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.

I arrived on set early.

Today’s scene involved the male lead’s tragic car crash—eerily similar to how Ismael had left me years ago. That was exactly why I’d taken this script. The moment I read it, I knew I wouldn’t be acting—I’d be reliving.

No matter how much I prepared, no matter how many times I reminded myself it was just a scene, when the director finally yelled “Cut,” I couldn’t stop myself. I collapsed in a corner, hugging my knees, sobbing so violently I couldn’t stand.

“I’m here, Shelley. It’s over now. It’s all over.”

Christopher appeared out of nowhere, gathering me into his arms and carrying me toward the dressing room.

“Director Shelley,” the stage manager chimed in with dramatic flair, “Your husband canceled his entire schedule today just to wait for you. He said you get too deep into roles and was worried you couldn’t pull yourself back out. So sweet. I’m jealous!”

When I left home this morning, I hadn’t seen Christopher. I assumed he was with Maurice again. I didn’t expect him to beat me to the set.

I wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come. I could only cry harder, my throat tight with emotion.

“Don’t take what Maurice said to heart,” he murmured, wiping away my tears. “She’s still young. You know how it is—we grew up together. After her parents died, my mom raised her like her own. She’s spoiled, not malicious.”

Maurice. The adopted daughter of the Chandler family. Technically his “sister,” but their ambiguous relationship had always confused me.

If it were Ismael, I thought bitterly, I would’ve defied the entire world to be with him.

“The director says you’re done for the day,” Christopher continued gently. “Why don’t we go to the hospital later? Check on things. Are you… pregnant?”

His gaze drifted to my belly with tender hope.

So that’s what all this was about. The care, the concern—it was all for a child that didn’t exist.

I had been taking birth control religiously. And now, my heart was slowly beginning to belong to someone else: Cliff. There was no way I was pregnant.

I shook my head, about to explain, but his phone rang—Maurice’s custom ringtone.

He answered immediately, voice soft. “Maurice, don’t cry. I’ll be right there, okay?”

He hung up and gave me an apologetic look. “She’s throwing another tantrum. I’ll be back soon—wait for me, alright?”

I watched him leave, his figure retreating down the hallway. And I felt nothing but relief.

Just a few more weeks and this contract would end. I wouldn’t have to chase after his chaos anymore.

A knock echoed from the lounge door. I opened it on unsteady legs—no one was there.

Puzzled, I stepped out. Maurice was waiting by the stairs, smirking as she crooked a finger at me.

I ignored her and turned to shut the door.

“What?” she called out mockingly. “Don’t you want this?”

She dangled a ring between her fingers—Ismael’s ring. The one identical to mine.

My breath caught. I surged forward to grab it.

But just as I reached her, she flicked her wrist and sent the ring tumbling down the stairwell.

I lunged after it.

And in the next heartbeat, I felt her hands on my back—pushing.

I tumbled down the steps, hitting each one with a crack of pain, until I landed in a twisted heap at the bottom.

Maurice stood at the top, laughing coldly. “I’ve tolerated him marrying you, but this? You think you’re going to have his child? You? Keep dreaming, bitch.”

Warm blood trickled from my forehead, blurring my vision.

My body throbbed in agony, but I crawled across the cold floor, hands fumbling until I finally touched it—Ismael’s ring.

I clutched it to my chest, trembling.

And then everything went black.