Chapter 2

Over the next two weeks, Garrett escalated.

Desperate to shatter "my" mask of calm, he deployed every humiliation he could think of.

One morning, Vivian took a single sip of the seafood risotto "I'd" spent two hours making and wrinkled her nose. "Garrett, this is too hot. And it tastes off. Is Serena trying to mess with me?"

Garrett's face darkened. He swept his arm across the table, sending the steaming bowl crashing to the floor.

Porcelain shattered. Scalding liquid splashed across "my" shins, the skin flushing red instantly.

"Serena, you can't even make a simple dish? Are you useless? Do it again!" He was shouting, eyes locked on "my" face, hunting for any flicker of pain or anger.

But he was destined for disappointment.

"I" didn't so much as flinch—as if the burned skin belonged to someone else entirely.

"I" simply knelt, pulled out a cloth, and carefully wiped the mess from the floor.

"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't get the temperature right disturbed Vivian. I'll make something lighter right away. Please give me a moment."

"I" looked up with that same immaculate smile, then rose and walked calmly into the kitchen.

Garrett watched "me" disappear without the slightest tremor of emotion, and something in his chest clenched like a waterlogged sponge. He was suffocating.

That weekend, he invited a group of his trust-fund friends over for dinner, determined to break "me" once and for all.

In front of everyone, he seated Vivian in the hostess chair and directed "me" to open wine, pour drinks—even peel shrimp for Vivian.

Vivian, drunk on her own power, deliberately spat shrimp shells onto the tablecloth and "accidentally" knocked over a glass of red wine. Dark liquid bloomed across "my" white couture dress.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry! I really didn't mean to!" Vivian covered her mouth, eyes glittering with provocation.

The trust-fund crowd exchanged glances, waiting for the once-proud Whitmore heiress to finally crack.

Garrett sipped his wine and watched "me" coldly, like a hunter waiting for a cornered rabbit to bite.

But "I" simply picked up a napkin and elegantly blotted the wine from the table.

"It's nothing, Vivian. It's just a dress. I'm glad you're not startled."

"I" smiled warmly, then turned to Garrett. "Honey, let me go change so I don't spoil the mood."

Ten minutes later, "I" reappeared in a fresh outfit, carrying a perfectly arranged fruit platter.

The living room went dead silent. The expressions on those smirking faces had shifted from contempt to disbelief. This wasn't grace. This was an absolute absence of self-respect.

Even Garrett's knuckles had gone white around his wine glass.

Every punch he threw landed on empty air. The impotence of it was driving him insane.

He even used their third wedding anniversary to twist the knife. He took the diamond necklace he'd originally bought for "me"—a piece called "Enchantress"—and clasped it around Vivian's neck right in front of "me."

"I" didn't object. Instead, "I" helpfully adjusted the clasp at the back of Vivian's neck and offered a compliment: "You have wonderful taste, honey. The cut really complements Vivian's skin tone. It suits her much better than it would suit me."

"Serena, are you out of your mind?"

The final straw came when Vivian, testing the absolute limit, deliberately knocked over and shattered an antique vase—the one "my" mother had left "me." The only thing that truly mattered.

Garrett stared at the porcelain shards scattered across the floor. Something inside him snapped. He lunged forward and clamped his hands around "my" throat, eyes blazing red, like an animal that had lost all reason.

"Say something! That was your mother's! Why aren't you angry? Why aren't you crying? Do you not care about me or this marriage at all?"

"My" feet left the ground. "My" face paled from the lack of oxygen. But those lips—still curved in that smile, precise to the millimeter.

"I'm not angry, honey. The vase was broken and can't be fixed. As long as you're happy, that's all that matters."

"My" voice distorted slightly from the pressure on "my" vocal cords, but the tone remained tender—tender enough to make his skin crawl.

Garrett released "me" as if he'd been electrocuted, stumbling back two steps, staring at "me" like I was something inhuman.

"You're insane... you're absolutely insane!" He gasped for air, ripped off his tie. "Divorce! Serena, I want a divorce! I can't stand another second of you!"

He was sure that the word "divorce" would finally crack the facade. That "I" would crumble, cling to his legs, beg him to stay.

After all, everyone knew—Serena Whitmore loved Garrett Ashford with every last shred of dignity she had.

And yet.

"I" calmly straightened "my" rumpled collar, smoothed "my" hair, and walked to the study.

Less than a minute later, "I" emerged with a document, presenting it with both hands.

"Of course, honey. Here's the divorce agreement. I've already signed. Asset division follows the prenup exactly—I leave with nothing."

Garrett stared at the signature. "Serena Whitmore"—bold, fluid, without a moment's hesitation.

His pupils contracted violently. His heart seized as if crushed by an invisible fist.

"You... you already had this prepared?"

"Yes, honey. Whenever you're ready, so am I." "I" smiled.

In that moment, the fortress of ego and the sick need for control that Garrett had built over years was demolished by "my" absolute, terrifying serenity.

His eyes went red. He snatched the agreement and tore it to shreds, hurling the confetti into "my" face.

"You want a divorce? Not that easy! Serena, you'll never escape me! I'll wear you down in this house until the day you die!"

He stormed out like a gambler who'd just lost everything.

Meanwhile, in the Maldives, I watched Garrett's contorted face on the screen and stretched luxuriously.

"Honey, is this grape sweet?" The gorgeous mixed-race guy with the six-pack held out a peeled grape.

I bit into it, gave his abs an appreciative squeeze, and grinned like the cat who ate the canary. "Yes. And the really fun part is about to start."

I opened Unit 001's backend control panel.

Watching Garrett's pathetic little tantrum, I dragged the [Obedience] parameter from 100% straight down to 0%.

And activated [Hidden Sarcastic Mode].

Garrett, since you were so desperate to see my emotions—the show was just getting started.