I got up early, slipping out of the house before Yves even woke up.

Partly because I didn't want to see him, but mostly because I had preparations to make. A man who betrays his marriage must pay the price!

On the way to the law firm, my phone buzzed. Yves' name flashed on the screen.

The moment I answered, his voice roared so loudly I nearly dropped the phone.

"Where did you go so early? Couldn't even say goodbye?"

"I didn't want to disturb your sleep," I replied casually, feeding him a flimsy excuse. Without solid evidence in hand, I couldn't afford to expose what I knew just yet.

Sure enough, my answer pacified him. His tone eased almost instantly.

"When are you coming back? You haven't made me breakfast."

Tch. How laughable.

He could notice there was no breakfast waiting, yet never once did he care whether I had eaten before leaving.

Yves had always loved one person—only himself.

"I didn't eat either. Buy something for yourself. I'm hanging up." I couldn't be bothered to entertain him further.

"Hey—last night you didn't wait for me, and now you can't even make breakfast? You used to—" He stopped short, but I knew exactly what he was about to say.

I used to wake up early every morning, preparing his breakfast. If he was running late, I'd pack it neatly for him to take along—dutiful, meticulous, like some live-in maid.

He took all of it for granted. And the moment I stopped, suddenly I was the one in the wrong.

"Yves, you have hands and feet. Do it yourself. I am not your maid."

I ended the call without waiting for a response.

Half a minute later, a text came through.

[Marichelle, I've never treated you like a maid. I love you. You'll always be my wife.]

[By the way, I'll be on a business trip to California next week. Send the first row of clothes from my closet to the dry cleaner, and buy me a new white suit—the finest quality.]

California...

It was Shontelle's hometown.

So, he wanted me to personally prepare the groom's suit he'd wear to marry her.

Later that morning, I was jolted awake by noise from the living room. At first, I ignored it, but after over an hour of racket, I had no choice.

When I finally emerged, I nearly laughed out loud.

The sleek black-and-white modern style of our living room vanished overnight. In its place, colorful flowers and white drapes flowing across every corner, the furniture replaced with bright, festive pieces. The room no longer felt like a home—it resembled a wedding hall.

And there he stood—Yves—dressed in a pristine white suit, clutching a bouquet, rehearsing poses as if he were the star of some romantic photo shoot. Ridiculous, and yet he wore such a serious expression.

The moment he spotted me, he straightened up and feigned calmness.

"Oh, you're home. This is just for work. I hired some people to take pictures here. It'll be done soon. Why don't you head out—shopping, a walk, whatever. I'll call when it's over."

He hadn't even realized I was in the house. If he'd bothered to check the shoe rack, he would have known. But no—he'd rather order me to disappear for a day just to indulge his whims.

"You can shoot your photos. I won't—"

I didn't get to finish. The guest room door swung open, and Shontelle stepped out in a haute couture wedding gown, cheeks blushing as she twirled shyly.

"Yves, does this dress look good on me? I still feel the first one you picked at the bridal shop looked better... Ah—"

Her words faltered when she finally noticed me standing there.

"M-Marichelle..."

The moment Shontelle noticed me standing there, panic flashed across her face.

Her eyes welled with tears as she stammered, "M-Mr. Perez, didn't you say Miss Marichelle wasn't home? That's the only reason I dared to come... What if she misunderstands? What should I do?"

And just like that, before I even opened my mouth, she had flipped the situation—casting herself as the victim.

As expected, Yves' gaze immediately softened with concern for her. If not for my presence, he probably would've pulled her into his arms right then and there.

"Marichelle, don't give Shontelle that look. This was my idea. Her family has been pressuring her to get married, so I agreed to pose as her boyfriend for some photos to send them. That way, they'll feel reassured."

"She's working all alone in a strange city. It was only because I overheard her family on the phone that I thought of helping her this way. Don't blame her—she's just a young girl."

With a few words, Yves painted me as the petty, jealous, narrow-minded wife.

I let out a cold laugh.

However, he mistook it for anger, and a sudden realization dawned on him. His lips curved into a smile, as though he had solved the problem.

"Mari, I know it's always been your regret that we never had proper wedding photos taken. Tell you what—after I finish the shoot with Shontelle, you can put on this gown and we'll take some together. That way, it'll make up for your old regret."

I was struck speechless by the absurdity of his words.

So, he did know that the canceled outdoor wedding shoot—ruined by a sudden thunderstorm—was a regret I had carried for years. And yet, now he could commission a custom gown for Shontelle, redecorate our home for her photos, while for me? I was expected to tag along for a few leftover shots.

Even my regret was only worthy of being patched up in Shontelle's shadow.

"Mr. Perez," Shontelle's soft voice floated over, "these days, photos can all be edited. If it's just pictures, my family may not believe it..." She clutched the edge of her gown, feigning hesitation.

"Then what else do you need me to do? I'll cooperate," Yves answered without missing a beat.

"And don't call me Mr. Perez in front of Marichelle—she's not an outsider. Just call me like you used to."

Shontelle's cheeks turned pink as she nodded obediently.

"Well, I'd like to stay the night. Later, you can pretend to be my boyfriend and video-call my family with me. That's all."

Her ridiculous request barely stirred me anymore—I was numb to it. Yves, though, looked briefly uneasy.

It was really hard to fathom this man.

But Shontelle was quick. Seeing his hesitation, she instantly turned her tearful gaze at me.

"Miss Marichelle, I know it's a lot to ask, but I have no choice. My family is forcing me to go back. If I can't convince them, I'll lose my chance to survive here in the city. I just want to rely on my own efforts, not go home and be caged..."

She wept pitifully, as though I were the one forcing her into marriage.

"I never said I wouldn't agree," I replied coolly.

Her tears stopped immediately, replaced by a bright smile.

"Thank you, Miss Marichelle!"

But I caught the flicker of triumph in her expression, the smugness of someone who believed she had won.

Yves clearly wasn't as pleased. He grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

"Mari, what do you mean by this? You're just handing me over to another woman?"

I shook off his grip, my gaze was icy. "Isn't this exactly what you wanted? Don't worry—I'll pack up soon. After all, this house needs to be cleared for its new mistress."

After leaving the villa, I went straight to the design studio I founded three years ago.

Since childhood, I had been influenced by my father, exposed to countless rare and precious jewelry pieces. Naturally, I chose design as my major at university.

My dream had always been to open my own company—turning passion into art, and skill into achievement.

But Yves' coaxing—half sweet promises, half subtle pressure—derailed that path.

"I can't bear to see you work so hard."

"I'll take care of you."

"Why not just be the woman behind me?"

And so I became an unemployed "kept" woman—free, but hollow.

It wasn't until I casually posted a sketch on Instagram and someone bought it at a high price that the fire inside me reignited. That was when I created Lumina, my design studio. To me, it is proof that I still have value, that I am more than someone else's shadow.

Never again will I let anyone extinguish the flame of my dreams.

The next day, I spent the morning sketching designs at the studio. Yves didn't call to ask where I had slept, or whether I was coming home. That suited me just fine—his silence saved me the trouble.

By noon, I received an order for a ready-made necklace. The client specifically requested that I deliver it personally in the evening, payment on delivery.

It was strange, but money was money. Why turned it down?

That night, dressed casually in sportswear, I arrived at the designated location. It was a bar, seemingly booked out for a private event. Likely, the buyer was waiting inside.

The music wasn't too loud. A group of people gathered in the center, laughing and teasing as two people played some kind of game.

"Yves! Guess where Shontelle hid the playing card on her body?"

"Guess right and Shontelle will give you a special reward tonight!"

"You two are practically living together already, might as well call it marriage!"

"That woman, Marichelle, is just a block of wood. Poor Yves for enduring her all these years! Hahahaha!"

Every word stabbed my ears like a needle.

I stepped into the crowd, raising the small gift bag in my hand.

"Who here ordered a necklace?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it silenced the room instantly. Everyone here knew me. After all, I was the "block of wood" they had just mocked.

"Marichelle? What are you doing here?" Yves was the first to react. His expression instantly turned gloomy.

"Miss Marichelle, please don't misunderstand!" Shontelle quickly chimed in, her tone syrupy with innocence. "Our friends insisted on celebrating today—it's exactly 1,999 days since I met Mr. Perez. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it at first, he just thought cooking at home together would’ve been enough..."

Friends.

1,999 days.

Cooking at home.

She knew exactly where to stab. Because she understood—that was all I had ever wanted.

Instead, I had been nothing but their running joke for 1,999 days.

Clutching the jewelry box, I strode toward Shontelle. Yves immediately stepped in front of her, as though I might harm her.

"Shontelle," I said coldly, "you ordered this necklace, didn't you? If your intention was to show me just how much Yves cherishes you, then congratulations—you've wasted your effort. Because the moment he suggested a fake marriage with you, I was already done with him."

"Miss Marichelle, you really misunderstand," she said quickly, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "This necklace was only recommended by a friend. I had no idea it came from your studio."

She made sure to emphasize those last words—your studio.

Sure enough, Yves snatched the box from my hands and tore it open. He might dislike my work, but he knew my design style well. With one glance, he confirmed Shontelle's words were true.

"Marichelle, didn't you promise me you'd never work again? Is my allowance not enough for you? You could've just asked me for more money," he snarled.

With that, he tossed my necklace carelessly onto a table piled high with greasy snack wrappers and empty bottles.

And at that instant, I understood.

All his talk about love, about not wanting me to tire myself with work—it was never about me.

He just didn't want his wife to stand on her own two feet. He wanted me to become useless and dependent, so he could keep me locked in his palm forever.