The grand chandelier cast a golden glow over the expansive ballroom, its glittering light reflecting off the rows of expensive champagne glasses clutched in manicured hands. The air smelled of wealth—French perfumes, aged whiskey, and the unmistakable arrogance of high society. Conversations buzzed through the hall, a mixture of hushed whispers and boisterous laughter, each exchange laced with hidden agendas and veiled mockery.
Natalie Evans stood near the edge of the room, a glass of untouched champagne in her hand. Her posture was straight, her lips curved into a practiced smile—neither too warm nor too cold. She had perfected this expression over the years, a mask carefully crafted for moments like this. It was easier that way—to pretend, to smile, to act like she belonged in this ruthless world of power and wealth.
To the world, she was Mrs. Sinclair, the wife of Adrian Sinclair, CEO of Sinclair Enterprises. But in reality, she was nothing more than a ghost in his world—a convenient accessory for appearances and nothing more.
Across the ballroom, laughter erupted. She turned her gaze toward the source of the noise, and her heart clenched in a way she despised.
Adrian stood in the center of a small group, his tall frame impossible to miss. His black suit was perfectly tailored, his sharp jawline tense as he smirked at something the woman beside him had whispered.
The woman—Madeline.
It was always Madeline.
With sleek brunette hair that framed her delicate features, Madeline clung to Adrian’s arm as if she had every right to. Her manicured nails trailed over his sleeve, her red lips curved into a flirtatious smile as she whispered in his ear.
Natalie had seen this play out so many times before that she no longer flinched. No longer gasped in horror or excused herself from the room to hide the sting of humiliation. No, she merely lifted her champagne glass to her lips and took a slow, deliberate sip.
The liquid was crisp against her tongue, but it did nothing to dull the bitterness that swirled inside her. She had become immune to the pain, her heart nothing more than a withered, unfeeling organ encased in ice. She had once loved Adrian, once worshipped the ground he walked on. But love meant nothing when the person you cherished saw you as nothing more than an obligation.
She clenched the glass tighter, feeling the cold stem press against her fingers. She remembered the first time she had met Adrian, how his gaze had smoldered with intensity, how he had made her believe in fairytales. He had whispered sweet nothings in her ear, spun dreams around her like a silken cocoon, only to unravel them thread by thread.
Now, she was nothing more than a piece of furniture in his life—unseen, unheard, unnecessary.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” a voice drawled beside her.
She turned her head slightly, meeting the amused gaze of Victor Langley, a well-known investment mogul. He was in his late forties, with graying temples and sharp eyes that missed nothing.
“What a picture of elegance you make,” he continued, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “Watching your husband flaunt another woman in public, yet standing here as if it doesn’t concern you. A woman of rare patience, indeed.”
Natalie didn’t rise to the bait. She had grown accustomed to the whispered mockery, the backhanded compliments, and the pitying glances disguised as admiration.
She tilted her head, her expression neutral. “Patience is a virtue, Mr. Langley.”
He chuckled. “Or a curse, depending on how you look at it.”
She turned away from him, unwilling to waste another moment on idle conversation. Her gaze drifted back to Adrian, but he still hadn’t looked in her direction all night. Not once. It was as if she were invisible to him, a mere shadow standing in the background of his life.
It hadn’t always been like this.
There was a time—years ago—when she had been the center of his world. When his gaze had burned for her, when his touch had felt like fire against her skin. When he had whispered promises of forever in the stillness of the night.
But that time was long gone.
Now, all that remained was a brittle, hollow shell of a marriage that had become nothing more than a contract neither of them had cared to break.
Until now.
Natalie set her glass down on the marble table beside her. The decision had been made long ago, but standing here now, watching him with her, something inside her settled.
She was done.
For years, she had endured the cold indifference, the public humiliation, the whispered gossip behind her back. She had played the role of the dutiful wife, pretending not to care, pretending she wasn’t breaking a little more each day.
But pretending had never changed anything.
She walked out of the ballroom with measured steps, the train of her dress sweeping the marble floor as she left behind the whispers, the stares, the lies. As she stepped into the corridor, the quiet solitude was a stark contrast to the glittering nightmare inside.
A deep breath filled her lungs.
She would no longer be Natalie Sinclair—the discarded wife, the woman pitied by the masses. She would reclaim herself, piece by piece.
Tomorrow, she would file for divorce.
She would take back her dignity, her freedom, her life.
It was time to leave Adrian Sinclair behind.
Forever.
