Chapter 1

Meritt's POV

The door of his study was barely closed. Tonight, on our sixth wedding anniversary, it was slightly open just enough for the sound to find a way out.

A low, shaky inhale and a muffled groan.

I stood by the hallway, my pale hand freezing just a few inches from the door handle. The silence in the house made the heavy panting and moaning from his room all I could hear.

For six years, our marriage was almost like we were roommates. Michael never touched me. He always told me he didn't want to hurt me, that he needed to be careful with me.

A burning rage, wrapped in chills filled my chest as I leaned closer to the small opening.

Through the narrow gap, I saw him. His back faced me, his shoulders tense and moving smoothly and the light from the computer screen lit up the dark room.

I forced my eyes toward the screen.

It wasn't a spreadsheet. It wasn't an urgent overseas email. It was a photograph, a woman with perfect skin, and a beautiful smile, with glorious red hair resting perfectly on her shoulder.

It was her, his first love, Stella, the delicate and so called little sister of his inner circle.

I couldn't help but smile through the pain.

So this is why he never touches me. He didn't need to. He was taking care of his own needs tonight, choosing a damn photo of the woman he actually loved over the wife waiting down the hall on our anniversary.

I took a step back, my gaze caught my own reflection in the mirror opposite the door.

The darkness couldn't hide it, all the burn scars that were stuck to my face and neck. It was a curse, a constant reminder of my tragedy.

Before the accident, I had a beautiful face too, now, I was just a ghost haunting this mansion. A tear drop escaped my eye as I pulled up the hair on my shoulder, forcing myself to look at my ruined flesh.

The sudden click of the mouse from inside snapped me back to reality and at once, the chair turned swiftly and the sound of his zipper followed his approaching footsteps.

I quickly wiped the tear, and hid my shoulder with my hair, pretending to just be walking past as the door swung open.

He stepped out, adjusting his cuffs and looked composed as ever, his tailored shirt straightened perfectly. When his dark eyes finally landed on me, they immediately softened.

It was flawless gentleness, the warmth that made outsiders envy me.

"Merit?” He gently called. “What are you doing here? Were you looking for me?” he asked, his voice low and warm.

"Just passing by," I murmured, keeping my face slightly turned away, letting my hair act as a shield.

He took a quick step and closed the distance between us. Slowly, he reached out. His fingers brushed aside the hair I used to hide myself, his touch perfectly tender as it moved over the edge of my scar.

"Is it hurting today?" he asked, his brow furrowing with genuine concern.

He was my caretaker, not my lover and that question was a product of guilt, not the passion he feigned. I could see right through it.

"No," I replied at once, my voice barely a whisper.

He smiled softly, caressing my face gently with his thumb.

"Good. Today’s our anniversary, after all. Come, I have a surprise for you, it's in the sitting room."

I didn't say a word, I just followed him down the stairs to the sitting room. One the table was a gift box, wrapped in red ribbon. I forced a smile, but I didn't need to open it to know what was inside.

It was from the same boutique, the same brand he bought for every holiday, every birthday, every anniversary. But none of them I could wear.

“Go on, check it out,” he urged me, his voice peaceful and soothing as ever.

I slowly lifted the lid and inside lay a stunning, backless gown. The dress was beautiful and small, definitely not something I could wear. It looked exactly like something the woman on his computer would wear.

I scoffed dryly and he quickly raised an eyebrow, leaning in closer with care.

“You don't like it? I can get another one…”

"Thank you," I managed to say, carefully closing the box, patting his shoulder gently. "It's beautiful."

I leaned in for a kiss, but he skillfully dodged and hugged me instead.

I didn't say another word and that night, we lay in the same oversized bed, distanced from each other. He was fast asleep, his breathing even.

And all I could do was stare at the ceiling, the memories clawing angrily at me. Six years ago, he was a broken man. His high school sweetheart had gone abroad and abandoned him. He spent his days drowning in whiskey and ruining the image of the perfect CEO he was meant to be. I had loved him secretly, from a distance, never dreaming our worlds would collide, until the night of the graduation party.

I still remembered the exact smell of the smoke, the heat. I clearly remembered seeing him struggling and heavily drunk as the flames grew. While everyone ran out, I ran in.

The fire took everything. It took my skin, my pride, my beauty. It stole my debut as the lead in the biggest musical of the decade. The next day, I was in a hospital, wrapped in bandages, and listened to the news of my replacement becoming a brutal reality and standing in the spotlight that was meant for me.

He quit drinking after that and out of overwhelming guilt and for appearance sake, he married his savior. He gave me a black card, this mansion, and absolute gentleness. But he never gave me his heart. In six years, he had never once taken me to a public social event. I was a secret he kept locked away, polished with money and pity.

I turned my head to look at my phone on the nightstand and the screen lit up with an unread email.

“From: Teatro di Roma”

“Subject: Vocal Coaching Invitation - Final Offer”

It was a dream come true, one shot to reclaim my voice, even if I couldn't show my face.

I stared at his face while he slept, he didn't love me, he never would. The evidence was right there on his screen and also hanging in my closet.

Quietly, I picked up my phone and typed a single word in reply to the theater.

Accepted.

The flight was in thirty days, so that meant this marriage had exactly one month left.

The next morning, the house was quiet as usual. From the top of the stairs, I overheard him speaking to the housekeeper in the kitchen.

"I won't be home for dinner tonight," he said smoothly, wearing his suit jacket. "Don't wait up."

As soon as the front door clicked shut behind him, a sharp ringing shattered the silence. It was my phone.

My daily vocal warm up alarm. A routine I had adapted and maintained just to get through the endless hours waiting for a husband who was never really there.

I swiped it off and as it cleared, a notification popped up. A friend request on a social media app from an anonymous account.

Hmmm.

Frowning, I hesitantly clicked accept.

The profile had no picture, but a new post had just been uploaded. A video that was posted last evening, just a few hours before he came home.

Curiosity gnawed at me and I couldn't help it. My finger slowly reached for it and tapped play.

The heavy bass of a club filled my phone's speaker and a huge banner hung across the VIP section.

“Welcome Back.”

There, in the center of the crowd, laughing and glowing, was the woman from his monitor. And standing right beside her, holding her coat with so much care and staring at her with pure admiration and raw warmth that he had never for one directed at his own wife…was my husband.

The video ended and I set the phone down. The countdown had officially begun.

Thirty days.