Chapter 0002

Drake’s laughter filled the room, rich and unrestrained. A sound so foreign— because he had never laughed like that with me.

The realization stung, sharp and unforgiving.

I stepped into his office, my presence an uninvited disruption.

His gaze snapped to mine. Cold. Impatient. Not surprised, but annoyed.

Mia's lips curled in satisfaction, but I caught a flicker of something calculating in her eyes—a predator sizing up its prey.

"I've heard quite a bit about you, Ms..."

"Mrs. Charlotte Watson," I supplied answers, my voice steadier than I felt. The name I’d carried for six years suddenly felt like borrowed clothing..

Mia’s smile widened as she extended a perfectly manicured hand. Confidence. Untouchable.

“Hmm, you don’t have that title anymore, darling. I was his first love, and soon, I'll be his fiancée.”

The words pierced through me with surgical precision. How could she have the audacity to say that directly to my face? My stomach contracted painfully as a wave of cold dread washed over me.

Again, I turned to Drake, waiting—hoping—for denial. But he merely reclined in his leather chair, relaxed and unconcerned, as if this moment carried no significance whatsoever.

It was as if I meant nothing to him.

Drake doesn’t seem to be trying to hide anything from me—maybe because he believes there's nothing I could do about it.

The moments leading up to this keep seeping into my mind, haunting me like a doomsday nightmare.

The spacious office seemed to constrict around me. My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I could hear my pulse thrumming in my ears. I forced myself to study the woman before me. Tall and statuesque with the effortless grace of old money. Her features were sharp, almost too perfect—high cheekbones, an elegant nose, full lips painted crimson. Her eyes, a striking silver-gray so similar to Drake's, glinted with amusement.

Mia was everything I wasn’t—flawless, effortless, untouchable. And yet, it wasn’t just her beauty that made me feel small; it was the brutal realization that I had given Drake everything… and it has never been enough.

"I get the feeling you're not big on handshakes," Mia observed, withdrawing her hand with deliberate slowness. She slipped it into the pocket of her tailored blazer, her smile never wavering. “Pity. I thought we could get along. After all, we've both been so important to Drake... in our own ways.”

I swallowed against the constriction in my throat. "It's not—"

"No need to explain," Mia interrupted with a dismissive wave. "I understand completely. I actually wanted to thank you, Charlotte. Drake wouldn't have accomplished half of what he has without your... assistance.”

Something inside I fractured at the emphasis Mia placed on that final word. As if my six years of devotion could be reduced to mere secretarial duties.

I nodded stiffly, my nails digging crescents into my palms. Each breath felt like it was being drawn through ground glass. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them, especially Drake, whose ego would be fueled.

"Run along now, Charlotte," Drake said, his voice carrying that particular tone of boredom he reserved for interruptions to his schedule. He didn't even look up from Mia, "Bring me my coffee."

I moved to the executive kitchen while my mind remained trapped in the nightmare unfolding in Drake's office. Preparing his coffee had once felt like an act of love—knowing exactly how he took it, the precise temperature, the specific bean. Now it felt like servitude, like a cruel joke at my expense.

When I returned, balancing the silver tray with practiced ease, Drake was on the phone, his back turned as he gazed out over the city skyline. Mia remained sprawled in one of the visitor chairs, her legs stretched out in a way that claimed ownership of the space.

I maneuvered carefully around her, determined not to acknowledge her presence. But just as she passed, Mia shifted suddenly.

The tray tilted. The coffee went airborne. And then—

Scalding liquid cascaded down my silk dress, soaking through to my skin. I gasped as pain erupted across my torso, red-hot and immediate.

Before I could even register the full extent of my own pain, Mia let out a theatrical cry. "Oh my God! My hand! My dress! Charlotte, how could you be so careless?”

I blinked through the haze of pain, my vision swimming. She barely had time to process what had happened before Drake whirled around, phone forgotten.

"What happened?" His voice was sharp with concern.

Mia clutched her arm dramatically, as if she'd been seriously injured. "She tripped and spilled coffee all over me! It—it burns, Drake."

Drake was at her side instantly, hands gently examining her supposed injury. My stomach twisted as she watched. There was no real burn on Mia's skin—just a few scattered droplets that had barely touched her. But Mia whimpered, affecting distress, and Drake responded without question.

I stood frozen, my blouse plastered to my skin, my hands trembling. But Drake didn't spare me a glance.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Charlotte?" His voice cut through me like a blade, filled with nothing but irritation. "Are you really so incompetent that you can't manage a simple task anymore?”

The words struck deeper than the physical pain ever could.

I opened my mouth to explain—to tell him it wasn't my fault, that Mia had orchestrated the entire incident—but he had already dismissed me. He was pressing a handkerchief to Mia's barely-there injury, treating her with a tenderness I hadn't received in years while I was drenched.

While I stood there, shaking, genuinely injured, completely invisible.

"Charlotte," he called without meeting my gaze. "Apologize.”

My breath caught painfully. "What?"

"You believe her over me, Drake?” My voice trembled, but I refused to let it break. “You trust her words, yet mine, your wife, mean nothing? I can’t believe you're doing this to me."

He sighed, rubbing his temple as if I were a tiresome problem rather than a person. His next words came without hesitation, without remorse.

“Charlotte.” A pause—calculated and final. "Let’s not pretend this marriage was ever more than an arrangement.”

Air left my lungs in a silent rush, but he wasn’t done.

He leaned back, his gaze slipping past me, already bored. "And now?" Another pause, longer this time, letting the weight of his disinterest settle over me like a death sentence. "It’s becoming an inconvenience."

Something inside me shattered.

I wanted to remind him of everything we had been. But what's the point?

Fighting won’t change anything. Screaming won’t make him love me.

Because in his eyes, I was already gone and maybe, just maybe, I was never his to begin with.