Chapter 3

As Rogue’s command echoed in the empty kitchen, I was left with the debris of a life I no longer recognized. I cleaned everything—every plate, every stain, every shattered remnant of my pride. When the house finally fell into a haunting silence, I retreated to the master bedroom, clutching a chemical ice pack to my chest like a lifeline.

I sat on the edge of the cold bathtub, finally letting the silk robe slip from my shoulders. I couldn't help but pity the woman staring back at me in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed a sickly red, and my eyes were so swollen they felt like lead.

The dark circles under them were bruises of a different kind—the mark of a thousand sleepless nights. My skin, once vibrant, was now a ghostly, translucent pale; a side effect of the gilded cage Rogue had built for me. I was a business graduate, a woman of intellect, yet I hadn't felt the sun on my face in weeks.

I pressed the ice to my arm, wincing as the cold bit into the purple finger-shaped marks Rogue had left behind. I stayed there, hidden in the dark, until exhaustion finally claimed me.

I woke up in the late afternoon to a house that felt like a tomb. Rogue’s car was gone. Despite the ache in my bones and the hollowness in my heart, a pathetic spark of hope flickered within me. I went down to the kitchen and started to cook. I prepared steak, his favorite, humming a low, mournful tune as I checked the rice cooker. Maybe tonight, I told myself. Maybe tonight he’ll come home alone. Maybe tonight he’ll see me.

The sound of the front door heavy thud made my heart leap. I hurried toward the foyer, a small, tentative smile forming on my lips—only to have it freeze and shatter instantly.

It wasn't just Rogue. Three men followed him in, their loud laughter filling the hallway. Their gazes shifted to me, and the air left my lungs. I was trapped. I was only wearing a thin camisole and shorts, my hair pulled up in a messy, hurried bun. In the harsh foyer light, the bruises on my pale arms and the faint marks on my neck stood out like ink on parchment.

"Woah... this is the wife?" the man with his hair in a top bun asked, his eyes roaming over me without shame.

"Don't mind her, Rick," Rogue said, his voice dripping with boredom as he tossed his keys on the table.

"She’s a beauty, dude. You never mentioned that," the one with a clean-cut look, Lucas, added. He eyed me from head to toe, his gaze lingering on my bare legs in a way that made my skin crawl.

"Tsk. Fuck off, Lucas. She’s boring," Rogue replied, not even looking at me.

"Well, you told me your wife looked like an old hag. You're a damn liar, Rogue," the blonde one said, shaking his head with a smirk.

"Of course... only one woman is ever beautiful in his eyes," Rick laughed, and Lucas joined in. The implication of the other woman hit me harder than a physical blow.

"Why don't you let me have her, Rogue?" Lucas said, taking a step toward me. "You only married her for business, right?"

I stumbled back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked at Rogue, desperate for him to defend me, to claim me, to show even a shred of respect. But Rogue just looked at me with a gaze so sharp and full of loathing it felt like a blade.

"You're scaring her, dumbass!" the blonde one muttered, swatting Lucas’s shoulder.

"I said fuck off, Lucas!" Rogue growled. He slammed his shoulder into Lucas as he pushed past them, stalking toward me with heavy, terrifying steps.

My breath hitched. He didn't offer a hand of comfort. Instead, he lunged forward, grabbing my wrist with a violence that made me gasp. He didn't care that his friends were watching; he hauled me toward the stairs like a piece of luggage he was embarrassed to own.

"R-Rogue... it hurts..." I whispered, my voice breaking as I tried to pry his iron grip off my bruised skin. He didn't say a word. He just tightened his hold, dragging me upward until we reached our room.

He shoved me inside with such force that I stumbled, nearly hitting the floor.

"Stay there. Do not come out," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

I looked up at him, trembling like a terrified pup, my eyes brimming with fresh tears. For a split second—a heartbeat—I saw a flicker of something cross his face. Was it pity? Was it a momentary flash of regret?

It didn't matter. The flicker died as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, impenetrable mask of disgust. He turned his back on me and slammed the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot through my heart.

The slamming of the door wasn’t the end; it was the beginning of a different kind of torture.

I stayed on the floor, my fingers tracing the fresh red welts on my wrist. The muffled sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses drifted up from the lounge, vibrating through the floorboards. They were celebrating his success while I was locked away like a shameful secret.

Driven by a masochistic need to know just how low I ranked in his life, I crawled toward the door. I pressed my ear against the cold wood, my breath hitching as their voices became clearer.

"Seriously, Rogue," Lucas’s voice boomed, followed by the sound of a pouring drink. "The wife is a knockout. A bit... fragile, maybe? But definitely not the 'business transaction' you described. Why keep her under lock and key?"

A heavy silence followed. I could almost picture Rogue leaning back in his leather couch, swirling his scotch.

"She’s a necessity, Lucas. Nothing more," Rogue’s voice was like ice. "A placeholder to satisfy my father’s dying wish. You don't bring a placeholder to the front lines. You leave it in the background where it belongs."

"Well, the 'background' is going to get real crowded soon," Rick chimed in, his tone dropping into something more conspiratorial. "I saw the headlines this morning. The Paris Fashion Week wrap-up."

My heart skipped a beat. Paris.

"She’s coming back, isn't she?" the blonde one asked.

"May 14th," Rogue said.

His voice changed. The coldness, the sharp edges, the bored indifference—it all vanished. For the first time, I heard something in his tone that he had never, not once, given to me: reverence.

"Olivia is finishing her contract with Chanel," Rogue continued, the words sounding like a prayer. "She’s flying back for my birthday. She called me last night."

So, he's been in touch with her beloved ex. I laughed bitterly.

"The 'Beloved' returns," Lucas teased, but there was no bite in it. Even his friends sounded respectful of that name. "What are you going to do about the... domestic situation? You can't exactly have the Queen of the Runway bumping into the 'housewife' in the hallway." Lucas added.

I gripped the door handle so hard my knuckles turned white. Olivia. The famous model. The woman whose face graced every magazine I wasn't allowed to buy. The woman he had loved since they were teenagers—the one who had left him to chase her dreams, leaving him bitter enough to marry a "peasant" like me just to fill the void.

"Adeline won't be an issue," Rogue said, his voice returning to that terrifying, flat calm. "She knows her place. And when Olivia arrives, Adeline will stay in the shadows where she’s comfortable. My birthday isn't about legal contracts. It’s about what’s real."

"I don't have that much to say. . . but didn't Olivia cheat on you before?" I bet the blonde guy asked.

"I love her, I don't care what she did." I bit my lower lip. He was even willing to give a second chance?

He loves her that much, huh.

"Well! To the return of the real Mrs. Sterling!" Rick, I think said, as I heard them toasted.

The sound of their glasses clinking felt like nails being driven into my coffin. My birthday was in May, too. Just three days before his. I had been saving up for months to buy him a watch he’d mentioned once in passing.

Now, I realized that while I was counting down the days to celebrate our life, he was counting down the days until his "real" life could finally begin.

I pulled away from the door, the steak I had cooked with such hope now cold and rotting downstairs. I looked at the calendar on the wall.

May. One month away.

I wasn't just a placeholder. I was an obstacle. And as I looked at my bruised reflection, I realized that when Olivia arrived, Rogue wouldn't just hide me—he would erase me.