Chapter Two

I stared down at the glowing smartphone screen, the video repeating on a seamless, agonizing loop.

For six years, Kevin had sworn off alcohol. He had turned himself into a portrait of absolute restraint, refusing every glass toasted in his direction and citing an absolute dedication to his health and his work.

I had truly believed that moderation and self-control were built into his very DNA.

But in this video, under the warm, shimmering lights of an exclusive rooftop lounge, he held a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber whiskey, swirling it with lazy familiarity.

He was laughing.

It wasn't the polite, measured smile he offered me over breakfast, nor the practiced, gentle smirk he wore for corporate photo ops. It was a genuine, chest-deep laugh that lit up his entire face.

He never laughed that way with me.

"Welcome home, little princess," his voice echoed from the tiny speaker, rich, playful, and dripping with an intimate, fond warmth I had never once heard directed at me.

He called Iris by her childhood nickname, clinking his glass against hers as the crowd cheered.

My throat tightened until I couldn't breathe.

So it wasn't that he was incapable of warmth, passion, or breaking his own strict rules, I thought, a cold realization settling into my bones.

He just didn't waste any of it on me.

"Madam?" Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, called gently from the dining room archway. "Are you coming down for breakfast? What would you like Chef to prepare for dinner tonight?"

Habit took over before I could stop myself. "Make whatever Kevin likes…maybe the roasted—"

"Oh, Mr. Vance won't be home for dinner tonight, Madam," Mrs. Gable interrupted softly, offering a sympathetic, practiced nod. "He called earlier to say he has prior engagements."

"Right," I murmured, managing a faint, composed nod. "Of course."

Soon I saw Iris's updated story on social media. She had posted a picture of an ornate reservation card at L'Orangerie, the most exclusive private dining club in the city, captioned simply: Dinner with my childhood guard dog.

Sitting at the empty marble dining table, I picked up my fork, but my appetite was long gone.

In the past, my mornings were dedicated entirely to practicing vocal scales in the music room—diligent, tedious practice designed for no other reason than to kill time, to drown out the suffocating silence of this gilded mansion while I waited for Kevin's car to pull into the driveway.

Not today.

Instead, I opened my phone and pulled up the draft to the Royal Opera House.

With steady, unhesitating fingers, I typed my formal acceptance, attaching my signed agreement for the preliminary demo recording session scheduled in town that evening.

I hit send.

A quiet, profound sense of relief washed through my chest, untying a knot I had carried for six years.

Day one of my thirty-day countdown had officially begun.

By six in the evening, I had changed into a modest, long-sleeved dark blouse, letting my thick black hair fall over the left side of my face as usual.

"Are you going out, Madam?" Mrs. Gable asked, surprised as she saw me head toward the foyer. In six years, I almost never left the estate after dark.

"I'm meeting an old acquaintance," I replied quietly. "Don't leave the lights on for me."

I didn't tell her I was heading to a local studio to record the demo track that would seal my return to the theater world. I hired a private car, sinking back into the leather seats as the city lights blurred past the window.

Halfway across the district, as we passed the illuminated grand entrance of L'Orangerie, a familiar black Maybach caught my eye. Kevin's car was parked right in front of the VIP valet.

My heart did a strange, painful flutter before settling into cold resolve.

"Stop the car here, please," I told the driver.

"Here, ma'am? This is a private club."

"Just give me five minutes."

I stepped out into the cool night air. I knew I should have kept walking toward my studio, but a dark, quiet part of me needed to see it with my own eyes.

I needed the finality of it.

Walking past the valet, I slipped through the side entrance reserved for private party rooms, my soft steps making no sound on the plush velvet carpet.

I stopped right outside the heavy double doors of Private Suite A. It wasn't fully latched; a sliver of warm light and booming laughter poured into the hallway.

"Honestly, man, we can never get Kevin to come out with us anymore," a man's voice, one of Kevin's wealthy high-society friends, resounded from inside. "He's always 'too busy' or 'working late.' But the second Iris steps off a plane, he drops his whole empire to show up."

I leaned slightly closer, my shadow merging with the wall.

Iris was sitting in the center of the plush leather booth. She looked delicate, effortlessly elegant in a pale rose silk gown, surrounded by the elite group of childhood friends who had doted on her since grammar school. She was the heiress of the Vance family's closest business allies, the sweet, protected "little sister" of their circle.

In a sweet, melodious voice, Iris turned to Kevin, who sat right beside her, tilting her head innocently. "Kevin, you've been spending every day with me since I got back... won't your wife be upset?"

A burst of dismissive laughter erupted from the men around the table.

"Upset?" one friend scoffed, swirling his drink. "Come on, Iris. With a face like hers, do you really think she'd dare to complain about anything Kevin does?"

Iris blinked, her expression a masterclass in delicate, wide-eyed curiosity. "What do you mean? What actually happened to her face?"

"She's horribly disfigured," another friend chimed in, tossing a peanut into his mouth. "Got caught in some fire years ago. Frankly, I pity Kevin. She's nowhere near good enough to stand next to him. Remember what Kevin told us at the club last year? He said her face isn't even fit for public view."

Standing outside in the dark corridor, a bitter, lifeless smile touched my lips.

Fit for public view.

So that was the real reason.

It wasn't out of protection or respect for my privacy. After six years of marriage, he had kept me locked away from his world, hidden from his friends and erased from his social life, simply because my scars embarrassed him.

"If she's that hideous, why did you marry her in the first place, Kevin?" Iris asked softly, turning her wide, shimmering eyes toward him.

Kevin sat back, entirely relaxed, his posture overflowing with that polished, effortless suaveness. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his tone completely flat, devoid of emotion.

"She saved my life. I owe her."

"Right, a life debt," his friend snickered. "So throw her a few more millions, buy her another house, and be done with it! Why keep her locked up at home where you have to stare at that disgusting face every single day?"

"Is it really that hideous?" Iris gasped softly, covering her mouth with delicate fingers.

"You have no idea," the friend laughed, standing up from his seat. He dramatically raised his hands, covering half of his face with his jacket sleeve, shrinking his shoulders, and twisting his voice into a high, pathetic mimicry of mine. "'Oh, please don't look at me! Don't look at my face!'"

The room erupted into collective chuckles.

Kevin didn't laugh, but he didn't stop them either. He merely sat there, gentle, composed, and utterly indifferent, sipping his drink while his friends tore my dignity to shreds.

A sudden, burning heat roared through my veins, consuming every last trace of my lingering shame.

Without hesitation, I raised my hand and slammed the private room door wide open.