Scarred by His Betrayal

I stared at the television screen, my fingers clutching the remote so tightly my knuckles turned white. The late-night entertainment show's host spoke with exaggerated excitement, but I barely registered her words. All I could see was my husband—my secret husband—kissing another woman with a passion he hadn't shown me in years.

"The chemistry between Jackson Hayes and Isabella Romano is absolutely electric!" the host gushed. "Sources on set say these two can't keep their hands off each other even when the cameras stop rolling."

The segment cut to behind-the-scenes footage: Jackson's hand resting on Isabella's lower back, her head thrown back in laughter at something he whispered in her ear. His smile—that devastating smile that once belonged only to me—lighting up his entire face.

"Just friends?" the host winked at the camera. "We think not!"

I clicked off the TV and let the remote drop onto the couch beside me. Our West Hollywood apartment fell into silence, the kind that rings in your ears and makes you feel the emptiness of the space around you. Four years of marriage, and this was what I had to show for it: a lonely apartment and entertainment shows speculating about my husband's love life while I sat in the shadows.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jackson.

*Late night on set. Don't wait up.*

No "I love you." No "I miss you." Just another dismissal from the man whose career I had helped build while mine withered on the vine.

I grabbed my purse and jacket. I couldn't stay in this apartment another minute, watching the walls close in around me. The morning sunshine would help. Coffee would help. Anything would be better than sitting here alone with the image of Jackson and Isabella burned into my retinas.

---

The Beverly Hills café buzzed with the morning crowd—industry people taking meetings, tourists hoping to spot celebrities, locals pretending not to notice either group. I sipped my latte at an outdoor table, sunglasses shielding my eyes from both the California sun and potential recognition. Not that anyone would recognize me. Sophia Chen, the woman who gave up her acting dreams to become Jackson Hayes's secret wife and unofficial acting coach.

I scrolled through my phone, wincing at yet another article about Jackson and Isabella's "undeniable connection." The photos showed them leaving a restaurant together, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm—the same arm that hadn't held me in public for four years.

"Excuse me."

I looked up to see a young woman hovering near my table. Her eyes had that familiar gleam of recognition, and my stomach tightened. Had someone finally connected me to Jackson?

"You're her, aren't you?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "You're the one keeping them apart."

"I'm sorry?" I removed my sunglasses, confused.

Her expression shifted, hardening into something cold and unrecognizable. "You're the reason Jackson can't be with Isabella. You're the obstacle."

Before I could process her words, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle. The movement was so quick, so practiced, that I didn't have time to react. The liquid hit my face like fire, and the world exploded into pain.

I screamed, clawing at my burning skin as I fell from my chair. Through the agony, I heard chaos erupting around me—shouts, running footsteps, someone calling for help. Cool water splashed over my face, offering momentary relief before the burning returned with savage intensity.

"Someone call an ambulance!" a voice shouted above me.

"My eyes," I gasped, terror gripping me as tightly as the pain. "I can't see!"

Hands held me steady as I thrashed. A cloth pressed gently against my face, and a woman's voice murmured reassurances I couldn't believe. The last thing I remembered before losing consciousness was the thought that no one would tell Jackson what had happened to me. No one knew I was his wife.

---

"Ms. Chen? Can you hear me?"

I blinked awake in the sterile brightness of a hospital room, the sharp smell of antiseptic filling my nostrils. A doctor stood over me, her expression carefully neutral.

"The acid was diluted," she explained gently. "You're very lucky. Your eyes were spared, but you will have some scarring on your left cheek and neck."

Scarring. The word echoed in my mind as I reached for my phone on the bedside table. I needed to call Jackson. Surely this would be enough to bring him to my side. Surely this would make him see what his secrecy had cost me.

He answered on the fourth ring, his voice distracted. "Sophia? I'm between takes."

"Jackson," I whispered, my throat raw from screaming. "I'm in the hospital. Someone attacked me—acid—they thought I was keeping you and Isabella apart somehow."

A pause. I could hear voices in the background, someone calling his name.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked, his tone clinical, detached.

"The doctor says I'll have scars," I said, tears welling in my eyes. "Can you come? Please, I need you."

Another pause, longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, impatient.

"This is just the price of being my wife, Sophia. You should have expected this."

The words hit me harder than the acid had, burning deeper, scarring places no one could see.

"Jackson, please—"

"I have to go. They're calling me back to set. Take care of yourself."

The line went dead. I stared at the phone in my hand, feeling something inside me shatter completely. Four years of love, sacrifice, and hiding, and this was what I was worth to him. Nothing.

As I lay in that hospital bed, my face burning with pain and my heart turning to ash, I made a silent vow: Jackson Hayes would regret the day he made me invisible.