I held the funeral in secret at a small, remote parlor.
It was the only way to give Benjamin a moment of peace. I refused to let his death become another sensational headline plastered across the tabloids.
His urn went into my suitcase. His favorite portrait, too.
My eyes were dry.
I had no tears left to shed.
Throughout my marriage to Joel, the internet had branded me a mistress, a gold digger, a parasite. They doxxed me, dug up every detail of my past, and harassed the design studio I had built from the ground up until it went bankrupt.
For a long time, the trauma blocked my creativity completely.
But when the hate was at its peak, Joel had posted a photo of our marriage certificate and a diamond ring, captioning it with a promise to shield me.
I thought it was love.
But that grand proposal—was that just another exclusive scoop he handed to Naomi?
I didn't want to think about it, but masochism drove me to check my phone. I wanted to see how Naomi reported the accident.
Instead, the front page was dominated by a different photo.
**"Mistress Finally Triumphs? Hong Kong Scion Accompanies Childhood Sweetheart for Prenatal Checkup."**
The photo was blurry, but undeniable. Joel was studying a prenatal ultrasound report with intense focus.
He had never come to a single checkup with me.
When we found out Benjamin's gender, I had excitedly tried to show him the ultrasound. He hadn't even looked up from his laptop, merely patting my hand.
"Boy or girl, I like them all," he had said, his tone perfunctory.
That evening, Joel came home with a massive bouquet of roses.
"Wife, I'm sorry." He walked into the bedroom, his voice soft. "I was too busy today, and I was harsh with you."
He sat on the edge of the bed. "Those troublemaking paparazzi—I've dealt with them."
"But you have to understand, this is training. For you and the baby. As a Mason heir, he would have had to get used to the spotlight eventually."
*But he will never grow up.*
I forced the corners of my mouth up into something resembling a smile. "No need."
Joel frowned, confused by my lack of gratitude. "It's just two photos, Anna. Are you really still angry? You're my wife. You need to be tougher than this."
My voice came out hollow.
"Forget it, Joel. We aren't built for this honor. I'm tired. Find someone else."
He gripped my shoulders, a flash of panic flitting through his eyes.
"What do you mean, 'forget it'? I said I'd punish the paparazzi. If you're scared, I'll assign more bodyguards to you, okay?"
Years ago, when the media slandered my parents, hounding them until their business collapsed, Joel had comforted me with these exact words.
He comforted me right up until the paparazzi chased their car off a bridge and into the sea.
Joel had stayed by my side for two months after the funeral.
I never suspected that he was the one holding the match that lit the fire.
Looking at his feigned concern now, a dull ache throbbed in my chest.
He stepped into his study to take a call. Through the door, I heard him scolding someone.
"Who told you to be so blatant? Get those reporters out of sight—don't push her too hard yet."
My face stayed blank.
It didn't matter what he was planning. I wouldn't be around to see it.
His tone shifted, becoming gentle. He was talking to Naomi.
Tomorrow was the company's new product launch. Naomi was hosting.
He coached her patiently on how to handle the cameras, reassuring her that she could leave the stage the moment she felt uncomfortable.
When *I* gave my first interview as Mrs. Mason, I mispronounced one word.
To "train" me, Joel forced me to stand under the strobe lights for twelve hours straight.
A dry laugh escaped my lips. I wiped a stray tear and continued packing my meager belongings.
The gown I had designed for the launch—a piece I spent half a month perfecting—went straight into the trash.
