Chapter 6 The Hidden Mask and Ethan Caldwell’s Suspicion

The aftermath of the banquet was like a stone cast into a still lake, sending invisible ripples through the Caldwell mansion.

I remained in my room, yet the air felt different. When Mrs. Zhou delivered meals, her head bowed lower than usual. The faint disrespect that had always tainted her tone was gone, replaced by cautious curiosity. The servants I passed in the hall stopped, greeted me respectfully as “Madam,” and hurried away, their eyes full of confusion—and a touch of fear.

I could feel countless eyes, discreetly watching me from the shadows, trying to see what lay beneath the calm exterior of the woman who had revealed such unexpected brilliance that night.

Ethan Caldwell no longer ignored me.

He began coming home for dinner.

The atmosphere at the dining table was suffocating. He sat at the head; I, at the opposite end. He no longer pretended I didn’t exist. Instead, from time to time, his eyes fell on me.

That gaze was no longer purely cold or filled with disgust. It was sharp, probing, heavy with scrutiny—like an archaeologist who had stumbled across a seemingly ordinary relic that might hold a hidden secret, testing to see if it was genuine.

He would casually raise topics—about fluctuations in the financial markets, the appraisal of a famous painting, or even the wine culture of a small French town.

He was probing me.

I sneered inwardly but outwardly remained the same—silent, docile, compliant. To his tests, I usually responded with a faint “Mm,” or a simple “I don’t know,” or “Is that so,” and then fell quiet again. Occasionally, when he brushed against a particularly crucial subject, I would “accidentally” betray a subtle flicker of reaction—an absent-minded look, a fleeting expression of agreement or dissent.

The more I tried to conceal, the more intrigued he became. His suspicion grew.

He started appearing more often in the spaces where I lingered. If I read in the garden, he would “happen” to stroll nearby. If I stared out the living room window, he would “happen” to come down for a drink.

One afternoon, I woke from a nap to find him standing at my desk.

My laptop was open, the screen still lit. On it was a block of code I had written absentmindedly to optimize a management system used by one of the Caldwell hotels—a small practice exercise, nothing more. But to someone unfamiliar, it would look utterly incomprehensible.

Ethan’s brows were drawn tight as he stared at the dense strings of code, shock and confusion in his eyes.

My heart lurched violently, almost leaping out of my throat. But I forced myself to remain calm, making a small sound as though I had just woken.

He turned abruptly, caught in the act. For a moment, embarrassment flickered across his face—quickly smothered by an even deeper scrutiny.

“What is this?” he asked, pointing at the screen. His voice sounded calm, but the tight line of his jaw betrayed him.

I rubbed my eyes, feigning drowsy confusion. Glancing at the screen, I said vaguely, “Oh, that… I don’t really know. The computer must have had a virus. It popped up on its own, wouldn’t close, so I just clicked around. Did I do something wrong? Was it something important? I shouldn’t have touched it, right?” My tone carried just the right amount of panic and guilt.

His eyes bore into mine, searching for the slightest crack in my story.

But my gaze was clear, innocent—still hazy with the softness of sleep.

He was silent for a long ten seconds. My excuse was ridiculous—the code’s logic was far too intricate to be random—but he could not, or would not, believe that the woman he had always regarded as a mere “decoration” possessed such skill.

“It’s nothing.” His tone was curt as he shut the laptop firmly. “Don’t click on things at random again.”

“Oh. Okay.” I nodded obediently.

He turned to leave, but at the doorway, he suddenly stopped. Without looking back, his voice dropped low.

“Sophia, who are you really?”

The question came without context, but it weighed like lead—filled with confusion, suspicion, and perhaps a trace of something even he had not yet recognized: unease.

I looked at his tall, tense back, my heart chilled with irony.

Now you wonder, Ethan Caldwell?

I didn’t answer him. Instead, I let a trace of wounded confusion slip into my voice and replied softly:

“Mr. Caldwell, I’m your wife, Sophia Lane. Who else could I be?”

He spun around, eyes sharp as a hawk, pinning me with his stare.

This time, I didn’t flinch. I met his gaze calmly, steadily. There was no fear, no appeasement, no sudden brilliance—just a deep, unfathomable stillness.

Across the room, we waged a silent but fierce battle of wills.

He found nothing in my eyes—no clear truth to grasp.

It seemed to unsettle him further. His jaw tightened, his face darkened, and without another word, he strode out, slamming the door behind him.

I stared at the closed door, then walked slowly to my desk and reopened the laptop.

The code still glimmered quietly on the screen.

The corner of my lips curved upward into a cold smile.

The seed of suspicion had been planted—and it was already taking root.

Ethan Caldwell, are you beginning to feel uneasy?

This is only the beginning.

You will never know what sort of existence you brought into your home and dismissed as worthless.

And I can’t wait to see your face the moment you finally realize the truth.