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.

"Why should I listen to you?" I intoned coldly.

"Marichelle!"

"Miss Marichelle, please don't provoke Mr. Perez on purpose. Whatever the issue is, we can go home and talk about it. We're all family, after all..."

As Shontelle spoke, she reached out to take my hand.

I stepped back, swatting her away in disgust. I barely touched her—but in the next instant, I watched her body fall backward in a dramatic collapse.

"Ah!"

Her arm struck the corner of a table, leaving a bloody scratch.

"Shontelle!"

Yves rushed to catch her, eyes red, glaring at me like he wanted to devour me.

Suddenly, a crisp sound rang.

Smack!

Five years ago, on our wedding day, under a shower of rose petals and the blessings of friends and family, I never imagined the first person to slap me would be my husband.

"Yves!" Even his friends gasped at the sound of that heavy blow.

But it was my reaction that truly shocked them.

I grabbed Yves by the tie, yanking him down, then drove my knee straight into his most vulnerable spot.

A man who betrays his marriage didn't deserve that function anyway.

"Ahhh—!"

The next thing I knew, we were all herded into the police station for brawling. And there, every finger pointed at me.

"It's because she caught Yves out so late with us—she was jealous."

"Marichelle, you've gone too far! Who attacks their own husband like that?"

"Marichelle has been unstable for a while now... I never expected her to do something like this."

Each word was a nail hammered into my skull. My temples throbbed, my vision spun, and the dam of grievance, fury, and humiliation finally burst.

"You worthless trash—"

But before I could finish, darkness closed in. My body gave out, and I collapsed.

—

I woke up to the smell of food. On the bedside table sat trays of dishes.

Yves was arranging them. The moment he saw me stir, he rushed over and clutched my hand tightly, as though afraid I might vanish if he let go.

"Mari, I was wrong. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. From now on, do whatever you want—I won't stop you from working anymore. Just... don't lose control like you did today, alright?"

And then, as if it were nothing, he added softly, "When you're discharged, apologize to Shontelle, and we'll put this whole thing behind us."

Apologize?

He slept with his secretary behind my back!

His friends mocked me openly, treating her as the real wife!

At the police station, they all stood against me.

Yet in his eyes, I was the madwoman. The unreasonable one. The one who owed her an apology.

Even though I had already decided to divorce him, hearing those words from the man I had called my husband for five years still made my heart ache with a pain I couldn't suppress.

"Yves, since you care so much about Shontelle, why don't you just marry her? I'll step aside."

"Don't say such things. Mari, my wife will always be you."

On paper, yes—the wife would be me.

But in reality, it was always another woman.

And that kind of love? I wanted no part of it.

"Let's divorce, Yves."

Hearing that, he let go of my hand, straightening with a heavy sigh. His tone turned grave.

"Your little studio doesn't even bring in as much as the allowance I give you. Your Dad is overseas. Here, you have no one but me. Marichelle, don't be foolish. Without me, you'll be completely alone."

So that was it.

He believed I had no one behind me—no support, no escape—and that was why he dared to trample my bottom line again and again.

"Marichelle, after marriage, we are family. I, Yves Perez, will always be your support."

His wedding vows still echoed in my ears.

But the man who once stood before me with a pure heart was gone, and had become utterly unrecognizable.

After being discharged, I received a call from my father.

He said he was about to board his flight and would arrive in five hours.

When the call ended, I took a deep breath and looked up at the vast blue sky.

Before I left, I had to settle things here.

I had just mailed the finalized divorce papers to Yves' company when my studio assistant called in a panic.

"Miss Marichelle, something is wrong! Please come quickly!"

Her terrified voice made my stomach sink. Without another word, I rushed to the studio.

When I arrived, the sight nearly stopped my heart.

The place I had poured my soul into—every corner designed by my own hands—was in ruins.

Tables and chairs lay overturned.

My painstakingly drawn design sketches were scattered on the ground, trampled into filth.

And at the center of it all was Shontelle.

She was toying with one of the delicate necklaces from the counter, her lips curling into a smug smile as she looked at me.

"Marichelle, don't glare at me like that. It was Yves. I just mentioned that I liked your studio, and guess what? He handed it over to me as a gift!"

She tossed the necklace onto the ground and ground her heel into it.

"So, Marichelle, remember your place. As long as I want it, the position of Mrs. Perez will be mine anytime."

"Mrs. Perez? Who would even want that? What I see is you destroying my store! I've tolerated you again and again—did you really think I was so easy to bully?"

I grabbed Shontelle by the hair and slammed her head toward the counter.

"Help me!"

Before her face could smash into the surface, I was yanked back and hurled to the ground, my ribs hitting the corner of a table with a jolt of pain.

Right—I'd forgotten. She didn't come alone.

The bodyguards pinned me down, tying me to a chair. Shontelle stepped forward and slapped me hard across the face.

"That's for acting tough! You dared to touch me? Before, I was polite because Yves was around. But now? Who's going to protect you?"

I licked the blood off my lip, smiled at her through the sting.

"All this, for a man? If you want him so badly, he's yours."

Another smack landed across my cheek.

But it wasn't enough for her. Shontelle's eyes gleamed with malice as she turned to the bodyguards, her smile grew twisted.

"You—teach her a lesson. Make it the kind that doesn't leave marks."

They untied me, only to kick me down. Blows rained down. Through the haze of pain, I caught sight of Shontelle filming everything.

The next time I opened my eyes, I saw her again—her face smeared with fake blood, hands bound just like mine.

"Did you get it? Send it to Yves!" she ordered.

One of the masked men handed her a phone. Her ropes were clearly just for show.

"Marichelle, let's play a game. Let's see who Yves really thinks his wife is."

My stomach clenched. I didn't know what trick she was pulling this time—until the video call was connected.

On the screen, Yves appeared. His eyes frantic, voice sharp with command.

"Who are you? Who gave you the guts to kidnap my wife? Let her go, now!"

The man in the mask shifted the camera between the two of us.

"Which one is your wife? I'll release her."

"The one in pink! She's my wife. Don't hurt her! Whatever you want, I'll pay!"

Pink...

I never wore pink.

Shontelle lowered her head, barely able to hide her glee, trembling just enough to look convincingly frightened.

"Yves, I'm scared..." she whimpered.

"Don't be afraid. I won't let them touch you!"

Even though I had already stopped loving him, hearing my husband of five years choose her without a flicker of doubt tore open a wound in my already-dead heart.

"I need proof," the masked man said coldly. He picked up a pair of pliers and moved behind Shontelle.

"What are you doing? She's my wife! Would I mistake her? Would I lie about this?" Yves' roar nearly cracked the speakers.

"Are you certain she's your wife?" the man pressed.

"I'm certain!" His voice was firm, unhesitating.

Snip—one rope on Shontelle's wrist fell loose.

Two left.

Then the masked man turned toward me.

A chill crept down my spine. My scalp prickled as an ominous dread filled me.

The sharp sting didn't register until it was too late—he had ripped one of my fingernails clean off.