"Sis, have you lost your mind? That was Aiden Stephens!"
Glen wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, still shaken. "If you've made an enemy of him, our whole family is done for!"
I looked down at the blood on my ankle. It had already dried, crusted into an ugly scab.
"I don't know him."
My voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.
Glen blinked, then let out a breath of relief. "God, you scared me. I thought you were staring at him because you'd gone into shock or something." He shook his head. "Sis, don't come to places like this anymore. I can get myself back to school."
His eyes fell to the wound on my foot, guilt flickering across his face. "Does it hurt?"
"No."
Compared to the gaping hole in my chest, this was nothing.
After dropping Glen off, I returned to the marital home I shared with Aiden.
A villa nestled halfway up the mountain. Serene. Elegant. Every corner breathed tranquility.
Just like the image Aiden projected to the world.
Cold. Ascetic. Untouchable.
Who would ever guess that this saint played dirtier than anyone behind closed doors?
I sat on the sofa, staring at the calligraphy hanging on the wall—brushstrokes Aiden had painted himself.
"Inner Peace."
The irony was suffocating.
Aiden and I had been secretly married for three years.
He was the one who'd proposed.
Back then, he'd braved a downpour just to buy me chestnut cake, coming home soaked to the bone.
He'd fumbled through making me brown sugar tea when my period cramps hit, clumsy but trying.
He'd said: "Miranda, I might not be able to give you the grandest wedding in the world. But I can give you all of my love."
I believed him.
I thought I was special.
I thought I was the only one who'd ever pulled him down from his pedestal.
Now I see the truth. I was nothing but a diversion in his boring life. A docile, obedient maid who came whenever he called.
No—not even a maid.
At least a maid wouldn't have a champagne glass hurled at her feet in public, wouldn't be spat at as "a blind little nobody."
Three in the morning.
The front door swung open.
I hadn't turned on the lights. I just sat there in the darkness like a ghost.
Aiden walked in, trailing cold night air behind him.
As he drew closer, the stench hit me—alcohol and something cloyingly sweet. Perfume.
Mon Paris.
The same fragrance that girl at the bar had been wearing.
Aiden seemed surprised to find me still awake. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, striding over and reaching out to hold me.
"Why are you sitting in the dark? I thought you said you'd gone to bed."
His voice carried the perfect note of jet-lagged exhaustion. Flawless performance.
I shifted away, dodging his arms.
"Just woke up."
I flicked on the lamp. Harsh white light flooded the living room.
It also illuminated the smear of red lipstick on his collar.
Aiden followed my gaze downward. He saw the mark.
He didn't even flinch.
"Some fan got too close at the airport." He unknotted his tie with practiced ease and tossed it onto the sofa, his tone bored. "You know how it is. Some of them are... intense."
Once, I would have believed him.
I would have ached for him, taken his shirt to wash, made him hangover soup.
Now? I almost laughed.
"Is that so?"
I let my lips curl, then pointed at his shirt cuff—at the empty hole where a cufflink should have been.
"Then I suppose a fan stole this too?"
It was a sapphire cufflink. I'd saved three months of freelance pay to buy it for his birthday.
At the bar tonight, I watched that girl take it between her lips, holding it there as she gazed up at him.
