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For five years, I played the ghost in my own marriage. I pressed Julian Daniel’s pristine suits, matched his cufflinks, and sat by the window like a loyal dog, waiting for the "Ice King" CEO to look at me with something resembling desire. Instead, I received clinical kindness and a box containing a gold watch. Every anniversary, the exact same script. It was his way of checking a box - a tax he paid for a life he felt obligated to support. I sacrificed my career as a prima ballerina, shattering my legs to push him out of the path of a speeding car. He didn't marry a wife; he locked away a debt. The anniversary script burned to ash on our fifth year. Standing outside the bathroom door, I heard the raw, unbridled passion Julian had denied me for half a decade. He wasn't breathing my name into the steam. He was choking out the name of his high school heartbreak: Penelope. The betrayal didn't end in our bedroom. It followed me to a high-end restaurant where Julian hosted a private lunch. Pushing open the heavy wooden doors, I didn't find a husband willing to defend his wife. I found his childhood friend dragging his foot in a cruel, mocking circle, mimicking my limp to a room erupting in roars of laughter. Penelope doubled over in delight. And Julian? He sat at the head of the table, watching my humiliation with a look of pure, unbothered boredom. “I owe her,” his voice cut through the fading laughter, calm and tired. “I am just trying to pay back a debt.”
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Chapter 1
POV: Hazel
“You’re finally home,” I whispered to the empty bedroom.
The clock on the wall ticked past three in the morning. Outside, the city was dead, but inside these walls, the silence felt like a physical weight. Then, the sound of the shower started. Julian was back. He didn’t come to the bed first. He didn’t check if I was awake. He went straight to the water to wash the night off his skin.
I pushed myself up, my hands trembling against the silk sheets. My legs felt heavy, a constant reminder of everything I had lost. I reached for my crutches, the metal cold against my palms, and stood up. I needed to talk to him. I needed to see if there was anything left of us before the sun came up on our fifth anniversary.
I hovered outside the bathroom door. The steam carried the scent of his expensive soap, something woody and clean. I raised my hand to knock, but I stopped when I heard it.
It wasn't just the water hitting the tiles. It was the sound of a man losing control.
I froze. My breath hitched in my throat as the muffled groans reached me through the wood. The reality of it turned my blood to ice. We had been married for five years, and in all that time, he had never looked at me with hunger. He had never touched me like I was a woman he desired.
And now, he was a few feet away, choosing his own hand over his wife.
The pain was sharp. It felt like a blade twisting in my chest, carving out whatever hope I had left. I leaned my head against the doorframe, my eyes stinging. I wanted to leave, to crawl back into bed and pretend I was deaf, but I couldn't move. I was trapped by my own misery.
Then, his voice broke through the steam. It was a choked, desperate sound.
“Penelope.”
The name hit me like a physical blow. The world seemed to tilt. I didn't recognize that name, but I recognized the longing in his tone. He wasn't just finding a release. He was dreaming of someone else. He was calling out for a woman who wasn't me.
I turned too fast. My balance shifted, and the crutch slipped on the polished floor. I tried to grab the door handle, but my fingers missed. I went down hard, my shoulder slamming into the marble sink before I hit the tile floor with a dull thud.
The shower stopped instantly.
“Hazel?” Julian’s voice was sharp now, full of sudden alertness. “Is that you?”
I scrambled to get my legs under me, but they were useless weights. My face burned with a mix of physical pain and pure, raw shame. I tried to push myself up using the edge of the vanity, my palms slick with the condensation that coated the room.
“I’m fine,” I choked out. “I just… I needed the bathroom.”
The door swung open. Julian stood there, his skin flushed from the heat, a white robe thrown over his shoulders. He hadn't even tied the belt properly. His hair was dripping, and his eyes were wide with a guilt he couldn't quite hide.
“Did you fall?” He stepped toward me, reaching out his hand. “Let me help you up.”
I flinched away from his touch. The thought of him putting those same hands on me right now made my stomach turn. “Don't. I can do it.”
“Hazel, you’re hurting,” he said, his voice dropping into that gentle, patient tone he used with patients or children. It was the tone of a man who felt pity, not passion.
“I said I’ve got it,” I snapped. I found my footing, my knuckles white as I gripped the counter. I refused to look at him. I couldn't bear to see the sympathy in his eyes. I forced myself to move, limping past him with every ounce of dignity I had left.
I made it back to the bed and collapsed onto my side, pulling the heavy duvet up to my chin. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to go back to the time before the accident, back when I could walk, when I felt beautiful, when I thought a man like Julian Daniel could actually love me for who I was, not out of some sense of duty.
Julian followed a moment later. He moved quietly, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the carpet.
“Are you sure you didn't hit your head?” he asked. He sat on the edge of his side of the mattress. The bed didn't even tilt toward him. We were like two islands in a vast, dark sea.
“I’m fine, Juli. Just tired.”
“Okay,” he sighed. He sounded relieved that I wasn't making a scene. “If you’re sure. Anyway, I didn't forget. Happy anniversary.”
I heard a small click as he placed something on the nightstand.
“It’s on the table,” he continued. “You can open it in the morning. I thought you’d like it.”
“Thanks,” I whispered into the pillow.
I didn't need to open the box. I knew exactly what was inside. It would be a small, velvet-lined square. Inside would be a gold watch, elegant and expensive. It would be the tenth watch he had bought me since we met. Every birthday, every anniversary, the same gift. It was a script. It was a way for him to check a box and say he was a good husband without ever having to actually know me.
The light clicked off.
The silence returned, heavier than before. He stayed on his side, and I stayed on mine. The space between us felt like a canyon. I lay there in the dark, listening to his breathing steady as he fell asleep.
He didn't explain the name. He didn't apologize for the sounds in the shower. He just went to sleep, leaving me alone with the ghost of a woman named Penelope.
I stared at the red numbers of the digital clock.
“Who is she, Juli?” I asked the darkness, so low he couldn't possibly hear.
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POV : Hazel"Is that actually the wife, or did you just pick up a stray at the gate?" Michael’s voice boomed through the heavy oak doors of the private lounge.The roar of laughter that followed hit me like a physical blow. I stood frozen in the doorway, my fingers still gripping the cold brass handle. Inside, the room was a blur of expensive cologne, amber liquor, and people who moved with a confidence I never possessed.Right in the center of the noise sat Julian. He wasn't laughing, but he wasn't stopping them either. He just sat there, nursing a drink, while Penelope leaned so close to him that her silk dress brushed his suit jacket. She looked like she belonged there. I looked like a mistake.Michael turned around, his face flushed from the booze and the joke. "Hey, Juli, is it really true that she - "His words died in his throat. His eyes locked onto mine, and the grin slid off his face so fast it was
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POV :Hazel“You should just stay in the house if I am not there to look after you,” Julian told me this morning.He said it like he was protecting me. He made it sound like the world was a jagged, dangerous place and I was too fragile to navigate it alone. I used to believe him. I used to think his control was just a form of deep affection.But as I sat in the back of the taxi, watching the city lights blur past the window, I knew the truth. I did not fear the world. I feared being seen with him. I hated the way people looked at us when we walked together. I could see the question in their eyes before they even opened their mouths. They wondered how a man like Julian, so polished and perfect, ended up with a wife who could not even walk straight.“Driver, please stop here,” I said suddenly.The car jerked to a halt. My heart skipped a beat. I had spotted Julian’s black sedan parked right at the curb in front of a high-
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POV: Hazel“Is he actually shouting?” I whispered to the empty bedroom, my thumb hovering over the replay button on my phone.The video was grainy, but the audio was sharp enough to cut. Julian was laughing. It was a loud, boisterous sound that I didn't recognize. In the blurry footage, he raised a glass high, his face flushed with a warmth he never showed me.“Welcome home, Penelope!” he yelled.I leaned back against the headboard, feeling a cold ache in my chest. I remembered Julian from our high school days as the untouchable genius. He was always the guy who looked straight ahead, ignoring the girls who tried to get his attention or offer him water after a race. He was composed. He was icy.When we got married, that ice didn't melt. He was polite, sure. He was perfectly regulated. He never lost his temper, but he never found his joy either. I used to wonder if his blood was even warm. When our hands b
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POV: Hazel"I'm heading out, and I have a dinner meeting later tonight," Julian said to someone in the hallway. "Let Mrs. Lucy know she shouldn't wait for me. She needs her sleep."I kept my eyes squeezed shut, listening to the heavy thud of his footsteps as he walked back into our bedroom. I didn't move. I didn't breathe. I stayed tucked under the duvet, my face pressed into a pillow that was still damp from the tears I’d shed in the dark. My skin felt tight and itchy from the salt, but I didn't dare wipe it away. I couldn't let him see I was awake.Usually, our mornings followed a strict routine. I would be up before him, selecting his silk tie and matching his cufflinks to his suit. I’d have his clothes laid out on the bench, perfectly pressed, so he never had to spend a single second thinking about his appearance. It was my way of being useful. It was how I showed him I cared, even if he never said it back.T
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