Chapter 1: The Cold Husband

Alessia

I woke up alone. Again.

The right side of the bed was untouched, smooth and cold like it had been made for someone who never planned to sleep in it. The sun had already started spilling through the windows, but the warmth it offered didn’t reach me. It never did in this house.

I pulled the blanket up to my chest, holding it close, pretending for a second that maybe I’d just woken up early. That maybe I had dreamt him being absent again. But reality settled in the pit of my stomach like it always did—a quiet, heavy reminder that Adrian hadn’t come home last night. Just like most nights.

Today was supposed to mean something.

Our first anniversary.

One year of marriage. One year of walking around each other like strangers in this oversized house. One year of pretending we were something we weren’t. But I still held on—foolishly, maybe—hoping for something to change. Some small sign that he saw me.

I had set everything up the night before.

A quiet dinner. Nothing fancy. Just us. I made sure the dining room was lit softly, candles flickering the way they did in those warm, romantic movies I used to believe in. I wore the same dress from our honeymoon night, the one he said looked "fine" before rolling over and falling asleep.

I waited until the food went cold.

Until my phone vibrated at 10:42 p.m. with a message that felt more like a slap than a sentence.

[Don’t wait up.]-- Adrian

No “sorry.” No “something came up.” Not even my name. Just three cold, detached words that were enough to hollow out the rest of my night.

I should’ve gone to bed then. But I stayed at the table, staring at the empty seat across from me, replaying every mistake I’d made that led me here. I don’t even know what I was mourning anymore—him, or the version of myself that believed love would eventually grow in a marriage like this.

When I finally dragged myself upstairs, the candles were already burnt out, and the silence in the house felt louder than any scream.

Now, sitting up in bed, my head pounding from another sleepless night, I stared at the time—7:01 a.m.

Our first anniversary was already slipping away, just like everything else.

I forced myself to get up, each step across the cold marble floor reminding me how massive and empty this house really was. Everything about it looked beautiful in pictures. Elegant. Grand. But no one ever told you how lonely big spaces felt when no one filled them.

In the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Eyes dull, lips dry, hair falling out of the loose bun I never cared to fix anymore. My skin looked paler than usual, but maybe that’s just what a year of feeling invisible does to a person.

The phone rang just as I sat on the edge of the bed again. I grabbed it quickly, not expecting Adrian—he never called. But the name that popped up on the screen made my throat tighten.

Dad.

I cleared my voice and picked up. “Hi, Dad.”

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart!” His voice was cheerful, proud yet like dying. “I can’t believe it’s already been a year. Time flies when you're building a life, huh?”

I smiled, even though it hurt. “Yeah. It really does.”

“How’s Adrian treating you these days?”

There was a long beat of silence—on my end.

“Good,” I said finally, pressing my fingers hard against my temple to keep the tears from falling. “He’s just... busy. Work’s been nonstop lately.”

“I knew you’d be good for him. He just needs time, that’s all. You’re patient, Alessia. He’s lucky to have someone like you.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell my father that Adrian barely looked at me. That I spent most nights pretending I didn’t hear the front door stay shut, pretending it didn’t break me each time. But I couldn’t.

My father had given up so much to secure this marriage—our business, our name, our standing in the industry. This union was never about love. It was about survival.

And I was the collateral.

We ended the call with the usual pleasantries. I hung up, tossed the phone beside me, and sat in silence again, arms wrapped tightly around my legs. There were moments when I wondered if I even existed to Adrian outside of a public image. Did he even remember today? Did he care?

I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to believe it.

Later that morning, while cleaning up the untouched dinner mess from last night, I heard a soft knock on the front door. It was strange—no one ever showed up here without buzzing through the gate.

I opened the door and looked down.

A tabloid.

Wrapped in plastic. Glossy cover facing up.

I bent down and picked it up, frowning.

And then my heart stopped.

Adrian Volkov Attends Elite Gala With Stunning Mystery Woman!

The headline screamed louder than anything. But it wasn’t the words that made my knees feel weak—it was the picture.

Him. In the black suit I picked out for him weeks ago. Arm around a woman in a backless red dress, her hand resting comfortably on his chest, as if she belonged there. His head was tilted down toward her. He was smiling.

Smiling.

A small, genuine, easy kind of smile I hadn’t seen in over a year.

My fingers tightened around the edges of the magazine as my eyes scanned the caption.

Spotted: Billionaire Adrian Volkov at the International Investment Gala, sans wife, with a mysterious blonde companion. Sources say the two looked more than friendly.

My vision blurred. The air suddenly felt too thin. I stepped back inside, letting the door fall shut behind me, and sank down onto the staircase, the magazine still trembling in my hands.

So that’s where he was.

On our anniversary.

At a gala I wasn’t even invited to.

With another woman.

I couldn’t even cry. It was like my body needed time to catch up to the betrayal. I wanted to throw the magazine across the room, scream into the silence, burn every reminder of him.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I sat there, completely still, breathing like my chest was filled with glass. It wasn’t just that he didn’t come home. It was that he chose not to.

He chose her.

Over me.

Over the vows.

Over the one thing I was still stupid enough to believe meant something to him.

When the tears came, they were quiet. Not dramatic, not the kind you see in movies. Just slow, hot trails down my cheeks as I pressed my forehead against my knees and let the weight of it all sit with me.

I had given up so much to be his wife.

My independence. My voice. My self-respect.

And for what?

So he could parade someone else around while I sat in his house, pretending not to bleed?

I don’t know how long I stayed there on the steps. I wasn’t hoping anymore.

And that scared me more than anything else.