A EX- ESPOSA SUBSTITUTA E O CEO QUE NÃO SABIA AMAR

Frieda’s POV

"Harder, Michael, harder please."

I hated saying those words. They felt dirty, but they were the secret code I had to use. They were the fastest way to get everything done. Michael C. Van Leer never needed me to tell him to be rough. He only knew how to take.

He moved into me with the same hard, boring push that our marriage always had. He was breathing fast and hot. I could smell the expensive brandy he always drank.

I kept my eyes focused on the white ceiling. I looked for one tiny mistake in the smooth plaster. I stared at that little crack, pretending my mind was millions of miles away. 

My body was here, held down by Michael's huge money and his belief that I belonged to him. But the real me, Frieda R. Enriquez, was nowhere to be found.

It was always quick, just a business deal. No gentle touches, no kisses. Just cold need from him, and cold obedience from me. 

I was his prize. I was his perfectly quiet wife, and the second he finished, the heavy pressure was gone. He rolled away without saying anything. He was already reaching for the silk robe on the nearby chair.

He never looked at my face. I watched him walk across the huge bedroom. It wasn't really a room for sleeping; it was a monument built to show how powerful he was. 

Everything was shiny glass or polished marble. It was clean, beautiful, and empty of any human warmth.

When he left, the silence rushed back. It felt heavier and thicker than before. 

I lay there in the messy, expensive sheets. I felt the sudden, deep emptiness settle right in the middle of my chest.

Those sheets cost more than most people earn in a whole year, but they felt like rags wrapped around me. This was my life now.

I finally found the strength to sit up, and the silk robe slipped off my skin. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and my feet landed quietly on the thick, soft carpet. I needed to put on my perfect mask for the world.

I walked to the huge mirror and picked up the heavy platinum ring on my left hand. It was not a sign of love. It was a chain. 

Everyone in the world knew me as the calm, perfect wife of the rich Michael Van Leer. 

I looked the part: tall, dressed in perfect clothes, and always calm. But the real truth, the one that hurt me every day, was that I was just something he bought. I was traded to save a family name that was already ruined.

The memory of why I was here came back sharply, the way it always did when I felt fresh shame. It was not Michael's fault completely, but my father's, Raymond Enriquez.

I quickly remembered the small, dusty office after everything had happened. The "accident" that killed my parents happened years ago. It had also revealed the huge holes in our family's money. 

My father was panicking, paralyzed by sadness and debt. Michael, who was already a giant of a man, saw his chance. He didn't just buy the company; he bought me. He bought the right to control the Enriquez name.

I was seventeen. I stood there, terrified in that broken office, looking at the man who should have protected me. My father looked away, shame covering his face.

He told me Michael was the only way out, the only way to save the small parts of our lives we have left. I had no choice but to say I do to a stranger who saw me as nothing more than a piece of art.

I forced myself into my morning routine. I put on a sharp, gray designer suit. It was simple, designed to look strong and professional. I desperately needed that mask today.

Just as I finished the last button, the doorbell rang. It was too early for the staff, and Michael never knocked. It was Claudia Hart. My "best friend."

Claudia floated into the room, dressed perfectly, holding a very expensive purse. Her smile was big, but her eyes were always measuring me, like she was checking my work.

"Honey, you look pale," she said. Her eyes quickly checked the room, perhaps checking how upset I was. "Did you sleep?"

I put on my usual fake, hollow smile. "Perfectly. Just a normal morning."

Claudia’s advice was always too smart and too perfect. She started talking about my plans for the week: a big charity party, a lunch with the business board. 

She told me exactly who to talk to and who to stay away from. It wasn't advice; it was giving orders. She controlled my life with a carefulness that made me feel like I was reading lines from a movie script she had written herself.

"Michael is already out," I said. I needed to change the subject and get her to stop watching me.

Claudia’s lip curled into a cool, knowing smile. "Of course. He's very busy. The stock market is shaky, and Michael is dealing with something... very secret."

Twenty minutes later, I found Michael in his private office. He wasn't on the phone, but he was walking back and forth very fast.

His usual proud, calm face had completely shattered. He looked like a wild animal trapped in a cage, holding a handful of scattered papers.

"Frieda, listen to me," he yelled, his voice tight with panic. "I have a huge, urgent problem. This is not about the company. This is a real security threat. Do not leave the house. Do not answer any strange calls. Just be quiet and stay hidden."

His fear was raw and deep. I had never seen him this scared. Whatever it was, it was much bigger than his usual business problems. He didn't look like the powerful CEO; he looked desperate. 

He grabbed his keys, threw his phone into his coat pocket, and ran for the door. As he hurried past me, his eyes met mine for just a second. I saw terror, but I also thought I saw him silently begging for help before the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him.

I stood in the silence, trying to understand the strange, scary feeling that my whole life was about to be destroyed.

Then, the world outside broke.

A loud, painful sound cut through the soundproof windows. It wasn't a normal car horn. It was a siren, then a second, and a third, blaring the terrible sound of a disaster. 

I ran to the window overlooking the gates. The sirens were getting closer quickly, flashing red and blue lights against the polished stone columns.

My private phone line buzzed on the desk. I snatched it up. It wasn’t Michael. It was the head of his public relations team. His voice was thin and shaking.

"Mrs. Van Leer, turn on the news now! It's everywhere! The accident, the damage... Michael C. Van Leer is seriously hurt. The crash site is... terrible."

I dropped the phone on the desk. My heart began to pound. It started slow and heavy, then sped up into a frantic, loud drum in my chest. 

It wasn’t the fear of a wife whose husband is hurt. It was the desperate, exciting beat of a trapped bird seeing its cage door open for the first time in years.

My heart pounds, not because I worry about him, but because I feel an overwhelming, terrifying hope for my own freedom.