Chapter Three

My husband stopped coming home.

At first, I kept telling myself he would return. I waited through one night, then another, until waiting quietly became part of my routine. Days slipped into a week, and eventually, I could no longer tell them apart.

I ate only when hunger became impossible to ignore and slept only when exhaustion finally overpowered the brutal ache in my chest.

Sometimes I caught myself reaching for my phone, wanting to tell him something trivial, only to remember that I no longer had a husband to call.

Grief was a peculiar thing. It had a way of hiding in the smallest, most ordinary details. Everything reminded me of him. The faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the pillows. The clothes he had left hanging in the closet. Even the silence reminded me of him.

I told myself I should be angry. Perhaps I was. But anger was constantly swallowed by the pain. After all, losing the man I had loved for years was never going to be easy, especially after he walked away with divorce papers in one hand and my inability to bear children as the reason in the other.

By the following week, the grief had not disappeared, but it no longer consumed every waking thought. For the first time since he left, I found myself accepting the truth I had fought so hard to deny.

He wasn't coming back. He had already made up his mind to leave me.

I pulled myself together. At this point, I had to be strong for myself.

My thoughts drifted to my best friend, who noticeably hadn't contacted me in a while. She still owed me an explanation of what happened that night.

I reached for my phone on the bedside table and keyed in the familiar numbers before lifting it to my ear. No response, so I tried again. 

Moments passed, yet each call went unanswered.

I tried to reason with myself that she might simply be busy. Perhaps she was in the middle of a commercial shoot, or her day had already been filled with one engagement after another. After all, she was the most sought-after model in the country. Offers poured in relentlessly, leaving her schedule packed from morning until night.

But then, no matter how many excuses I made for her, one unsettling thought refused to leave my mind. She was avoiding me on purpose. And it had to do with what happened that night.

In the end, I decided that if she wasn't going to answer my calls, I would go see her in person. I needed answers. I needed to know why she had left the hotel room without telling me and, more importantly, why there had been a man lying on my bed.

With my mind made up, I slipped into my shoes, picked up my car keys from the console table.

The cool evening breeze greeted me when I stepped out. The sky had already surrendered to darkness, while rows of streetlights illuminated the empty road.

I climbed into my car then drove to where she lived because I wanted so badly to talk with her.

A part of me suddenly wanted to turn back. I wasn't sure I was ready to hear whatever explanation awaited me. But another part of me needed to know the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

Half an hour later, I turned onto Havenwood Street.

The peaceful neighborhood lay beneath the gentle glow of the night sky. Lined with tree-covered streets, sprawling mansions, and impeccably maintained gardens, it was the most prestigious residential community in the city. Every estate along that road belonged to old-money families whose names carried immense power in both business and politics

It was also where the Phoenix family had lived for generations.

Celestine's mansion stood only a few houses away from the Phoenix residence.

Back when Crimson and I were newly married, I often visited the neighborhood. Family gatherings, holiday dinners, and the occasional afternoon tea had made the streets feel almost familiar.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and continued driving until the familiar silhouette of Celestine's mansion came into view. Something about the house felt strangely quiet. I parked by the curb and switched off the engine, but I didn't get out.

My gaze drifted toward the mansion. Then it stopped at a sleek, black Corvette sitting in the driveway.

It belonged to Crimson.

A knot tightened in my stomach.

What was he doing at Celestine's house at this hour?

I desperately searched for a reasonable explanation. Perhaps he was there to discuss business. Perhaps it was all a coincidence.

But before I could make sense of it, the front door opened.

Celestine stepped outside.

A moment later, Crimson joined her.

I watched as she slipped an arm around his neck. At first, the gesture looked innocent enough. Until she rose onto her toes and pressed her lips against his. 

Something inside me shattered. A sharp pain tore through my chest, stealing the air from my lungs. My fingers curled against my heart as if I could somehow hold it together and stop it from breaking apart.

I stared at them, unable to look away, unable to convince myself that what I was seeing wasn't real.

My husband.

My best friend.

The two people I trusted most were locked in a kiss. Everything finally fell into place.

Crimson hadn't simply left me.

He had left me for Celestine.

I wanted to start the car and drive until I escaped this place. But I couldn't. It was as though someone had nailed me to the seat, forcing me to witness every cruel second.

So this was why.

This was why Celestine had vanished from the hotel that night. This was why Crimson had looked so determined to end our marriage. They had betrayed me together.

If looks could decapitate a person, the two of them would have collapsed where they stood beneath my burning gaze.