WHAT WIVES AREN’T SUPPOSED TO KNOW.

Anais didn’t sleep that night.

She lay awake long after the lights went out, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the sound of a man who never came home. She wasn’t surprised anymore. Cassian came and went like time itself—never asking, never checking, never needing anyone to notice.

But she noticed.

She always did.

And she hated that part of herself the most—the part that still noticed.

By morning, her eyes burned and her coffee tasted bitter,just like her life did. She wrapped herself in a plain gray sweater and left the house like someone escaping something private. The elevator down to the street felt like a tunnel. The city looked cold, even with the sun up.

At the office, she kept her head down. She wasn’t in the mood to be stared at like a museum piece.

But the moment she stepped into the small glass conference room, there he was.

Luca Vale.

She hadn’t seen him since the wedding. Well—her wedding. He’d danced with three women and toasted with five. He’d winked at her that night and said, “If Cassian ever forgets your worth, remember I saw it first.”

She hadn’t liked the way it sounded even then.

“Look who’s back from the dead,” he said now, arms stretched across the back of a chair.

Anais didn’t smile. “You’re early.”

“You’re late.”

“I’m exactly on time.”

He laughed and stood, offering her a seat like he owned the room.

“This isn’t a reunion, Luca. What do you want?”

He handed her a manila folder. Inside were campaign notes, projections, and a branding proposal. But more than that—her name.

The pitch wasn’t subtle: Anais Vale, the woman who came back. The woman who rebuilt. The face of redemption.

“They want me to be the front?” she asked, flipping through the pages.

“Face, heart, and backstory. You check all the boxes.”

“Why?”

“Because it sells,” he said flatly. “The board doesn’t care how real it is. They just want something pretty that makes the stock price feel good.”

“And what about Cassian?”

He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “He signed off.”

That stopped her. “He what?”

“Not verbally. But silence is his version of consent.”

Anais stared at the folder. Her hands felt like they didn’t belong to her.

She went straight to the tower.

Cassian’s office looked the same as always—blinding skyline, polished surfaces, a man behind a desk who could command wars with a glance.

He didn’t flinch when she walked in.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

She dropped the folder on his desk without sitting. “You gave them my name? You gave them me?.”

Cassian closed the file slowly. “You wanted to work.”

“I didn’t ask to be offered up like a sacrifice.”

His voice was calm. “It’s just branding.”

“No,” she snapped. “It’s my life. My losses. My face. You don’t get to rewrite my pain just because it fits your narrative.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at her.

And then, softly, “You think I don’t carry it too?”

Her throat tightened. She hated how quiet his voice got when it was real. She hated that it still reached her.

“You didn’t even ask me,” she said.

“I thought it might give you purpose.”

“Don’t confuse usefulness with healing, Cassian”she seethed.

Cassian stood, walked around the desk, and stopped just short of her. Not touching. Just standing there.

“I didn’t know how to help you,” he said. “I still don’t. I only know how to build things that can’t fall apart.”

She looked up at him. “Then stop building me into something I’m not.”

They stood there for a long beat. Just breathing.

Then she said, “I want to say no.”

Cassian’s jaw tensed. “And will you?”

She didn’t answer.

She did the interview.

She didn’t want to. But something told her if she didn’t speak now, someone else would write her story for her—and she couldn’t afford to be a myth again.

The studio was white, clinical. A couch, a camera and a journalist who smiled a bit too much.

The questions started simple.”What brought you back? How are you adjusting? What’s it like working with your husband again?“

She smiled where she was supposed to,nodded and stayed polite.

Then the reporter leaned forward and asked, “Why did you leave the first time?”

Silence.

Anais didn’t blink.

“I left because I didn’t know who I was anymore,” she said. “I had a title, a ring, a house—but no voice. I was grieving, and no one asked what I needed. Not even the man I married.”

The reporter froze.

Cassian, seated off-camera, said nothing.

“I thought leaving would hurt less than staying,” she added. “It didn’t. But at least it was mine.”

The woman across from her cleared her throat. “And why did you come back?”

Anais glanced toward the edge of the room. She didn’t look at Cassian but she could feel his cold eyes on her.

“I came back,” she said, “because I’m not finished being heard.”

They didn’t speak on the ride home.

Cassian kept his eyes forward the entire time. The driver didn’t say a word. The city rolled past them like it didn’t care either way.

At the house, Anais went straight to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water. Her hands were shaking.

Cassian came in a moment later.

“You spoke well,” he said.

“That wasn’t for you.”

“I know.”

She turned. “Do you even remember the last time you said something real to me?”

Cassian looked tired. Not physically. Just worn. Like someone holding up a ceiling that was too heavy for too long.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to fix it,” Anais replied. “I’m asking you to see it. To see me.”

He nodded once, slow. “I do.”

And maybe for the first time in a long time—she believed him.