After three years of contractual marriage with Christopher Chandler, we still treated each other like polite strangers in bed.

No matter where he was or what he was doing, he would drop everything the moment Maurice Cooper—his first love—needed him.

To please her, he allowed her to come and go as she pleased, humiliating me repeatedly under our shared roof.

When Maurice hired online trolls to smear my name and dragged me into a media storm, Christopher stepped forward—not for me, but for her.

“Maurice is too innocent to understand these dirty tricks,” he said coldly. “Don’t just bite anyone you catch.”

And when the attacks escalated and he had to choose, he didn’t even flinch—he sacrificed my future, my dignity, and my career to protect Maurice’s reputation… which no one even cared about.

I left in the firelight, wounds invisible but aching.

When we met again—

Top actor Cliff Compton stood firmly in front of me, shielding me.

Christopher knelt at my feet, eyes red, voice breaking. “I can get plastic surgery. I’ll look exactly like him! Let me be your substitute, your shadow. Please, just one more chance… Shelley, what about our three years?”

I looked at him, emotionless.

“The world may not know, but surely you haven’t forgotten, Christopher. We were just a contract. That’s all. It expired—and we didn’t renew it.”

—

“Did you buy the bar and give it to him? What did he say?” I asked over the phone, heart beating faster.

When I heard the answer I was hoping for, I breathed out. “Thanks, Marie. I’ll be there soon.”

I hung up, turned half a step—and froze.

Christopher stood behind me in a bathrobe. My smile vanished.

“You’re going out?” he asked, nodding toward the bed. “Then what about tonight?”

He pointed at the mattress. His bare chest rose and fell slowly.

It was our designated night—once a week, to fulfill the terms of our agreement.

I didn’t answer. I turned my back to him, took off my robe, and slipped under the quilt.

Three years, and we still couldn’t face each other’s nakedness.

I closed my eyes, expecting the usual forehead kiss. But tonight was different. He kissed my lips directly—hungry, urgent.

His cold fingers brushed my skin, and I flinched. My eyes flew open.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped, eyes dark with lust. “Push me if it hurts. We can stop anytime.”

I shut my eyes again.

He entered me, like always—wordless, emotionless, mechanical. The same position. The same rhythm. The same exhausting finish.

Only the bed creaked and shook, his restrained breathing breaking the silence.

I gripped the sheets and stared at the moonlight outside the window, my gaze hollow.

A comment I’d seen from a black fan popped into my mind:

“Christopher? Just hearing the name, you know he’s bad news.”

Would he torment that commenter the way he’s tormented me?

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

He paused, startled, about to say something—when the phone on his pillow rang.

He stopped mid-motion, but instead of frustration, his face softened. He answered immediately.

I didn’t have to look. I knew that ringtone.

Maurice’s voice trembled through the speaker: “Chris, it’s thundering... I’m scared… Chris…”

To the public, Christopher and I were the perfect couple—a fairytale romance everyone envied.

But the truth?

He had always belonged to Maurice.

This marriage was just a contract to shield her from the chaos of fan wars.

I didn’t mind back then. My heart had died with Ismael in that plane crash three years ago.

Marriage with Christopher offered safety, opportunities, and protection from the industry’s hidden rules.

We agreed on boundaries—fulfill our roles, live separate lives, and part ways after three years.

He pulled out after the call, still gentle. “Sorry… it’s Maurice…”

Even now, he apologized for leaving me in the middle of this.

“It’s fine,” I said with a smile. “I didn’t have the strength for two hours anyway.”

I always made excuses for him.

Anniversaries. Birthdays. Set injuries. Even when I was bleeding and reporters were crowding around, he would find a way to be at Maurice’s side.

And I always covered for him.

But tonight felt different.

He glanced at his still-erect body, grabbed his robe, and bolted toward the bathroom.

This time, I reached out.

“There’s a document you need to sign. Just one minute.” I pulled a folder and pen from the nightstand, already prepared.

He looked at the clock. “Whatever it is, just have my agent look it over.”

“It's simple,” I said. “Just flip to the last page.”

Without reading a word, he scribbled his name and ran into the bathroom.

As the door shut behind him, I sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at the signed divorce agreement in my hands.

I hadn’t expected the divorce to go so smoothly. I thought there would be at least a conversation about splitting assets. After all, most of the money Christopher and I made over the past three years was in my name. But he didn’t even let me speak—he was too eager to rush to Maurice.

I used to ignore Maurice’s constant provocations. Christopher, for all his emotional distance, had been a decent partner—polite, generous with work opportunities, even financially supportive. At one point, I even considered using our arrangement to have a child. Someone who would truly be mine.

Then, half a month ago, everything changed.

I was filming in Evanston. One night, by the river, I heard a voice—familiar, soul-stirring. It was his voice. Ismael’s voice.

A boy was singing barefoot on the beach, wearing faded jeans and pandering to tips from passing tourists. Even from a distance, his silhouette resembled Ismael’s.

My heart, silent and numb for three years, clenched so hard it hurt. Tears spilled beneath my sunglasses before I could stop them.

I couldn’t let that voice beg for spare change. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being unhappy.

I called my best friend the next day, bought her a plane ticket, and asked her to find out who he was.

Soon, I had a name—Cliff.

My friend told me he loved singing but lacked both money and a platform. That was fine. I had money, and I had connections. If he was willing, I could help him debut. I could give him everything.

I just needed him to choose me.

Of course, my public relationship with Christopher complicated things. I worried Cliff would reject me. While he was still deciding, I impulsively bought the biggest bar in Evanston and gave it to him as a gift. I also swore I’d handle everything with Christopher and make a clean break.

Eventually, he agreed.

I had the divorce agreement drafted the day I met Cliff.

The cooling-off period was one month. I was determined to wrap all my remaining scenes before then. Every second now felt like a delay. I couldn’t wait to be with him.

I never thought I’d get to hear Ismael’s voice say “I love you” again in this life.

Yesterday, I compressed two days of shooting into one. When I opened the nanny car’s door, the tears on my face were still wet, clinging to the emotions of the role I’d just played.

But I didn’t even get a chance to step in before a pillow hit me square in the face.

Christopher reached out and yanked me into the car.

“You’re crying again? No wonder everything’s going wrong! Such bad luck!” Maurice sneered from where she sat—on my rest bed—tossing the stuffed toys I’d placed there one by one onto the floor.

“She came to the set to find me,” Christopher explained quickly, glancing nervously at her. “I was worried the reporters would spot us and start rumors, so I let her wait here and told people she’s your cousin.”

He tried to sound lighthearted, but Maurice leaped onto his back, pressing her chest against him and shooting me a smug look.

“What’s the point of hiding it?” she said with a pout. “If she hadn’t been clinging to you for her career, how could she afford this broken car?”

“Maurice, don’t say that,” Christopher whispered, flustered. “Let me take you back to the hotel.”

“I don’t want to go to a hotel!” she whined, gripping the window switch. “I want to go home with you! Or I’m jumping out right now!”

She pushed down the car window dramatically, and Christopher immediately wrapped his arms around her, coaxing her like a fragile child.

I watched their shameless display unfold like a low-budget drama, wishing I could dig my eyes out.

Christopher looked at me pleadingly. “Can I take her home? Shelley, please don’t be mad. She’s been so anxious lately… she can’t sleep whenever it thunders.”

I turned my head, voice cold. “Why would I be angry? The house will be hers in a month anyway.”

We bought that place together using the income from our collaborations, a temporary home for filming convenience.

But in the divorce agreement, I left all the property to him. I didn’t want any part of it. I just wanted peace.

“One month?” Christopher asked, confused.

Before I could respond, Maurice clung to him tighter and laughed.

“Good that you know! Everything that belongs to Chris was always mine to begin with. You were just playing house with him under contract!”

Maurice easily unlocked the door to my apartment.

“All Chris' passwords are my birthday. Didn’t he tell you?” she said with a smug smile.

Christopher’s expression darkened. “Sorry… I’m just used to it.”

He didn’t finish, but I already knew. I gave him a tight smile. “Doesn’t matter. I use my fingerprint anyway.”

Maurice wandered into the bathroom like she owned the place. Christopher, strangely unlike himself, suddenly turned and shoved me against the door.

I blinked at him, startled and confused.

He stared at me, his voice low and tight with frustration. “You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you? It’s been three years, Shelley. Can’t you let him go? He’s gone.”

Ismael?

I hadn’t said a word about him in years. I hadn’t interfered in his messy entanglement with Maurice. We were in a contract marriage—mutual benefits, mutual distance. My past with Ismael wasn’t his concern.

Just as I opened my mouth to reply, Maurice’s voice rang out, cold and vicious.

“Are you that cheap? Trying to seduce Chris right in front of me? He already married you—what more do you want? You think you’re so special? Let him go!”

She stormed out barefoot, wearing one of Christopher’s oversized T-shirts, and yanked me by the hair before I could react. My body, already drained from a full day of emotional scenes and no food, had no strength to resist. She dragged me and threw me into the living room like I was nothing.

“I’m sorry, Shelley! Maurice didn’t mean it—” Christopher blurted, automatically defending her.

Maurice clung to him like a leech, stopping him from helping me up. “Chris! I let you marry her, and now she’s seducing you in front of me just to upset me! The doctor said I can’t be stimulated!”

“Maurice, enough,” he said gently, peeling her off like she was a child. “Where did you get those clothes? She’s my wife—your sister-in-law. You can’t treat her like this. You’re not a kid anymore.”

“I got it from your dirty laundry basket!” she pouted. “It smells like you. I want to wear it. I want to walk around like this. Other people wear even less—why are you being so mean? Carry me to bed!”

I got up slowly and walked to the master bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

If I saw one more second of that pathetic love triangle, I’d vomit.

Thankfully, in less than a month, I’d never have to see it again.

I was exhausted. The moment I hit the bed, I drifted off.

I didn’t know how long I slept before I felt a warm hand on my skin and lips pressing against mine.

The scent was familiar—Christopher.

But this was different. His movements were rough, almost desperate.

He tore my nightgown and bit my neck hungrily.

“Today’s not… our conjugal night…” I mumbled, trying to push him away as I blinked back into consciousness.

He pinned my wrists above my head. “But I want to, Shelley. Wife…”

My eyes flew open.

Wife? He had never called me that before.

But the heat rising in the room pushed everything else out of my mind—until he spoke again.

“Is it because of him? Is that why you don’t care about Maurice anymore?”

His voice was laced with jealousy.

Maurice.

Reality came crashing back. It was dark outside—he must have put her to sleep just so he could sneak into my room.

I never questioned his relationship with her. Our agreement forbade physical betrayal. I believed he would respect that boundary.

But after everything I saw today… the casual way she touched him, the confidence in her claims—I realized I might’ve been sharing a man with Maurice this entire time.

And now, he had the nerve to mention Ismael?

The scent of Maurice’s perfume on his skin hit me like a slap. My stomach turned.

I hadn’t eaten all day. The nausea surged.

“I’ll be gentle… don’t reject me…” he whispered, his hand sliding to my waist.

“No—” I barely got the word out before I choked on the bile rising in my throat.

Tears of humiliation and fury rolled down my cheeks. When they hit his arm, he jerked back like he’d been burned.

I shoved him off and bolted for the bathroom.

He followed, shirtless and panicked, trying to reach for me.

“Shelley, wait—”

“Get out!” I screamed, my voice raw.

I emerged from the bathroom, trembling, only to see him standing frozen, still half-dressed.

“You… you’re pregnant?” he stammered.

I glanced behind him and saw Maurice standing there, watching us with narrowed, venomous eyes.

What a joke this had all become.

I had once viewed this marriage like a role I had to play. A job. I played my part, soothed his first love, and stayed silent.

But now… Cliff was waiting for me. And I wasn’t just going through the motions anymore—I felt again.

“No. I’ve just been starving.”

I shut the door to the master bedroom and locked it.

Just a few more weeks. Less than a month.