Chapter 8 The Beginning of the Husband’s Downfall

The name Stellar Dawn Group swept through the Caldwell Group like a sudden storm, dragging the entire Caldwell estate into the eye of a suffocating vortex.

When Ethan Caldwell returned home, it was already late at night. I hadn’t gone to bed. Instead, I sat on the sofa in the upstairs lounge, a book open under the glow of a floor lamp—or rather, I was waiting for the storm I knew would come.

Heavy footsteps echoed from downstairs, weighed down with fury and—faintly—exhaustion. He didn’t come up right away but went to the bar. The sharp sound of ice hitting glass rang out—once, twice, over and over—cutting through the silence like shards of glass.

I set my book aside, moved to the stairwell, and looked down.

He stood with his back to me, at the bar, his suit jacket discarded on a stool, his tie loosened, his usually neat hair disheveled. He tilted back his head and poured whiskey down his throat, his profile rigid with tension.

The air was thick with the stench of defeat. The servants had long since vanished. The only sounds left were his ragged breathing and the faint crackle of melting ice.

I stayed silent, only watching.

Sensing my gaze, he spun around.

Our eyes locked.

His were bloodshot, burning with a storm of emotions—shock, humiliation, disbelief, and the searing rage of a man who had been thoroughly deceived.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

His voice was hoarse, dragged up from between clenched teeth. No preamble, no titles—just raw accusation, blazing hot enough to scorch me alive.

I let my face shift into bewilderment and fear. “What? Ethan, what are you talking about? What did I do?”

Perfect performance. A wife startled by her husband’s midnight anger, wholly innocent.

He bored into me, as if trying to drill holes through my face. Step by step, he climbed the stairs, his presence oppressive, the reek of alcohol curling around him, until he loomed directly before me.

“Stellar Dawn Group!” he roared, eyes sharp as blades. “That phantom company that stole my project! Don’t you dare tell me you had nothing to do with it! Sophia, who the hell are you? Why did you marry into this family? What do you want?!”

His composure was fracturing. His empire had been dealt a humiliating blow by an unknown adversary, and that adversary might very well be the very woman he had dismissed and scorned all along. That realization alone was enough to shatter his pride.

Watching him unravel, I felt a glacial satisfaction inside.

But outwardly, I kept my mask—trembling, eyes glossing with tears I had practiced conjuring on command. “I don’t understand… Stellar Dawn? How could I be connected to some giant company? Ethan, are you too tired? Did the project… not go well?”

I reached toward him, timidly, as though to comfort him.

He recoiled as if struck by a viper, violently shaking me off. My arm tingled with the force.

“Don’t touch me!” His growl was guttural, his gaze manic, red with suspicion. “Still pretending? That night with your French! The code on your laptop! And this—this bid! So precise, too precise! Don’t tell me it’s coincidence, Sophia!”

He spat my name as though it was poison.

“I really don’t know…” I bowed my head, shoulders quivering, voice cracking with feigned sobs. “I hardly ever leave this house. How could I steal your project? You’d rather believe strangers than believe your own wife?”

The subtle jab landed. His anger flared hotter, but so did his doubt. He had no evidence, only his instincts, only “coincidences.”

He looked at me—trembling, tearful, fragile—and hesitation flickered in his eyes. Could such a weak, helpless woman truly be the enemy who had just delivered him a crushing blow?

Perhaps… perhaps he was imagining it. Perhaps defeat had rattled him into paranoia.

His fury ebbed, replaced by fatigue and disorientation. He stepped back, leaning against the railing, rubbing his brow with a weary hand.

The tension in the air thinned, but in its place spread something stranger—more uncertain, more dangerous.

After a long silence, he lowered his hand and looked at me again. The fury and sharpness were gone. In their place lingered confusion, a shadow of doubt… and a flicker—so faint even he might not have noticed it—of regret.

He opened his mouth, as though to speak—an apology, or something else—but the words never came. For the first time before me, Ethan looked lost.

At last, he said nothing, only gave me a long, tangled look before turning away. His steps stumbled as he descended, returning to his drink.

I stood at the landing, watching his slumped figure. Slowly, the mask of fear and fragility fell away, leaving only a cold stillness.

I knew then—the game had entered a new stage.

He had begun to “chase.”

Not out of love, but out of suspicion. Out of wounded pride. Out of the insatiable itch of curiosity and the hunger to win.

Later, outside by the car, he cut me off, his voice ragged and taut. “We need to talk.”

I lifted my gaze, eyes distant, cold, the way he once looked at me.

“Mr. Caldwell,” I said evenly. “The only thing left for us to discuss is a divorce agreement.”

I stepped past him toward the car.

He seized my wrist, grip iron-strong, desperate, his eyes wild with urgency and—was that pain?

“Sophia!” he ground out through clenched teeth. “Don’t do this! Tell me the truth—was it you?! Is Stellar Dawn connected to you?!”

Watching him unravel, I let icy amusement ripple through me.

With a sharp twist, I freed my wrist.

“Mr. Caldwell,” I repeated, a thread of mocking clarity lacing my voice. “You look pathetic like this.”

Without another glance at his darkening expression, I opened the car door and slipped inside.

As the car pulled away, I saw him through the rearview mirror, still standing frozen, a statue abandoned in the cold.

The sun shone bright, but it could not pierce the shadows engulfing him.

So this is his “downfall”?

The first flames have only just been lit.

Ethan Caldwell, savor the burn.