The CEO's ex-wife is Untouchable

“Who’s there?”

The sharp voice cut through the stillness of dawn.

Marcelline froze in the dimly lit corridor, her hand resting on the brass doorknob of the study. She hadn’t expected anyone to be awake this early, not even the servants. Her heart thudded once, but her expression never faltered.

“It’s me,” she said calmly, stepping into the light.

The butler, startled, bowed quickly. “Madam… forgive me. I thought...”

“That I was a shadow?” Her lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained unreadable. “Perhaps I am.”

The old man lowered his head, uneasy, and hurried past. Marcelline lingered for a moment, her gaze sliding to the half-open door of the study. Inside, the glow of a desk lamp revealed neat stacks of documents, pens aligned with military precision, Rowan’s habits, untouched since last night. She closed the door quietly and moved on.

The Adair mansion was stirring awake. Light crept through tall windows draped in velvet, gilding marble floors and silver banisters. Servants moved briskly through the halls, their voices hushed but sharp enough to carry.

“…pitiful, isn’t she?”

“Clinging on for nine years when everyone knows Mr. Adair’s real love is Miss Selene…”

“Does she not see? Or does she enjoy the humiliation?”

Marcelline’s steps didn’t falter. She moved with the same grace she always did, head high, expression serene. But in her palm, the faintest crinkle of paper betrayed her secret, the envelope she carried tucked inside her sleeve.

By the time she entered the kitchen, the whispers had already shifted into silence.

She ignored them. Tying her apron neatly, she rolled up the sleeves of her pale blue house dress and began preparing breakfast. The servants exchanged wary glances. Most mistresses of the house commanded meals to be served; Marcelline cooked them herself.

Eggs, toast, coffee, every detail precisely as Rowan liked it. Every gesture practiced over nine years of habit. Her hands were steady. Her movements, precise. To an onlooker, she was a woman devoted to her husband’s comfort.

But today, her silence was not submission.

Today, it was calculation.

The sound of polished leather against marble echoed before she even looked up.

Rowan Adair appeared in the kitchen doorway, tall and commanding, his tailored black suit sharp against the soft light of morning. His storm-blue eyes were unreadable, cold as steel, and his expression carried the quiet authority of a man used to being obeyed without question.

He paused when he saw her at the counter, then moved past as though she were another servant.

“Coffee,” he said. Not a greeting, not a request.

Marcelline poured it wordlessly, setting the cup in front of him at the breakfast table. He never glanced at her, already buried in the morning’s financial reports spread across his tablet.

To him, she wasn’t wife, companion, or partner. She was a fixture. A shadow.

He lifted the cup, sipped once, and set it down again. “Too sweet.”

Her lips curved faintly. “I followed the usual measure.”

“Then change it.” His eyes never left the screen.

Marcelline inclined her head, turning back to the counter. Behind them, the servants exchanged furtive glances. To them, this scene was ordinary. To them, Mrs. Adair was pitiable, forever chasing the crumbs of her husband’s attention.

One maid leaned toward another, whispering, “He won’t even look at her. Not when Miss Selene...”

The sentence died as Marcelline glanced over her shoulder. Not a word was spoken, but the sharpness in her gray eyes silenced the room.

She turned back to the counter, stirring a fresh cup of coffee, sliding it across the table without a sound. Rowan finally glanced at her then, only briefly, before returning to his tablet.

“Selene called,” he said absently. “We'll be attending a gala in fews days time. You don’t need to attend.”

A familiar ache pressed at Marcelline’s chest, but outwardly she only smoothed her apron. “As you wish.”

It was always like this. He paraded Selene before the world as though she were the one by his side, while his legal wife remained in the shadows of the mansion. Nine years of this humiliation, endured without protest.

Nine years, because of a promise.

Nine years, because she had a plan.

Rowan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, lips curving faintly in a smile he never gave his wife. Without a word, he rose, slipping his jacket on.

“Breakfast is ready,” Marcelline said softly.

“I have no time.” His tone was final. He strode past her, leaving the smell of his cologne in the air, leaving the chair at the table empty, leaving her exactly as he always did, alone in the silence of a house that was never her home.

The servants scattered once he was gone, their whispers resuming as soon as they thought she couldn’t hear.

“She still smiles, even when he treats her like air…”

“How can she endure it? If it were me...”

“She has nowhere else to go. Miss Selene will take her place soon enough.”

Marcelline untied her apron, folding it neatly on the counter. Her movements were calm, deliberate, but her fingers tightened around the envelope hidden in her sleeve.

She turned her gaze toward the wide windows of the dining room, where sunlight spilled across the polished table Rowan had abandoned.

Nine years.

Her lips curved again, faint and cool, as she whispered into the empty room, “It ends today.”

She slipped the envelope into her pocket.