And soon, the hospital staff noticed.

One afternoon, as I was washing Maeve’s fruit in the kitchen, I overheard two nurses whispering.

“Oh my god. That’s his wife? Seriously?”

“Yeah. I heard they’ve been married for years. But he’s clearly in love with the other woman.”

The younger one glanced toward the ward door. “She’s... so calm. How does she do it?”

The older nurse sighed like she was watching a tragedy unfold. “You don’t understand. That’s real love.”

“What?”

“She’s taking care of the woman her husband is in love with. Not out of duty. Not out of pride. But because... she still hopes he’ll look at her. Even once. That’s the saddest kind of love. The kind that never speaks.”

Outside, I heard Benedict's footsteps slow by the nurses’ station. I didn’t turn around. But I felt his gaze on my back.

**

On the day Maeve was discharged, Benedict came home just long enough to throw his keys on the counter and look at me like I was something that reeked.

“I’m taking Maeve out of town for a while,” he said, flatly. “Don’t call me unless someone’s dead.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He never did.

I watched him guide her toward the waiting car, his hand lightly on her lower back, a coat draped over her shoulders then the door slammed. I stood still until the engine disappeared into the distance, taking their laughter with it.

The next day, I started packing. I folded everything in silence. My hands were steady. My chest, strangely calm.

Then a notification lit up my phone.

Maeve.

I froze.

And then the photos started.

Not one. Not two. Dozens.

They came in fast, one after another. A whole curated album. Each image framed for cruelty.

Her on Benedict’s lap at a vineyard in Tuscany, laughing while he kissed her neck.

Her wrapped in white silk sheets, back arched, one of his shirts draped across her bare thighs. Her, standing in front of a mirror with his arm wrapped around her waist, his phone in one hand, hers in the other as they captured the reflection together.

Her, holding his hand as he slipped a new bracelet onto her wrist, my bracelet. The one that gifted to me by Mrs. Karsov.

The final photo was a close-up of her lips on his chest, and beneath it, a caption in soft pink text:

“Look, Alodia. He may be your husband on paper… but never in bed. Pathetic little leech.”

My thumb hovered over the screen. But I didn’t delete it. I just let the images sit there and smiled bitterly.

**

But then came the Karsov patriarch’s birthday banquet. Benedict wasn’t back. He didn’t even bother to send a message. So, I showed up alone.

I wore a plain black dress… high collar, long sleeves. It covered my bruises with foundation and prayer. Pulled my hair tight into a low bun and walked in like I was supposed to be there.

The ballroom glowed with gold and crystal. Every guest glided like silk across the marble floors, dressed in custom gowns, heirloom jewelry, and the kind of arrogance only old blood could afford.

I stepped in. Heard the whispers before the doors even closed behind me. But it was she who saw me first, Grandmother Signe Karsov.

She sat at the head of the long table, spine straight despite her age, eyes sharp as a scalpel behind diamond-framed glasses.

As soon as her gaze landed on me, the smile on her face vanished.

“Where is Benedict?”

Her voice was calm. Cold. That tone that made grown men forget their power and shrink into silence.

I lowered my eyes. “He had urgent business overseas…”

She laughed once. “Urgent, was it?” She turned to reach for her wine, but just then, the butler burst into the room, face pale, hands shaking.

He didn’t speak. He simply handed her the tablet.

“Benedict Karsov and Maeve Peters spotted kissing in Tuscany.”

The headline was smeared with words like “romance,” “secret getaway,” “Karsov heir in love,” and “future bride?”

The photo was worse. He wasn’t just kissing her. He was worshipping her, his hand on her cheek, eyes closed, foreheads touching like a damn movie still.

Signe’s wine glass shattered against the marble.

“Alodia,” she said tightly. “Come. Now.”

She rose, turned, and walked toward the west corridor without another word. I followed. The entire table watched in silence.

She didn’t speak until we entered the ancestral room… heavy wood, dusty portraits, oil lamps that always smelled faintly of blood and rust.

She closed the door. Locked it.

Then turned and slapped me across the face, hard that my head whipped sideways from the force.

“Have you no shame?” she hissed. “Look at you. Humiliated. Mocked. You walk in here alone on my husband’s birthday like some discarded mistress, while your so-called husband is off licking champagne off another woman’s throat.”

I didn’t answer.

“Do you even know what this looks like?” she snarled. “The Linwood name was supposed to strengthen us. Instead, we’re a laughingstock. If your family had even a shred of pride, they’d drown you in a well.”

I swallowed the taste of blood. “I didn’t publish the article.”

“Oh, don’t insult my intelligence.” Her eyes narrowed. “Either call Benedict right now and tell him to get his ass back here, or take what’s coming.”

I knew the answer. He wouldn’t come for me. Not if I begged. Not even if I bled or died.

“I’ll take it.”

Her brows arched. “What did you say?”

“I’ll take the punishment.”

She smiled. And that smile was sick. She walked to the far wall, pressed a small wooden panel. It slid open, revealing a cabinet I’d only ever seen once.

A thick, polished cane rested inside. Next to it, a drawer of incense, ropes, and a cattle prod.

The old tools of control.

The Karsovs didn’t just build an empire. They built a dynasty of obedience. She took out the cane. Ran her hand lovingly along the shaft.

Then the first strike came fast. Across my back, hard enough to knock the breath out of me.

The second split skin.

The third hit bone.

By the fifth, I was on the floor, cheek pressed to the cold stone tiles, trembling from pain so sharp it blurred my hearing and lost consciousness halfway through her rage.

**

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. My mouth tasted like metal and regret. Then I saw him.

Benedict.

"You let my grandmother beat you like that. Why didn’t you call me?"

"Didn’t want to interrupt your date with Maeve."

He blinked.

I turned my face to the window and let the silence pour in like smoke. Thick. Suffocating.

Then he stayed. For days. Sitting there, saying nothing, pretending to be the man I thought I married. I told him he didn’t have to. That I was fine. But he didn’t leave.

Not until a phone call came in.

“Business emergency,” he said, standing. But I already saw the caller, it's Maeve. "You’ll go home by yourself."

I nodded. "Sure."

I dressed slowly. Every move felt like peeling open a wound. The gauze tugged with every breath. My coat smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt fabric. But I forced one foot in front of the other, walking down the hospital stairs. I didn’t see him coming. A man turned the corner, holding a venti Starbucks cup, and slammed right into me.

The coffee spilled. It splashed across my arm, my chest. Burned right through the thin fabric. I sucked in a breath as pain seared across my skin.

The man looked down at his soaked designer blazer.

"You blind or just broke?!" he snarled, wiping at the mess like I was dirt. "Do you even know how much this jacket costs? Or are you too used to charity hospitals to care?"

"I—I’m sorry." I bent down, grabbing at my soaked coat, trying to breathe through the sting. "It was my fault—"

"You’re damn right it was." He stepped closer. "Pay for it. Now."

But before I could say another word, a voice rang out behind me. Low. Lethal.

"Touch her again and I’ll break your jaw."

The man turned.

Benedict was there.

Before the man could even scream, five men in black appeared behind Benedict like shadows. They moved fast. Too fast.

“Take him,” Benedict said.

No hesitation. They dragged the man away as he kicked and cursed and shouted threats no one cared to hear.

And then silence.

Benedict turned to me. His gaze swept over my clothes. Cheap, wrinkled, still faintly stained with blood and now, coffee.

"You got no money from Linwood or Karsov? Why the hell are you dressed like this?"

The Linwood family never gave me a damn cent but only hospitalizations for my grandmother. And sure, the Karsovs had a black card, but I was never the real Mrs. Karsov. So the card stayed in my wallet like a joke I wasn’t allowed to laugh at.

“The hell are you sulking for now?” he snapped, grabbing my wrist and dragging me into his black SUV. “Come on. You look like hell. We’re getting you new clothes.”

I didn’t argue.

**

At the mall, he picked out designer sets like he was selecting weapons… sharp, cold, expensive.

I stood there, still as marble, while assistants zipped me in and out of clothes like I was one of their mannequins.When we finally stepped out into the sunlit atrium, bags in hand and the sting of luxury clinging to my skin, I thought it was over.

But then—

“Benny?”

I froze.

Maeve.

Wearing heels too high for a casual afternoon, with sunglasses perched on her head and her phone in one hand. A staff trailed behind her, pushing a cart stacked with 20 glossy black-and-gold boxes. Chanel. Cartier. Valentino. All of it bleeding wealth.

From his other black card. The one he didn’t think I knew about.

Her lips parted when she saw me. The smile she had died mid-air. “Oh… I didn’t know you were… out.” Her gaze flicked from my face to the bags in my hand, then back to Benedict. “You said you were in Singapore.”

“Maeve—”

“You told me not to text because you’d be in meetings all day,” she said, “I should’ve known,” she whispered, voice trembling. “God, I should’ve known…”

She looked at me again, like I was a ghost haunting the life she’d tried to steal.

Then she turned and ran.

“Maeve!” he shouted, already chasing her.

I just stood there. Watching him disappear after her. And then… Bang!

The sound was deafening. I whipped my head around just in time to see a sheet of glass falling from the upper floor of the mall. It hit Maeve before she could scream.

Blood spilled. Bright, fast. She collapsed in an instant.

Benedict’s roar echoed through the open space. He rushed to her, scooping her up like his whole world depended on it.

I stood there, my fingers twitching at my sides. Then I followed.

At the hospital, everything was white and humming and cold. He paced outside the operating room, still in the bloodstained suit. The mighty Benedict Karsov—untouchable, unreadable—was now a man clutching fear with both fists.

Then the doors slammed open and a doctor rushed out. “Massive blood loss,” he said, breathless. “She’s RH-negative. The blood bank doesn’t have her type.

“I’m RH-negative,” I said, standing up. “Use mine.”

He turned to me like I’d just slapped him.

“She needs it. Go ahead.”

After all, I'm leaving…

The nurse led me away. I lay on the stiff cot, needle in my arm, blood draining slowly into the bag. I watched it go, drop by drop, while Benedict was there when I came out. Still pacing.

“S-she’ll live,” I told him softly.

“Why haven’t you left yet?”

I looked away. “She misunderstood. I want to explain when she wakes up.”

He stepped closer. “You really like me that much, huh?”

Before I could speak, the doors opened again. The surgeon came out, removing his gloves. “She’s stable. She’ll wake soon.”

Benedict exhaled, tension falling off him in one long breath. I moved back to the wall. Disappeared into silence again.

**

WHEN MAEVE WOKE UP, I was there.

She opened her eyes, saw me, and instantly started crying.

“So you brought her here too?” she asked Benedict, voice shaking. “You want me to wish you both well, is that it?”

“No,” I said quickly. “You misunderstood. He really did have a meeting that day. The clothes, he just brought me along. Nothing happened.”

Benedict added, “She’s nothing to me. We’re married on paper. That’s all.”

Maeve stared at us both with teary, trembling eyes. “Prove it, Benny!”

Benedict frowned. “What do you want me to do?”

Maeve turned her head toward the window. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the storm raging outside. Rain lashed the courtyard. Thunder rolled loud enough to shake the walls.

“Make her kneel out there,” Maeve whispered, voice trembling. “In the storm. Let her stay until she passes out. No umbrella. No coat.”

Benedict blinked. “Maeve, she—”

“She’s scared of thunder,” she said. “You told me once. That her hands shake. That her breathing stops.” She turned to him, eyes glassy. “Prove I matter more.”

Silence fell like a shroud. He looked at her. Then at me. And for a moment, I hoped, hoped he would say no. That he would protect me, just once.

But instead, he stepped back and said, quietly, “Take her.”

The bodyguards moved.

I didn't struggle. What was the point?

They shoved me outside like I was trash. The cold rain smacked into my skin like slaps. Thunder cracked overhead, violent and too close, and my legs buckled. I dropped to my knees on the slick concrete, arms trembling, soaked within seconds.

The guards locked the door behind me.

I was alone.

The wind howled, whipping my soaked hair around my face. I tried to breathe, but every boom of thunder made my chest lock up.

Another crash. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood and all I remember is collapsing.

**

I woke up in Karsov’s estate three days later.

Not the hospital. Maeve didn’t want me there. Said I was faking it. But they didn’t know the truth. My body wasn’t performing. It had shut down.

Three days of silence, stillness, and sleep, that was all it could manage.

“Benny,” Maeve purred from the doorway, “When are we interrogating that traitor from Marseille? I want to watch.”

Then her eyes flicked to me.

“Oh, Miss Linwood. You’re awake?” She smiled like a debutante. “I didn’t mean for him to actually send you out into the storm. I was just mad. He took it literally.”

I didn’t answer.

She sat gracefully on Benedict’s lap, “I heard you donated blood to me. How romantic,” she cooed. “You bled for me. How about this? As a thank-you, you should join us tonight. Karsov’s sealing a deal with the Russians. Private dinner. No press. Just family.”

I opened my mouth to say no.

But she moved fast. Grabbed my hand before I could finish the first syllable.

“Don’t refuse.”

Benedict didn’t speak. He just looked at me, that same cold, loaded stare that meant: Don’t make a scene.

I swallowed. Then nodded.

**

The dinner was held on Karsov’s private yacht.

Three security checks. Twelve guards with semi-automatics. Surveillance in every room.

But everything was dressed in opulence—white leather chairs, crystal glasses, a chandelier that probably cost more than my life.

The ocean stretched out around us, calm but deceitful. Like everyone at this table.

Maeve curled against Benedict like she belonged to him. She laughed too loudly, whispered names into his ear, pretended to be scared when he mentioned the weapons deal.

I sat near the edge of the dining area, quiet, invisible. Watching. When Benedict stepped away to take a secure call, she came over.

“I don’t get you sometimes,” Maeve murmured, her diamond necklace catching the low light.

I turned to face her slowly. Calm. Flat.

“They say you love him,” she said, sipping her wine like it was blood. “That you’d take a bullet for him. But I’ve never seen a woman in love act like you.”

Her voice dropped.

“I framed you. Made you crawl. Made you beg. And when he obeyed me and left you in that storm, you didn’t scream. Didn’t even flinch. Now I sit in his lap and lick honey off his fingers and you still don’t move.”

Her smile widened.

“So tell me, Miss Linwood. Do you really love him… or are you just pathetic?”

I tugged at my lips. Thought about answering.

But then—

Boom.

A sound like thunder. A wave slammed into the side of the yacht.

“Ah!” she screamed.

We both went overboard.

The sea swallowed us whole. Something sharp ripped into my side as I hit the water. Blood followed. My blood.

“Two overboard! We’ve got two in the water!”

Then another shout: “One of them’s bleeding! Sharks’ll smell it!”

“Where are they?”

“They fell opposite side, we can only reach one!”

Then I heard Benedict scream: “Save Maeve!”

The words hit harder than the sea.

I sank.

I saw my blood stain the water.

And then… nothing.