"Sis, have you lost your mind? That was Aiden Stephens!"

Glen wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, still shaken. "If you've made an enemy of him, our whole family is done for!"

I looked down at the blood on my ankle. It had already dried, crusted into an ugly scab.

"I don't know him."

My voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

Glen blinked, then let out a breath of relief. "God, you scared me. I thought you were staring at him because you'd gone into shock or something." He shook his head. "Sis, don't come to places like this anymore. I can get myself back to school."

His eyes fell to the wound on my foot, guilt flickering across his face. "Does it hurt?"

"No."

Compared to the gaping hole in my chest, this was nothing.

After dropping Glen off, I returned to the marital home I shared with Aiden.

A villa nestled halfway up the mountain. Serene. Elegant. Every corner breathed tranquility.

Just like the image Aiden projected to the world.

Cold. Ascetic. Untouchable.

Who would ever guess that this saint played dirtier than anyone behind closed doors?

I sat on the sofa, staring at the calligraphy hanging on the wall—brushstrokes Aiden had painted himself.

"Inner Peace."

The irony was suffocating.

Aiden and I had been secretly married for three years.

He was the one who'd proposed.

Back then, he'd braved a downpour just to buy me chestnut cake, coming home soaked to the bone.

He'd fumbled through making me brown sugar tea when my period cramps hit, clumsy but trying.

He'd said: "Miranda, I might not be able to give you the grandest wedding in the world. But I can give you all of my love."

I believed him.

I thought I was special.

I thought I was the only one who'd ever pulled him down from his pedestal.

Now I see the truth. I was nothing but a diversion in his boring life. A docile, obedient maid who came whenever he called.

No—not even a maid.

At least a maid wouldn't have a champagne glass hurled at her feet in public, wouldn't be spat at as "a blind little nobody."

Three in the morning.

The front door swung open.

I hadn't turned on the lights. I just sat there in the darkness like a ghost.

Aiden walked in, trailing cold night air behind him.

As he drew closer, the stench hit me—alcohol and something cloyingly sweet. Perfume.

Mon Paris.

The same fragrance that girl at the bar had been wearing.

Aiden seemed surprised to find me still awake. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, striding over and reaching out to hold me.

"Why are you sitting in the dark? I thought you said you'd gone to bed."

His voice carried the perfect note of jet-lagged exhaustion. Flawless performance.

I shifted away, dodging his arms.

"Just woke up."

I flicked on the lamp. Harsh white light flooded the living room.

It also illuminated the smear of red lipstick on his collar.

Aiden followed my gaze downward. He saw the mark.

He didn't even flinch.

"Some fan got too close at the airport." He unknotted his tie with practiced ease and tossed it onto the sofa, his tone bored. "You know how it is. Some of them are... intense."

Once, I would have believed him.

I would have ached for him, taken his shirt to wash, made him hangover soup.

Now? I almost laughed.

"Is that so?"

I let my lips curl, then pointed at his shirt cuff—at the empty hole where a cufflink should have been.

"Then I suppose a fan stole this too?"

It was a sapphire cufflink. I'd saved three months of freelance pay to buy it for his birthday.

At the bar tonight, I watched that girl take it between her lips, holding it there as she gazed up at him.

Aiden's hands finally stilled.

He lifted his gaze, those cold eyes flickering with impatience.

"Miranda, what's gotten into you today?"

He walked over, looming above me, a note of reproach threading through his voice. "I just got back from a business trip. I'm exhausted. Don't throw a tantrum over something this trivial."

"Trivial?"

I stared at the man I'd shared a bed with for three years—and felt like I was looking at a stranger.

"Aiden, were you really on a business trip?"

His expression frosted over instantly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous edge radiating from him. "Have you been investigating me?"

"I haven't investigated anything."

I met his gaze steadily and gestured toward my ankle. "I just happened to go to a bar tonight to drag Glen home. And someone happened to smash a glass into me."

Aiden's eyes dropped to the wound on my ankle.

His pupils contracted—just barely.

But that was all.

He didn't ask who did it. He didn't ask if it hurt.

He just frowned slightly, as if trying to recall something.

A few seconds later, recognition dawned. A mocking smile curled his lips.

"So the blind idiot who got in the way—that was you."

He remembered now.

But there was no guilt. Not even a flicker.

Instead, he looked almost amused, settling into the sofa with casual indifference and lighting a cigarette.

"Miranda, since you've already seen everything, I won't bother pretending anymore."

He exhaled a ring of smoke. Through the haze, his features blurred, but his voice cut through—sharp as a blade left out in the cold.

"Yes, I was out having fun."

"I'm the Stephens heir. In circles like ours, playing the game is just how it works."

"But you—"

He pointed at me with the hand holding his cigarette, contempt plain in his eyes. "As Mrs. Stephens, can't you manage even this much grace?"

"So you got hit with a glass. You didn't die. Is that really worth giving me this corpse face?"

"Don't forget—when you married me, you had nothing."

"If it weren't for me, you'd still be scrambling to pay your deadbeat brother's tuition."

"Miranda. Learn to be grateful."

Grateful.

What a beautiful word.

I looked at this man standing before me, so utterly convinced of his own righteousness, and realized—three years of my youth had been thrown to the dogs.

For him, I'd given up my chance to study abroad.

For him, I'd agreed to be invisible, a secret kept in shadows.

For him, I'd set aside my ambitions, learned to cook, softened every sharp edge I had.

And after all that? In his eyes, I was nothing but a charity case. A beggar surviving on his scraps.

"Aiden."

I drew a deep breath, forcing down the agony clawing at my chest.

"Let's get a divorce."

The hand flicking ash went still.

Then—slowly—he laughed. A low, incredulous sound, like he'd just heard the joke of the century.

"Divorce?"

He rose and moved toward me, step by deliberate step, until my back hit the wall.

His hand shot out to grip my chin, fingers digging in hard enough to grind bone.

"Miranda, what makes you think you have the right to ask me for a divorce?"

"You think you can survive without me?"

"Stop being ridiculous. Be good."

He patted my cheek—the way you'd calm a disobedient pet. "As long as you behave, the position of Mrs. Stephens will always be yours."

"As for those women outside—they're just entertainment."

"You keep your place, stay out of trouble, and I'll make sure you never want for anything."

He released me and turned to head upstairs.

"Oh—there's a charity gala tomorrow night. You're coming with me."

He didn't bother turning around. "Dress properly. Don't embarrass me."

I watched his retreating back, and the last flicker of light in my eyes died.

Proper?

Fine. I'd show him proper.

The next evening.

Capital City's grandest charity gala.

Elite gathered. Cameras flashed. Stars glittered under crystal chandeliers.

Aiden swept in wearing a bespoke suit, the soft-spoken girl from the bar draped on his arm.

She wore a white mermaid gown—stunning, luminous, like a rose in full bloom.

My gown. The one he'd had made for me.

Now clinging to her curves.

Whispers rippled through the crowd. Envious glances followed the "golden couple."

Aiden seemed to have forgotten he'd told me to attend. Or perhaps he simply didn't care whether I showed up at all.

He leaned down to murmur something to her. She covered her lips, giggling.

Then the emcee's voice cut through the hall.

"And now, please welcome our special guest photographer—the mysterious artist who just won the International Golden Image Award—Ms. Z!"

The spotlight swung to the main entrance.

The doors swept open.

I strode in.

Black jumpsuit, sharp and tailored. Camera in hand. Four-inch heels clicking against marble.

My hair was pulled back high, exposing the clean lines of my face.

Red lips. Blazing.

I owned every inch of that room.

Aiden's smile froze mid-curve.

He stared at me like he was seeing a stranger—like he'd never known me at all.

I walked past him without so much as a sideways glance. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

Straight to the stage. Took the microphone from the emcee's hand.

"Good evening, everyone. I'm Miranda Baxter."

A pause. Then:

"Also known as Mr. Stephens' ex-wife."

The room erupted.

Aiden's face turned to stone. Then darker—thundercloud black.

I met his gaze and let my lips curl. Just slightly. Eyes glinting with challenge.

"Mr. Stephens, you told me last night I had no sense of grace."

"Tonight, I'll show you what it really means to be blind."