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.

“The doctor said she’s not pregnant! She’s not pregnant!”

Christopher’s furious voice snapped me awake.

“I was just guessing, and you—without even confirming—blew everything out of proportion! Do you have any idea how much the production has lost from stopping filming these past few days? If the crew decides to call the police, what do you think that’ll do to your future?”

It was the first time I’d ever seen Christopher lose control.

To the outside world, Christopher is a perfect gentleman—warm, composed, gentle as jade, just like his name implies. In all the time we’d known each other, we’d never truly quarreled.

Even back when the tabloids exposed photos of him sending a drunk Maurice to a hotel, causing rumors to erupt and netizens to dig into her background, Christopher never raised his voice. His face went red from stress, but his tone remained soft as he calmly negotiated the terms of our contract marriage with me—a fellow industry insider who had happened to be in the same hotel at the time.

Back then, I was still a struggling actress, my career in chaos after Ismael’s betrayal. The proposal had felt like a lifeline. I needed someone—anyone—to help me feel less alone.

I shifted slightly on the hospital bed. Christopher noticed and ended the call immediately.

“I didn’t fracture anything, did I?” My voice was hoarse. I’d been counting down the days left of my filming schedule. Any delay would be a disaster.

“No, you’re lucky,” he said gently. “Just bruises and some scratches. You’ll need a couple days of rest.”

He hesitated, then added, “Maurice went too far this time. I’ll make it up to you. Tell me what you want—as an apology.”

To my own surprise, I stayed calm. “Alright.”

His eyes lit up. “You’re really not angry at Maurice? She knows she was wrong this time, I promise. I’ll talk to her—”

“There’s no need.” I cut him off, my tone steady.

“I get it. If Ismael were still alive, I would’ve defended him blindly too. So let’s just drop it. But do me a favor—tell her I won’t be getting pregnant. She can stop worrying.”

He blinked at me, startled. “Why not?”

I stared at him. “Why do you think? I’ve been taking birth control. I’m not going to have a child for someone who isn’t Ismael.”

He froze. “You’ve… been taking pills? Shelley, the man is gone. Can’t you stop living in the past? Can’t you even look at me?”

His voice trembled—sharp, unlike the calm mask he always wore. It was the first time I saw the cracks in it.

“You have obligations as a wife,” he muttered, grabbing for something—anything—to hold onto. “It’s in the contract.”

“What obligation?” I asked flatly. “The contract’s already—”

Before I could finish, his phone rang again.

“Brother! I found birth control pills in Shelley’s drawer!”

It was Maurice’s voice, shrill and smug. “She doesn’t want your baby! She’s in love with someone else!”

Christopher looked at me, visibly awkward, then silently left the ward to take the call.

I watched him go, more tired than angry.

That afternoon, rumors exploded online—accusations that I was cheating on Christopher. Though the claims were dressed up with fake timelines and twisted facts, there was no real evidence. Just slander. Just malice.

The tone was too familiar, too targeted. I didn’t need to guess who was behind it.

Maurice. Of course it was her. So impatient, so desperate to humiliate me, she couldn’t even wait another day.

What I still didn’t understand was why Christopher loved her.

Later that evening, he called, flustered and breathless.

“I’m sorry. I’ll take care of it, I promise. It won’t affect you—I swear. Maurice… she’s just been spoiled by me.”

Three years.

In three years, the sentence I heard from him the most was: “I’m sorry.”

And every time, it was because of Maurice.

I used to see him as a kind of medicine—something to soothe the pain Ismael left behind. I used to think these were minor storms I had to weather for the paycheck and the peace.

But not anymore. I was done.

Whatever this was—this contract, this facade—it was already over.