Then he let his friends size me up with those pitying, mocking stares.
I wiped my tears, turned, and walked out. The first thing I did was cancel the appointment I'd made for Damian with the American specialist.
The receptionist on the other end sounded bewildered.
"Ms. Calloway, you pulled every string imaginable to get Professor Kemistry on board. Why the sudden cancellation?"
I let out a bitter laugh.
"Because my husband made a full recovery. Even fathered a big, healthy baby boy."
That evening, when Damian came home, I nearly lost control. I wanted to lunge at him, tear him apart.
I wanted to grab him by the collar and demand answers. Why? Why would you deceive me like this?
Was it really all because I'd handed Edna a glass of fruit wine?
Four years. Four years of agony—grief bleeding into worry, worry hardening into resignation. I'd made peace with spending the rest of my life by his side in celibacy. And all of it had been a joke.
I watched Damian stroll into the living room as if nothing in the world weighed on him. He pulled me into his arms and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
"Babe, that new technique you learned tonight—why don't we try it? Maybe it'll work this time."
My gaze locked onto his face, searching for even a flicker of guilt, a crack in the composure.
In the end, I clenched my jaw and nodded.
"Fine."
Later that night, Damian showered and stretched out on the bed, bare. I'd changed into what he requested—a scrap of fabric that belonged in a nightclub, not a bedroom.
He arched a brow and gestured for me to get on my hands and knees.
A cold smile tugged at my lips. I studied his expression, followed the line of his gaze—and finally saw it.
On the massive wedding portrait across from the bed, right where his eyes were in the photo, a faint pinprick of light.
It hit me all at once. That was why he'd been so willing to "try" all those times.
Before I could react, Damian grabbed my wrist and pulled me down.
The thought of who might be watching on the other side of that tiny camera—
A wave of nausea slammed into me. I gagged, and everything came up, splattering across Damian's chest.
He recoiled instantly, face twisted in disgust, shoving me away as he leapt off the bed.
"Serena! If you're that repulsed by me, just say so. You don't have to be this revolting about it."
"From tonight on, you sleep in the guest room. No need to force yourself anymore."
Before—the old me—I would have swallowed my pride, coaxed him back, and submitted to the humiliation all over again. Anything to keep trying.
Not this time.
I stood. Looked at him with eyes drained of everything. Said one word—"Fine"—and walked toward the door.
Damian froze.
Then a teacup exploded against the floor behind me.
"Serena! I knew it—you never really loved me. It's only been four years and you're already disgusted with me. Aren't you?"
I stopped mid-step. Turned slowly. The smile on my face was razor-thin and aimed at myself.
"Damian. Doesn't it disgust you?"
He stared at my expression—the quiet, knowing look in my eyes—and something in him faltered. The fury on his face seized up. His gaze darted sideways, unable to hold mine.
"What are you talking about? We're husband and wife. There's nothing disgusting about that."
I slammed the door shut. I couldn't stand the sight of him for one more second.
The man I'd once admired—all that cool, aristocratic composure—was nothing but a mask over something vile and shameless.
The next morning, the moment he left for work, I called a private investigator.
When the PI laid the files and footage in front of me, my legs gave out. I sank into the chair, and for one blinding moment, all I wanted was a knife.
Damian Ashford. How could you do this to another human being? Aren't you afraid of burning in hell?
Fine. Every sin you've committed—I will repay double.
I shut myself inside the house for three days straight. I couldn't face those videos. I couldn't bear to imagine how many people had already seen them.
When Damian finally came home, he found me slumped by the window, reeking of liquor, too drunk to stand.
