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.

The hot search was quickly suppressed. The other side didn’t even resist. That alone confirmed what I already suspected.

Over the past three years, Maurice had grown more reckless, feeding off her jealousy. I finally understood why the Chandler family had always opposed their relationship.

A family friend’s daughter could be protected like one of their own—but never married into the family. They would never risk passing on such chaos to the next generation.

Reporters swarmed the hospital, but my injuries weren’t serious. I decided to move back home to recuperate. It gave me just enough time to pack.

Cliff seemed bothered by Christopher’s presence. I understood him—he was still the stubborn little boy who clung to his own sense of loyalty.

I didn’t take anything with Christopher’s scent. Just a small suitcase—mostly jewelry, a few documents. That was it.

When Christopher saw the suitcase, he assumed I was heading out for work again.

“Apologize to your sister-in-law!” he snapped, dragging Maurice out of his arms.

She clung to him like always, never missing a chance to display possession in front of me. She pouted. Christopher lowered his voice, coaxing, “Don’t you want the limited edition?”

Maurice finally muttered, “Sorry, Shelley.”

She never once called me sister-in-law. Only by name. Always with an edge.

“I’ve already punished her, Shelley, you—”

He was cut off as Maurice curled right back into his chest again.

“My brother already punished me! He said I can’t have one of the limited-edition bags. What more do you want?” She looked up at him with exaggerated innocence. “Are we going or not?”

She pushed me down the stairs. Hired a cyber army to defame me. Spread malicious rumors. And now, she was "punished" by being denied a handbag.

What a severe consequence.

Then my agent called.

“Baby! How’s the dress? Does it fit? Should I call the makeup artist for touch-ups?”

“What dress?”

“The one for the charity auction! I told Christopher to bring it to you—wait, aren’t you two together? Give him the phone!”

Still confused, I turned on the speakerphone.

That’s when I noticed it.

Christopher and Maurice were wearing matching outfits. Couple’s attire. She even had her makeup fully done.

The voice on the phone turned sharp.

“Christopher! You begged me to give you this chance to fix the rumors! And now you're playing games? I swear, if you pull this stunt again, I’ve got dirt on you you won’t walk away from!”

“I tried to stay out of your drama, but do you think Star Entertainment is powerless? You think you can bully my artist endlessly?”

The phone buzzed with my agent’s fury.

Christopher scrambled to lower the volume, hushing his apologies.

When the call ended, he fished a plain dress out of the guest room and handed it to Maurice.

“Change into this. Give the other one back to Shelley.”

Maurice protested instantly. “But you promised you'd take me! Why do I have to change?”

“Be good. I’ll buy you anything you want later, okay? There are too many reporters waiting.”

He always cajoled her like a spoiled child.

Maurice peeled off the dress right in front of us, revealing adhesive breast covers underneath. She tossed the now-crumpled outfit at me.

“You like my leftovers so much? Here. Take it.”

I didn’t even blink. Just walked back to the closet, picked a simple dress of my own, and applied makeup with mechanical ease.

Christopher wanted to use the auction to kill the marriage rumors Maurice had ignited. As his contract wife, I had the obligation to help.

But I would not humiliate myself wearing her cast-offs.

Anyway, the lie couldn’t last much longer. I had no plans to keep pretending we were still married. No matter the fallout, I wouldn’t let Cliff carry the weight of more lies.

Only Ismael’s memory deserved peace.

---

On the way to the event, Christopher brought it up again.

“Shelley… stop taking birth control pills.”

Before I could reply, Maurice exploded.

“What? Brother, are you serious?! She doesn’t even love you! She’s still pining for that dead man, Ismael!”

“Shut up!” Christopher and I said in unison.

I didn’t know why Christopher kept pressing this issue now, when our contract was nearly up. But Maurice?

She had no right to speak Ismael’s name.

“Brother, are you in love with her?” Maurice shrieked. “You yelled at me! You never yell at me!”

I turned sharply. Even I was surprised by her words.

Christopher’s face tightened. “Shelley is my wife. Stop talking nonsense. And don’t say Ismael’s name in front of me again. I don’t want to hear it.”

He pulled over about a kilometer from the auction and opened the passenger door for me. A first.

As long as Maurice was around, that seat was never mine.

“There are too many reporters up front,” he said quietly. “Walk the rest of the way.”

Maurice tried to argue, but Christopher turned away without a word.

I didn’t care anymore. I couldn’t read this man, and I didn’t want to.

"Let’s get a divorce."