had chosen Chloe. As Mrs. Blackwood, what dignity did I have left?

Ryker didn't come home. The "scandal" I had orchestrated was scrubbed from the internet, completely suppressed. He openly attended events with Chloe, letting her play the part that should have been mine. He also announced, with great fanfare, a solo art exhibition for Chloe—scheduled for tomorrow, the anniversary of my mother's death. It was his way of declaring I was officially irrelevant.

When the private doctor came to dress the gash on my collarbone—so deep the bone was visible—he noted, "Mr. Blackwood is very concerned. He knows you scar easily and requested I use the very best medicine."

I gave a hollow laugh and said nothing.

A few seconds later, an anonymous audio file arrived on my phone.

On the recording, Chloe's hysterical sobs filled the air. "That night, I just wanted to beg Mary to let me stay... but she hit me! She said someone like me would never be worthy of this family. We argued, and I... I just pushed her. A little. And she fell. It was self-defense! Dad, Ryker, what do I do?"

Chloe’s frantic slaps against her own face were audible, her apologies a desperate mutter.

The world tilted on its axis.

In the recording, my father clutched his chest, roaring, "How did I raise a monster?! That was my wife!"

The slapping stopped. Welts were likely rising on her cheeks as she stared stubbornly at Ryker’s back. "Ryker, you'll help me, right? You still care about me… don't you?"

A dead, heavy silence followed.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Then, Ryker's voice, devoid of all emotion, each word a shard of ice. "Find a place to lay low. I'll handle the police."

Every word Ryker said was so clear, so piercing.

They had all hidden the truth of my mother's death from me. Even Ryker, the man I had once trusted with my life.

That year, I’d rushed to the police station in the pouring rain, demanding they investigate. Ryker had gotten into a serious car accident chasing me. He’d crawled from the wreckage, grabbing my ankle with a bloody, mangled hand. "Aria, come home. Leave this to me."

I’d been naive enough to believe he would find justice for me, because I knew in my bones my mother would never have taken her own life. But my hope had curdled into despair. My father and my husband—the two men I should have been able to trust—had conspired to betray me.

The next day, I showed up at the opening of Chloe’s exhibition, my torn coat wrapped around me.

Chloe was clinging to Ryker’s arm, proudly showing guests the grand exhibition he’d thrown for her, playing the part of the real Mrs. Blackwood.

The moment I walked in, all eyes swiveled to me, expressions shifting to contempt and ridicule.

Ryker looked relaxed, expecting me to fold as usual. He even opened his arms.

"Ryker, Chloe killed my mother, didn't she? And you were her accomplice."

His breath caught, a flicker of guilt in his eyes that vanished as quickly as it appeared. "This is an important day for Chloe. Don't make a scene."

My father rushed over, his hand cracking across my face in a sharp slap.

The silent warning in both their eyes told me everything. The recording was real.

Chloe rushed over, tears streaming down her face, the very picture of wronged innocence. "Aria, I know Mary hated me, but now we only have each other. Please, stop hurting me… I can forgive everything you did to me before. I'll be good."

As she spoke, she deliberately pulled up her sleeve, revealing a latticework of old scars on her arm.

At the sight, Ryker’s brow furrowed with concern. The look he shot me was filled with raw disappointment. "Aria, she's your sister! How could you do this to her?!"

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"So it was her mother who attacked Chloe and fell by accident? Serves her right."

"I never thought Aria could be so vicious. Framing her own sister for attention. These neglected wives are always so desperate."

"Like mother, like daughter. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." "What do you expect? It's her low-class breeding."

Insults rained down. The bloody image of my mother's body flashed in my mind. I couldn't take it anymore. The next thing I knew, my hands were clamped around Chloe’s throat.

"I'm going to kill you!"

Chloe clawed at my hands, her face turning purple. The next second, a powerful force yanked me away.

Ryker’s hand cracked across my face without a second thought. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper that carried the cruelest of threats, "Clarify, right now, that you were lying. That you and your mother were the ones abusing Chloe. Or else…"

He paused, his lips almost brushing my ear.

"Or else I’ll have someone at the museum slash your mother's painting, 'The First Light'. Today is the anniversary of her death, isn't it?"