### Chapter 1

"Dad, I've had enough. Since I'm nothing but a dirty secret, a 'homewrecker,' then I'll step aside and let Dustin Delgado have his sister-in-law."

My knuckles were white around the phone. My voice trembled, but I finally said it.

"I always told you that bastard wasn't worthy of you." A sigh crackled through the speaker, followed by my father's low, steady voice. "It's not too late to leave him. I'll come get you right now."

His words loosened something wound tight inside my chest. I wiped the tears from my face. "Give me a week. I need to wrap things up here."

I hung up and slid down against the headboard until I was sitting on the floor. Every memory I'd fought to bury came flooding back at once.

A year ago, Dustin's older brother died in a car accident. His sister-in-law, Alice Dotson, lost her mind. She clung to Dustin, called him "honey," gripped him like he was the last piece of driftwood in a shipwreck.

Dustin didn't push her away.

"Cecily," he'd said, "she's carrying my brother's child. She can't be upset. Just bear with it for now. Once the baby's born, I'll tell her the truth."

So I bore it.

I bore it when I was moved out of our home and left to hide alone in a hotel. I bore it when they appeared everywhere together, playing the loving "husband and wife" for the whole world. I bore it when sneaking a weekend visit with my own husband made me feel like a criminal.

Until today. Alice found out I was pregnant and came at me like a woman possessed, screaming that I was the whore destroying her family. I clenched my jaw and said nothing.

Until her stiletto heel swung toward my belly, and every drop of humiliation I'd swallowed finally detonated inside my chest.

I shielded my three-month bump and snarled, "I'm not the other woman! Dustin and I have been married for three years, and your husband has been dead—"

The words died in my throat. A large hand clamped around it, squeezing until I couldn't breathe.

Above me, Dustin's face was terrifyingly dark.

"I told you," he said, each word bitten off like a verdict, "she is not to be upset. Under any circumstances."

In that instant, I looked at him and realized I didn't recognize him at all.

He didn't ask if I'd been hurt. He didn't spare a thought for the child inside me. He simply shoved me aside, pulled Alice into his arms, and murmured to her in a voice so tender it could have cradled glass: "Sweetheart, don't waste your energy on her. Let's go home."

But Alice wasn't finished. She twisted in his embrace and shrieked, "What about that bastard she's carrying?!"

Dustin's gaze drifted over my stomach, light and dismissive, like he was looking at something that belonged in the trash.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

Cold crawled up my spine. Somewhere deep inside me, something shattered.

I braced myself against the wall, coughing so hard that tears streamed down my face. I couldn't tell anymore whether they were from the pain or from the part of me that had just died.

Seven days.

I only needed seven days, and I could leave the man who had turned me into a joke. Leave this city soaked in my grief.

No more silent suffering as Mrs. Delgado. I was going to live for myself.

...

It all happened that morning. Alice used her "Mrs. Delgado" privileges to sweet-talk the hotel manager into handing over my keycard.

She swiped open my door. Before I could react, her bodyguard ripped the thin nightgown off my body. Her manicured nails raked across my face, leaving trails of burning, bloody scratches.

My husband appeared. He didn't help me. He wrapped both arms around that woman and held her tight, making me look like the real intruder—someone who deserved every blow, every insult.

Doors along the hallway swung open one by one. Strangers crowded into their doorframes, pointing, whispering, sneering.

"She deserves it. Homewreckers always get what's coming!"

"Stealing someone's husband wasn't enough—she got knocked up too! Probably trying to use the bastard to climb the ladder!"

Things flew at me. Eggs. Garbage. A half-empty water bottle someone had been drinking from. The sticky liquid dripped down my hair, and I threw my arms over my face, but someone's phone camera was already aimed right at me.

"Look at this, everyone! This is what happens to homewreckers! Let the whole world see this little tramp's face!"

I was being livestreamed.

My half-naked body. The bloody scratches on my face. The desperate way I curled around my belly. Thousands of people watched, cursed, and spat venom.

"I'm not the other woman! My baby isn't a bastard!" I screamed until my throat tore, but my voice drowned beneath the roar. "He's my husband!"

I was a cockroach dragged into the light, shaking from head to toe with humiliation.

I looked up at Dustin. Save me. My eyes begged.

His gaze landed on me for a brief moment, then slid away, weightless. Like he was watching a scene that had nothing to do with him.

Something inside me collapsed for good. Three years ago, my parents had warned me: the way Dustin looked at me held no real love—only novelty, only the thrill of the chase. I was nothing but a shiny new toy a spoiled heir had finally gotten his hands on.

But swept up in his relentless pursuit, I'd brushed their words aside like wind. To marry him, I'd cut ties with my family entirely.

Now I understood. I'd been pathetically, pitifully stupid.

Only after the abuse had nearly drowned me did Dustin give a slight jerk of his chin, signaling his bodyguards to shut down the livestreams. He'd timed it perfectly—let me suffer just enough to "learn my lesson," then tossed me a scrap of mercy like charity.

I steadied myself against the wall. Every inch of me trembled.

"Dustin, I don't understand." My voice was raw, scraped down to sandpaper. "She miscarried ages ago. How much longer do you expect me to wait? I'm not the mistress. Alice Dotson is—"

Crack.

His palm struck my face with every ounce of force he had. My skull rang. The world went black for three full seconds.

"Cecily Harding." Each syllable fell like a hammer blow, his eyes brimming with threat. "Don't forget—my wife is Alice Dotson."

Alice swept her gaze over me, triumph radiating from every pore. Then she nestled into Dustin's arms, lips curling, and held up her hand with a little wave. "Honey, I broke my fresh manicure teaching that homewrecker a lesson."

Dustin took her hand and rubbed her fingers, his expression so gentle it burned.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll get you the best nail artist in the city. A hundred new sets—pick whichever you like."

Then he took her hand and walked away.

I stood there, numb. The overhead light was blinding, but I was so cold my teeth chattered.

A long time passed before I dragged myself to the bathroom. I scrubbed the filth from my skin, cleaned the dried blood from my face, and dabbed ointment onto every wound, one by one, staring at my reflection.

The woman in the mirror was wrecked. Ugly. Unrecognizable. Tears blurred my vision as I dialed my father's number. "Dad, I'm leaving him. For good."

With his support behind me, I set out to find a divorce lawyer.

The elevator doors opened onto the underground parking garage, and my feet froze to the concrete.

Dustin's silver Maybach sat right ahead.

The window was half-down. Alice's slender arms were looped around Dustin's neck. She tilted her face up and pressed her lips to his.

Dustin paused for a fraction of a second. Then his hand found the back of her head, and he deepened the kiss.

Something collapsed inside my chest. The wall I'd built from self-deception—the lie I'd told myself for nearly a year, that he was only pretending to be Alice's husband because he had no choice.

Now I knew. There had never been any reluctance. He had wanted her all along.

Nausea surged without warning. I doubled over, gripping a concrete pillar, dry-heaving so violently I thought my insides would come up.

I staggered into my car and dialed the hospital.

"I'd like to schedule a termination."

"How far along are you?"

"Three months."

I lowered my head, pressing my hand against my belly.

This baby had been so hard to conceive—a miracle after the miscarriage six months ago. I'd believed it was the universe's way of making things right. That the three of us were finally going to be happy.

But now.

I closed my eyes. Tears slipped from the corners, unstoppable.

Baby, I'm so sorry. But Mommy can't bring you into a world with no love.

"Ms. Harding?" The voice on the other end pulled me back. "Your procedure is scheduled for two days from now. Please arrive on time."

"All right. Two days. I'll be there."

A knock rapped against the car window.

I whipped my head around.

Dustin Delgado stood outside the door. The dim garage lights stretched his shadow long across the concrete. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and the sharp planes of his face were carved into hard, cold lines by the half-light.

Those deep-set eyes—the ones that had once made me fall—were locked on me.

"Cecily." His brow furrowed. "Two days from now? Where are you going?"

### Chapter 2

There was a time when Dustin's voice—low, magnetic, rough at the edges—could make my knees buckle just by saying my name.

Now there was no warmth in it at all. The two syllables left his mouth like a sentence being handed down, and the cheek he'd slapped throbbed all over again.

I kept my expression blank and forced my voice flat.

"Did you forget? My prenatal checkup is the day after tomorrow."

Of course he didn't remember. He'd never once gone with me since I'd gotten pregnant. I'd brought it up a few times, and every time he'd given me the same pained look: "Sorry, Cecily. I'm afraid Alice will find out and have another episode. She's only just started to stabilize."

He was quiet for a moment, studying my expressionless face. Then: "You know I only said that about getting rid of the baby to calm her down."

I didn't answer. Was I supposed to thank him?

I was done groveling. Weakness and tears only built monuments to the enemy's victory. Every smug smile Alice wore was cemented with my humiliation.

When I continued to ignore him, Dustin did something unprecedented—he volunteered. "I should be free in two days. I can go with you."

I nearly laughed out loud. The classic routine: crack the whip, then offer a sugar cube.

Once upon a time, I'd been a beggar at love's door, hoping he might spare me a scrap of affection between his visits to Alice. A crumb of sweetness from him could keep me glowing for three days.

Not anymore. I wanted nothing from him.

"No need—"

Before I could finish, his phone rang, the sound ricocheting off the concrete walls of the parking garage.

That ringtone. I knew it well—a custom tone he'd set just for Alice. Tacky and grating, but it suited her perfectly.

Dustin glanced at the screen. His entire face changed. The cold, tight line of his mouth softened into something tender. That granite jaw, perpetually carved in ice, thawed under the dim garage lights until it was almost gentle.

He turned his back to me. When he spoke, his voice was silk—careful, reverent, as if he'd become a different man entirely.

"Yeah, all taken care of. I'm on my way to you right now."

He hung up and slid the phone into his jacket.

"I need to get back to her. If I don't, her depression will flare up again." His tone turned clipped, urgent. No "Does your face still hurt?" No "Where are you headed—do you need a ride?"

He was simply in a rush to return to her side.

"Go. She needs you."

A cold laugh escaped me. I slammed my foot on the gas and tore out of that suffocating space.

In the rearview mirror, Dustin's silhouette ducked into another car. We drove off in opposite directions—our lives splitting further apart with every mile. And yet he assumed I'd always be standing right where he left me.

After all, I once loved him enough to give up everything.

By the time I arrived at what used to be "home" with the divorce papers in my bag, night had already fallen.

I'd poured my heart into this house when we got married. I'd designed it myself—handpicked every material, supervised every detail. Every vintage brick, every light fixture, every potted plant, chosen to make it exactly the way I wanted. I'd believed this would be the castle where Dustin and I spent the rest of our lives together.

Then Alice moved in as the lady of the house, and I lost even the right to walk through the front door.

I swallowed the bitterness churning inside me and punched in the door code.

Wrong. I tried again. Wrong. And again. Wrong.

I paused. Then, with something close to masochistic certainty, I keyed in Alice's birthday.

The door opened.

The cold hit me like being thrown into a frozen lake.

Dustin had once told me this code was our wedding anniversary—that he would never change it. Turns out promises could be discarded as easily as feathers on the wind.

I stepped inside, and the house was unrecognizable.

The warm vintage brown tones I loved had been replaced by garish pink. My carefully chosen sofa, my furniture—all gone.

In their place: a rhinestone-encrusted princess sofa, lace-trimmed curtains, an entire wall covered in pink feather decorations. Every inch dripped with a saccharine "little princess" aesthetic. Alice's taste, everywhere I looked.

I was a stranger in my own home.

"Oh? Miss Harding?"

Behind me, the elderly housekeeper hurried over, her eyes sweeping me up and down in surprise.

"What are you doing here? Mr. Delgado gave strict orders—you're absolutely not allowed inside. If the missus sees you, it could trigger another episode."

Miss Harding? The missus?

Those two titles from her mouth landed like slaps.

Mockery flooded my eyes. I turned and headed straight for the stairs.

"You can't go up there! Mr. Delgado is busy!" The housekeeper's voice pitched higher with panic as she reached out to grab me.

"Get out of my way."

I shoved past her and took the stairs two at a time.

The master bedroom door was ajar. I pushed it open and walked in.

My brain whited out.

Where my custom double bed used to stand, directly facing the doorway, was an enormous waterbed.

On it, two bodies tangled together.

Alice's head was thrown back, moaning shamelessly. The man on top of her, driving into her with that perfect, powerful torso—I would have recognized him if he'd been reduced to ash.

I stared at the muscles of his back, the ones my hands had traced a thousand times. I watched the way he buried himself in her, lost in her, intoxicated. Time froze.

It wasn't until Alice's eyes locked onto mine—her moans sharpening into a scream—that I snapped back to reality.

So this was what the housekeeper meant by "Mr. Delgado is busy."

So this was how thoroughly he played along with her. All the way to the bed.

My vision darkened. My legs nearly gave out. I fought with everything I had not to turn and run. Then Dustin looked over his shoulder and saw me. The flash of panic in his eyes dissolved instantly into raw fury.

"Get out!"

Alice thrashed in his arms like a woman possessed. "Dustin Delgado, have you no shame?! You brought your mistress into our home?! I'll kill you, you bastard!"

She slapped him hard across the face, then snatched the ashtray from the nightstand and hurled it at my head.

Crack. Pain exploded across my forehead. Something warm slid down my cheek, and my vision went red.

The agony turned my whole body numb, as though someone had split my heart open with an axe. But Dustin didn't so much as glance my way. He held Alice's hand, his voice low and coaxing:

"Don't be upset, sweetheart. I cut things off with her a long time ago."

"Your hand's all red. Does it hurt?"

A crimson handprint blazed across his cheek, and he wore it like a badge of honor.

I stood in the doorway, blood streaming down my face—the picture of a disgraced mistress, wretched and deserving of every bit of it.

A laugh broke out of me.

I lifted my hand, wiped the blood from my face, and pulled my gaze away from them. When I spoke, my voice was as steady as if I were discussing quarterly numbers.

"Mr. Delgado, I just need your signature. I landed the new project for the company. Once you sign, it's officially in effect."

I pulled a stack of documents from my bag—the divorce agreement and my resignation letter tucked neatly between the project papers—and flipped to the signature page.

I'd nearly killed myself for Delgado Group these past few years. The most grueling projects, the most impossible clients, the most cutthroat negotiations—I'd brought in hundreds of millions for him, at minimum. Dustin knew my value better than anyone. There was no way he'd let me resign.

And the marriage?

I'd once been intoxicated by his ferocious possessiveness. He'd get jealous if I so much as glanced at another man. He'd pull me into his arms and growl, "You're mine. Only mine." But when he stopped loving, he'd sooner shred what he no longer wanted than allow it to slip from his grasp on its own.

So I wasn't sure he'd agree to a divorce.

As I held the stack of papers out to him, my fingertips trembled—terrified he might actually flip through and read every page.

### Chapter 3

"Tell her to get out already!" Alice shrieked, her eyes bloodshot as she thrashed against him. She was naked, clinging to my equally bare husband, right in front of me.

The impact of that image defied words.

I dug my nails into my palms until the pain pushed back the wave of nausea. I had no doubt that one more second and I'd vomit all over them and that revolting pink waterbed.

Fortunately, Alice's frantic urging meant Dustin didn't so much as glance at the documents.

His pen slashed across every signature line, fast and careless, like he was swatting away a fly. Then he lifted his head and fixed me with a look that said get out. Now.

I didn't linger. I grabbed the papers, turned on my heel, and slammed the door behind me.

The bang echoed down the hallway like a declaration—three years of marriage, shattered beyond repair.

I made it to the top of the stairs before my legs gave out. I slid to the floor, curled against the wall, and crumpled into myself. A bitter laugh escaped, tangled with tears I couldn't stop and blood that hadn't yet dried.

A long time passed before I wiped the mess of blood and tears from my face and forced myself upright.

"Cecily."

I turned. Dustin had followed me out. He'd thrown on loungewear, but it did nothing to hide the angry red marks across his chest—hickeys and scratch lines, vivid as accusations.

I thought he might say something. Ask about the documents. Ask whether the gash on my face needed tending.

"Don't come in unannounced again. It upsets Alice."

That was all. A cold warning. A dismissal.

"Don't worry." My voice came out so calm it startled even me. "I won't be around to upset your mistress anymore. I'm grabbing a few things and leaving, Mr. Delgado."

The word mistress landed like a slap. His expression curdled.

But I was already walking toward the guest room.

Dustin had moved all my belongings in there long ago—locked everything away so the sight of my things wouldn't upset Alice.

His gifts filled half the room. Plush teddy bears. Limited-edition Chanel bags flown in from overseas. A museum of devotion from a man who no longer existed.

Back then, he'd chased me like a man possessed. He knew I loved Chanel, so he had people ship the latest collections from abroad. He knew I loved teddy bears, so he'd bring one home from every business trip. I'd kept every single piece, imagining the day I'd have a child and could tell her the story of how her mom and dad fell in love.

I shoved it all into a suitcase. Fast. Without a shred of sentimentality.

A man's silhouette appeared in the doorway. "You're taking all of that?"

My hands didn't stop. "No. I'm throwing it away."

He paused, as if he'd misheard. "Throwing it away? All of it? These are gifts I gave you. You always treasured them. You said you'd keep them forever."

I didn't look up. I kept stuffing things into the suitcase. "People get tired of old things. That's human nature. Doesn't matter if it's a person or a possession—once it's old, you don't need it anymore."

Something strange crossed his face, a flicker of displeasure he couldn't quite mask. He wasn't used to this version of me. The Cecily who used to gaze up at him adoringly, who cherished every smile, every gift—how could she possibly throw his presents away?

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the housekeeper appeared in the doorway.

"Sir, the missus isn't feeling well. You should go check on her right away."

Dustin's expression shifted instantly to alarm. He tossed out a parting line without looking back: "Fine, throw them out. I'll buy you new ones. Finish packing and leave."

He was gone before the words finished hanging in the air. Hurried footsteps pounded up the staircase.

I smiled bitterly. He didn't need to tell me twice. I didn't want to spend another second in this house.

I crammed the last of it into the suitcase, grabbed only a small bag of essentials, and stepped out of the guest room. The moment I did, hushed laughter drifted from around the staircase landing—two of the household staff, voices low but not low enough.

"The missus really hit the jackpot, didn't she? He spoils her rotten. Cooks all three meals himself, carries the plates right to her. Honestly, his cooking's better than any restaurant."

My feet stopped moving.

"Right?" another voice chimed in. "Compared to Miss Harding, don't you think she's the one who acts like the real Mrs. Delgado? If you ask me, it's only a matter of time before the Harding girl gets tossed out for good."

"Shh, keep it down…"

"Oh, relax. She can't hear us."

I stood there, perfectly still.

Dustin used to refuse to set foot in a kitchen. He'd said a man's hands were meant for making money, not holding a spatula.

He was impossibly picky about food—he'd take a few bites of restaurant meals and push the plate away. So I cooked every meal myself, rotating through recipes to keep him interested. Some nights I'd spend three or four hours in the kitchen just to perfect a single dish he loved.

Yet somehow, in the year I hadn't known about, he'd taught himself to cook. For Alice.

All that tenderness I thought belonged to me had been given to someone else long ago.

No. Maybe it had never been mine to begin with.

The gossip continued, but I walked past as if I'd heard nothing, heading straight for the front door.

A slender, pale hand blocked my path.

Alice.

She wore an obscenely short lace nightgown, the hem barely grazing the tops of her thighs. The smell clung to her—that unmistakable, nauseating musk of what had just happened upstairs—and it flooded my nostrils.

I was about to tell her to move when she produced something from behind her hand.

A pregnancy test.

Two unmistakable red lines filled my vision, and the vein at my temple began to throb.

"I'm pregnant." Alice's smile spread wide, dripping with triumph and venom, like a snake flicking its tongue to show off a fresh kill. "Dustin was thrilled when he found out."

Her lips kept moving. "You saw it all just now, didn't you? To celebrate our baby, he was absolutely insatiable with me. That waterbed? He bought it just for me. Said it makes things more… comfortable."

Her eyes locked onto mine, hungry for the breakdown. Waiting for the tears. Waiting for me to fall apart and flee the way I always had before.

But I was eerily calm. I refused to give her what she wanted.

My lack of reaction infuriated her.

Frustration radiated off her like heat from a furnace, so intense her smug smile began to crack at the edges. She leaned closer, voice dropping to something more vicious.

"Oh," she murmured, soft and poisonous, like an old friend sharing a secret. "I know what will break you."

She brought her lips to my ear and spoke slowly, savoring every word:

"For instance… that baby you lost six months ago. Did you really think it was an accident?"

Every muscle in my body locked.

My blood turned to ice water.

"What did you just say?"