Chapter 2: A Slap of Reality

“How is that possible?!”

Ravelle's voice rose, not out of hysteria, but from a demand for logic that flatly refused to accept what she had just heard.

“I live with him every day! We share a bed, manage assets together, and celebrate our wedding anniversary! How can the government declare that we've been divorced for eight years?!”

The middle-aged clerk let out a heavy sigh. At this administrative counter, he had witnessed hundreds of domestic dramas, but the cold yet fragile composure in the eyes of the woman before him felt different.

“The central system's data never lies, Ma’am. This divorce certificate is valid, complete with both your signature and Mr. Kyle Stevens' signature from eight years ago,” the clerk explained while clicking through the digital document on his screen. “And... there is another legal fact you should know.”

Ravelle gripped the edge of the marble desk, but her gaze remained fixed straight ahead.

“Tell me.”

“Two months after this divorce certificate was issued, Mr. Kyle Stevens registered a new marriage that is legally recognized.” The clerk read the line of text on the screen. “The legal wife recorded in our system to this day is... Jessica Hepburn.”

The chair Ravelle was sitting in slid backward.

She stood upright, although for a moment she felt as though all the oxygen in the room had been sucked away.

Jessica?

The name struck her consciousness like an iron mace.

Fragments of images from the previous night in the CEO's office instantly came together, forming a horrifying conspiracy. That hungry kiss, those passionate moans over the office desk.

Until five minutes ago, Ravelle had believed she was merely a wife being cheated on.

But the reality was far crueler and more disgusting.

She was not being cheated on.

She had been removed from her own life a long time ago.

For the past eight years, she had not been a wife. She had been a stranger in her own home. A woman with no legal status, being used to manage the business and household of a man who was legally another woman's husband.

Ravelle's genius mind immediately rewound to eight years ago. Her mental archive traced every event.

Of course.

Eight years ago, when Stevens Corporation was first expanding, Kyle had brought her a stack of thick documents labeled Asset Restructuring and Family Insurance.

Kyle had hugged her from behind, kissed her temple, and said, “Darling, I need your signature here so that if anything happens to the company, your personal assets will remain protected.”

And she, because she trusted the man who had been with her since they had nothing, signed everything without reading page after page of clauses hidden in the back.

That was where Kyle had inserted the mutual divorce agreement.

Ravelle released her grip on the desk.

Instead of fainting or breaking down in hysterical tears like an oppressed woman, she took a deep breath.

A faint, icy smile curved her lips—a signature smile of the Branson family whenever they were preparing to destroy a business rival.

“Thank you for the information,” Ravelle said in an astonishingly calm voice.

She took back her identification card, slipped it into her Hermès bag, and walked out with her back perfectly straight.

Only inside the taxi taking her home did the fortress around her heart crack slightly.

A single tear escaped from the corner of her eye, not because she was grieving over Kyle, but because she was mourning her own foolishness.

Ten years of her youth.

Ten years of cooking, maintaining a home, enduring insults from her mother-in-law, Kania, who always called her “a useless barren woman,” and, worst of all, sacrificing her own pregnancy to save Stevens Corporation from bankruptcy through the Alpha Crimson account.

As it turned out, she had done all of that to feed a snake and his whore.

Ravelle opened her bag, took out her phone, and stared at a number she had deliberately avoided for the past ten years.

The number belonged to the only person who had opposed her marriage to Kyle from the very beginning.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Hello?”

A deep, authoritative voice filled with long-hidden longing sounded from the other end.

“You naughty girl. Have you finally remembered that you have a grandfather and decided to call?”

The moment she heard that voice, Ravelle's throat tightened.

Her tears flowed more heavily, but she refused to sound weak.

“Grandpa...”

The tone of the Branson family patriarch immediately became sharp and alert.

“Ravelle? You're crying? What did that Stevens bastard do to you?!”

Ravelle wiped away her tears roughly.

“Grandpa... I want to come home.”

Silence fell over the line for several seconds.

Then her grandfather's voice softened, filled with absolute protection.

“Come home, my granddaughter. No matter how long you've been gone, the doors of the Branson residence will always be wide open for you. Do I need to send a private jet to pick you up?”

“No need, Grandpa. Give me three days. There’s some ‘trash’ I need to clean up first before I leave,” Ravelle replied, her eyes now gleaming as hard as diamonds. “And... I’m taking Calysta with me.”

Calysta Evans was the seven-year-old girl Kyle had brought home as an infant, claiming she was the child of an old friend who had died in an accident.

For seven years, Ravelle had cared for, bathed, and taught the child with all the love of a mother who had lost her own baby.

To Ravelle, Calysta was her daughter.

She would not allow the child to grow up under the moral guidance of people like Kyle and Jessica.

The taxi stopped in front of the gates of the luxurious Stevens mansion—a mansion that, ironically, had been purchased using funding from Alpha Crimson.

Ravelle stepped out, regulated her breathing until her expression became blank and unreadable once more, then walked inside.

However, the moment she passed through the front door, her steps came to a halt.

The sound of cheerful laughter echoed from the family room.

Kyle was there, his suit already removed and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows.

He was not alone.

Sitting beside him was Jessica Hepburn, still wearing the same tight office outfit she had been wearing while making love with him the previous night.

And what made Ravelle's chest ache painfully was Calysta.

The seven-year-old girl she had raised with love and devotion was clinging affectionately to Jessica's arm, laughing brightly while accepting pieces of fruit fed to her by the secretary.

The three of them looked incredibly harmonious.

Perfect.

Like a real, complete family.

Meanwhile, Ravelle stood in the darkness of the hallway like an invisible ghost.

All this time, Calysta had always been cold and indifferent toward Ravelle.

Ravelle had assumed the child simply had a reserved personality.

But seeing how affectionate she was toward Jessica, another curtain of lies began to lift in Ravelle's mind.

Calysta looked up at Kyle with her innocent round eyes.

“Daddy, when is Mommy Jessica going to live here with us forever?”

Thud.

Ravelle's footsteps froze against the wooden floor.

“I want Mommy Jessica to sleep with me and take me to school every day. I don't want to be with Mommy Ravelle anymore. Mommy Ravelle is boring. She always stops me from eating ice cream and makes me study,” the child complained as she wrapped her arms around Jessica's neck.

Jessica smiled triumphantly.

The corner of her eye briefly glanced toward the hallway—revealing that she had known Ravelle was standing there from the very beginning.

She stroked Calysta's hair with a theatrical gesture.

“Ssshhh, Sweetheart... you mustn't talk like that about... Aunt Ravelle.”

Aunt Ravelle?

Kyle merely chuckled and kissed Calysta's cheek, making no attempt whatsoever to correct the child's disrespectful words toward the woman who had raised her for seven years.

Kyle had no idea that the “wife” he had deceived for eight years was standing only a few meters behind him, staring at their backs with eyes as cold and empty as polar ice.

Ravelle clenched her fists inside the pockets of her coat.

Inside her genius mind, the scattered pieces of the puzzle suddenly fell perfectly into place.

Mommy Jessica?

Why was Calysta calling Jessica “Mommy”?

And why did Calysta, when observed carefully... share the exact same eyelid structure and chin shape as Jessica Hepburn?

A new reality, far more horrifying and disgusting, slammed into Ravelle's mind.

Calysta was not the child of Kyle's deceased friend.