Zara stayed crumpled on the floor for over twenty minutes.
Just a month ago, Conrad had held her on the couch, brushing soft kisses across her brow. "Zara, you're all I need in this life. My heart is only so big—it can’t hold anyone else."
But now, he said she was the one who couldn’t tolerate others.
Her lower back throbbed in pain, but she forced herself to the hospital, got checked out, picked up medication and had just left when a group of nurses hurried past her.
“They say Mr. Fowler's handing out cash in the patient wing! His wife fell down the stairs and refuses to take her meds. Whoever gets her to take them wins a million bucks. Let’s give it a shot!”
“That’s not all! I heard he flew in the top surgeons in the country. I just want to see the drama.”
Someone bumped into Zara. She nearly fell but was caught just in time by the doctor who had examined her earlier.
“Oh, it’s you. With pain like that, no one came with you? What kind of family lets you go through this alone?”
She wanted to say her husband was with another woman. But the words wouldn’t come out.
That night, she returned home, lifted her shirt and saw her back covered in deep purple bruises. She tried to apply the medicine herself, but her hands couldn’t reach all the right spots.
She was still struggling when the door suddenly opened.
“You’re home? Wait—you’re hurt?” Conrad’s brows furrowed when he saw the marks on her back.
Before she could speak, he walked over and took the medicine from her.
“How could you be so careless? I told you—leave things like this to me…”
His gentle tone was so familiar, it caught her off guard. Her throat tightened.
Conrad realized he’d slipped up.
Just then, a maid called out from the hallway, "Mr. Fowler, Miss Lawson's bags are packed. She’s waiting. She said she’s craving some pork rib soup."
Only then did Zara snap out of it. He wasn’t here for her. He was picking up clothes for Wrena.
She bit down hard on her lip.
“Now that you’ve got the medicine on,” he said, “can you move? If so, go make some rib soup. Wrena’s hurt because you pushed her—she needs something nourishing. And your soup is her favorite.”
Zara stared at him, stunned.
Her blood ran cold. Even her fingers trembled.
“You want me… to make soup… for that mistress?”
“She’s not a homewrecker,” Conrad said, annoyed. "Don’t push me, Zara. Otherwise, you’ll regret for what I’m about to have done."
If Wrena is not a mistress, then what is she?!
Zara wanted to shout it out.
But she knew—her status, her wealth, even her pride, all came from Conrad.
If he wanted to take it all away, she couldn’t stop him.
Her parents’ fate was proof enough.
She spent three hours cooking that soup. Her back ached like it was being stabbed with needles. She could barely stay on her feet.
When she finally handed the soup over, Conrad said, “See? If you’d just done it, you could’ve spared yourself all the troubles.”
“Don’t worry. Divorce isn’t an option in my family. As long as you behave, no one can take your place.”
The roar of a sports car engine echoed through the villa.
Just like three years ago, when he brought a hundred luxury cars to take her home from the island.
But this time, he left her behind—and went running to someone else.
Zara returned to her room in silence.
She had lived in that house for three years. Every inch of it carried her presence.
The painting in the living room was her favorite. The garden was filled with blue hydrangeas she loved. Her scent lingered in every corner of the bedroom.
Over the next three days, she hired workers to tear out every flower.
She sold every luxury brand from the walk-in closet Conrad had built for her.
She threw out all the perfumes, trinkets and antiques.
The Fowler Family might have never had a divorce.
But no one ever said she couldn’t become a widow.
“Conrad… when you faked your amnesia to fool me, did you ever stop to think what it feels like to be the one who’s been fooled?”
