The toast was cold by the time he came downstairs.

I had woken up early, again, to make sure everything was perfect. The eggs were done just the way he liked—soft yolk, browned edges. The coffee was strong. His black blazer, freshly ironed, hung by the door. I didn’t need a thank you. Not anymore. I just needed him to notice.

He didn’t.

Adrian sat down at the table, his crisp white shirt smooth against the morning light, and began to eat without a word. Bite, sip, chew, repeat. It was almost mechanical now.

I leaned against the counter across the room, my fingers curled around my mug. The warmth had long faded, but I didn’t move. My wedding ring tapped softly against the ceramic with every shift of my hand. Click. Click. Click. I think it was the only sound I really heard.

“I’ll be late,” he said as he stood, adjusting his sleeves with precision. “Get dressed early. The party tonight is important.”

And just like that, he was gone.

No kiss. No goodbye. Not even a glance.

The door shut behind him with a finality I felt in my chest.

I stayed still, staring at the empty chair. The silence swelled around me like fog, settling in the corners of the house. I used to love mornings. Now they were just long stretches of quiet where I remembered everything I wasn’t.

I didn’t move for a while. Just stood there in the kitchen, holding that lukewarm mug like it had something to offer me. Maybe warmth. Maybe comfort. Neither came.

Eventually, I rinsed the dishes and wiped the counters down—again. I swept even though nothing needed sweeping. Folded the throw blanket on the couch that hadn’t been touched since yesterday. Polished the glass vase that hadn’t held fresh flowers in months.

The house was spotless. It always was.

Three bedrooms, two floors, vaulted ceilings, and cold marble floors that echoed when I walked barefoot. Expensive silence. That’s what it felt like. A house too big for two people who barely spoke. Every room was beautifully designed, but it all felt… hollow. Like a model home. Like we were pretending to live here.

I wandered up to the bedroom, his tie still draped over the chair from last night. My fingers brushed it lightly. Four years of marriage, and now it felt like I was living with a well-dressed stranger.

We used to laugh. I remember that. Or maybe I just think I do. The lines between memory and wishful thinking blur more these days.

Now, it's just schedules, reminders, and appearances. A calendar full of events and a closet full of clothes, but nothing real. Nothing warm.

Sometimes I wonder if he ever looks at me and sees the girl he married—or just the woman who keeps the house clean and the party outfit pressed.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m still in this marriage… or just haunting it.

The house had been quiet all day, but the kind of quiet that hummed with pressure. Like something waiting to crack.

I spent hours pretending I had something to do—dusting things that didn’t need dusting, rearranging perfume bottles on my dresser. I stared at my dress longer than I should have before finally slipping into it. Deep blue. Off-shoulder. Expensive enough to impress his colleagues. Just enough skin to remind them I was still worth looking at.

I was still tugging at the zipper when the front door slammed shut downstairs.

“Scarlet!”

His voice cut through the house like a blade. “Are you ready? We’re already late!”

Panic swelled in my chest. I couldn’t reach the zipper. My arms strained behind me, fingers scrambling to catch the tiny metal tab that refused to move an inch higher. I gave up, grabbed a silk scarf from the chair and wrapped it around my bare back, tying it like it was part of the outfit. It wasn’t. But he wouldn’t notice either way.

Heels. Lipstick. Purse.

Go.

I descended the stairs with shaky grace. He was standing near the door, keys in hand, jaw clenched. His eyes scanned me once—quick, sharp, cold.

“Finally.”

That was all he said before opening the door and walking out. I followed. Like always.

The car ride was silent.

Streetlights passed like ghosts. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other scrolling something on his phone. Probably emails. Probably something more important than the woman sitting next to him.

I stared out the window, feeling the hum of the engine under my heels, the thin fabric of my dress pressed against the leather seat. I had nothing to say. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to be heard anymore.

Just for a moment, I closed my eyes and pretended I was anywhere else.

Not his wife.

Not going to another event where I'd smile on cue.

Just... someone else.

Someone free.

The ballroom was nothing short of dazzling—golden lights cascading from massive chandeliers, champagne flutes catching the light like crystals, and laughter that rang too high and too polished.

Everywhere I looked, there were people dripping in wealth. Women with perfect hair and red-stained lips, gowns hugging their curves like second skin. Their heels clicked softly across marble floors, matching purses clutched close like prized possessions. And beside them, their rich husbands—smug smiles, expensive watches, and eyes scanning the room for someone more interesting.

Adrian handed me a glass of wine without a glance, his phone already in his other hand. I took it silently, the stem cool against my fingertips. My reflection shimmered in the glass. Lipstick still perfect. Smile still intact. Ring still heavy.

People swarmed. Strangers I didn't know, pretending they knew me.

"You’re even more stunning in real life."

"Adrian is lucky."

"You’re glowing, Mrs. Hayes."

I smiled. Nodded. Said thank you. Not one of them noticed the hollowness sitting behind my ribs.

I placed the wine on a passing tray, its weight gone in an instant.

“I need the restroom,” I murmured to no one in particular and slipped out of the buzzing room.

The hallway felt colder, quieter—like I could finally breathe.

The restroom was silent, cool, a breath of calm after the noise and fakery of the ballroom. I walked slowly toward the mirror, heels clicking softly on the polished tiles, and leaned against the marble counter. My fingers curled around its edge as I finally let myself breathe.

I watched my reflection for a moment. My makeup still flawless. My lips still painted. My eyes… tired. My ring glittered under the soft light, a reminder of everything I was supposed to be.

A toilet flushed behind me.

I didn’t turn—just adjusted the scarf draped over my bare back and tried to exhale quietly. But the moment the door creaked open, something in the air shifted. Heavy. Electric.

Then I saw him.Not directly.In the mirror.

A tall figure stepping out, pausing behind me. The reflection caught him fully—and I couldn’t look away.

His black suit was immaculate. Pressed to perfection. But his presence was anything but polished.

Rough edges. Controlled chaos. Charisma that didn’t ask—it commanded.

His dark eyes locked with mine through the mirror—and for a second, I forgot how to breathe. Forgot why I was even there.

Then he smiled.

God.That smile.

It wasn’t soft.It wasn’t kind.

It was sinful. Possessive. Like he had already claimed something that wasn’t his to take.

My heart stuttered.

I looked away quickly, trying to calm the storm inside me. Pretending to rummage through my bag, my fingers blindly searching for something—anything—to keep my hands busy.

And that’s when it happened.

My scarf slipped from my shoulder, falling in a soft whisper to the floor, baring the curve of my back to the room.

To him.I froze.

Because I could still feel his gaze, like a brand pressed to skin. No words spoken. No touch needed.

And yet, I felt entirely undone.

I didn’t come to the party for him.

Not exactly.

But fate’s a cruel little thing when you give it the right kind of reason.

The ballroom was dripping with old money and new perfume. Too loud. Too polished. Every man wore the same tailored arrogance; every woman glimmered like she’d been dipped in diamonds and expectation. I hated places like this. Which made them perfect for what I had to do.

My eyes scanned the room, not for Adrian Hayes—though eventually, it would be him—but for her.

Scarlett Hayes.

I’d seen her before. From a distance. In photographs. Whispers. File folders.

Beautiful. Elegant. Sad.

The wife of the man who ruined everything.

But no amount of intel prepared me for the real thing.

She was standing beside him—glass of wine in hand, lips painted to match her name, body wrapped in a blue dress that did things to my thoughts I didn’t have the patience to censor.

He didn’t look at her. Not once. Just handed her the drink like she was some kind of trophy he’d grown tired of dusting.

I didn’t approach then. That wasn’t the moment.

The moment would find me.

So I waited. Loitered at the edge of the party like smoke—unseen, yet everywhere. Waited until I saw her place the glass down, smooth her dress, and quietly slip away from the noise.

My feet followed long before I made the choice.

She moved like someone trying not to be seen—but too effortlessly beautiful to be ignored. Even her silence was art. I stayed back, slow, deliberate. A ghost in black.

The restroom hallway was quiet, the air colder here—almost reverent. Like the world itself was holding its breath.

I pushed the door open just as someone else left, and stepped inside.

There she was.

She stood in front of the mirror, fingers on the marble counter, her head slightly bowed. Like she needed the reflection to remind herself she was still here. Still real. Still holding it together.

She didn’t see me. Not at first.

But when her eyes lifted, they caught mine in the mirror—and time faltered.

Our eyes locked.

No flinch.

No hello.

Just a moment of burning silence so heavy it might’ve cracked the floor beneath us.

She was breathtaking.

But not in the obvious way. Not just the lips, or the skin, or the body.

It was the loneliness. The quiet ache. The soft desperation she tried to hide under lipstick and grace.

She wore sadness like silk. Beautiful. And barely stitched together.

I smiled. I didn’t mean to.It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t kind.

It was a promise.It said, I see you.

Not the polished wife. Not the Mrs. Hayes everyone admired.

You.

She looked away fast, pretending to rummage through her bag, but I didn’t stop watching.I wanted her to feel it.

That gaze. That pull.

And then it happened.

The scarf slipped from her shoulder.

A bare back. Pale. Smooth. Vulnerable.

My jaw clenched.

God, she was—

No.Not yet.Not here.

But soon.

Because I hadn’t expected her to look like that. To feel like that. To shake something in me that had long since turned cold.

Adrian Hayes didn’t deserve her.

But I didn’t come here to save her either.

I came here to ruin him.

And now?

Maybe I’d do both.

She moved fast—too fast. The moment the scarf slipped, she caught it in trembling fingers and pressed it against her back. But not before I saw the flush that crept across her cheeks. A shade of red so raw it felt like a confession.

She was embarrassed.

And somehow, that made her even more devastating.

I stepped closer, slowly, like a man drawn to fire knowing he’d burn.

“Let me help you,” I said, voice low, calm, deliberate.

She didn’t even look at me. “No need,” she replied, quiet and sharp, pulling the scarf tighter like a shield.

But I didn’t stop.

I took one more step and she froze. My fingers found the zipper at the base of her back, still halfway undone. Her skin was warm beneath my touch—soft, smooth, and tempting in ways I hadn’t expected.

I moved the zipper slowly.

Purposefully.

Letting my fingertips trail lightly along her spine, grazing the fragile places between bones. I felt her flinch—just slightly. Her breath hitched, chest rising like she’d just come up for air. But she didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

Her scent was intoxicating—jasmine, vanilla, and something uniquely her. I could feel the tension humming off her body like static. A woman with a husband, wearing a dress he hadn’t bothered to zip. A woman being touched by a stranger.

No.Not a stranger.

Me.

And yet… she didn’t stop me.

The zipper reached the top.

I let my fingers linger—just a beat too long—before stepping back.

She turned around fast, stuffing the scarf into her purse, eyes everywhere but on me.

“Thanks for the help,” she muttered, her voice tight, breathless.

I didn’t say a word. Just watched her walk out.

Watched that silk blue dress sway with every step.

She had Adrian Hayes.

She had a mansion, a name, a ring.

And yet her dress was still unzipped when I found her.

What does that tell you?

She was his on paper.

But for the first time, I wondered just how easily she could become mine.

The soft echo of my footsteps faded as I stepped out of the hallway and back into the golden chaos of the ballroom. The music had shifted—slower now. Romantic. Meant for dancing. The lights had dimmed just slightly, casting everything in a warm, honeyed glow. Couples had already taken to the floor, their movements effortless, polished, rehearsed.

Hands on waists. Hands on shoulders. Bodies swaying like they belonged together.

My eyes found her instantly.

Scarlet.

Standing near one of the marble columns, her silhouette framed in candlelight, that same scarf wrapped around her bare back like a secret barely clinging to her skin. Her lips still bore the ghost of the words she never said back there. I could see it—the way her fingers gripped the stem of her wine glass just a little too tightly. Like she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

And then I saw him.

Adrian Hayes. Her husband.

Standing beside her like a well-cut statue—present, but entirely detached. He wasn’t looking at her. Wasn’t reaching for her. Wasn’t even acknowledging the music, let alone asking her to dance.

Everyone else swayed in elegant rhythm.

But not them.

Scarlet didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She just stood there, a lonely beauty in a room full of illusions.

It was almost insulting.

I started walking toward them, slowly, each step measured. I wasn’t going to rush this. Not when I’d waited so long.

When my gaze locked with Adrian’s, I saw it. The flicker. The recognition. It was quick—gone in an instant—but it was there.

Good.

I stopped just in front of them. Close enough that he could feel it. The tension. The weight of my presence.

She looked between us, her brows slightly furrowed, lips parted. Confused. Curious.

Adrian stiffened beside her. His grip on the glass tightened subtly.

I smiled.

Polished. Calm. But laced with something darker—something only he would recognize.

I extended my hand toward him, my voice smooth and unhurried.

“Adrian Hayes.”

He hesitated.

Then slowly, like his pride wouldn't allow him to retreat, he reached out and took my hand.

Firm grip.Locked eyes.No words.

Just the quiet crackle of a war neither of us had to declare.

And beside us, Scarlet watched. Frozen. Her breath shallow. Her eyes flicking between our faces, trying to make sense of what this moment meant.

She didn’t know.

Not yet.

But soon.

I let go of Adrian’s hand and took a small step back, my eyes falling on her again.

"Scarlett," I said, with a nod and a smile that didn’t match the storm behind my ribs.

Her name tasted like danger on my tongue.

This was just the beginning.

The silence in the car stretched like a wire between us—tight and threatening to snap. I didn't say a word. Neither did he. But I could feel the tension seething off Adrian like heat.

As soon as we stepped through the door, I bent to slip off my heels. My toes ached. My earrings were next, unclasped with tired fingers. I had just reached for the zipper at the back of my dress when I heard his steps—fast, sharp—right behind me.

Before I could turn, his hands grabbed my arms and shoved me backward. I stumbled onto the bed, landing hard. The back of my head nearly struck the bed frame. I blinked, disoriented, my breath catching in my throat.

He was breathing heavily. Eyes wild. Jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?” His voice was low, trembling with fury. " How dare he talk to you"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t and I didn't know.

His name echoed in my mind. The man in the mirror. The smile. The touch.

I sat up slowly, bracing myself. But Adrian was already pulling at the buttons of his shirt—ripping them open like they were suffocating him. He didn’t even take off his watch. He reached for the light and plunged the room into darkness.

Then he climbed onto the bed.

My body went rigid. I wasn’t scared. Not exactly. I was used to this. The sudden turns. The nights that started with silence and ended in something I didn’t consent to but never had the energy to fight.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just lay there, staring into the dark, counting my own breaths.

One.

Two.

Three.

The weight of him wasn’t what crushed me. It was everything else. The life I once wanted. The promises that rotted with time.

Four years of marriage, and this was what remained.

The room was still. The world was quiet. But inside me, something cracked a little more.

He never noticed. He never asked. He never cared.

And maybe… maybe that’s when I realized I wasn’t numb anymore.

I was angry.

And maybe that was a start.

The sun rose like it always did.

And like I always did, I was up before it could warm the windows.

The kitchen smelled like eggs and toast. The coffee brewed with its familiar bitterness. My steps were slow—each one a reminder of the night before. I winced as I leaned over the counter, the ache settling in my bones like old weather.

Adrian came downstairs, perfectly dressed. Not a word. Not even a glance. He ate in silence, the toast crunching under his teeth while the coffee vanished down his throat in practiced gulps. He didn’t notice the way I limped, didn’t see how I kept shifting on my feet to avoid the pain.

He never noticed anything.

“Don’t forget dinner with Carter this weekend,” he said as he grabbed his coat.

I nodded.

Then he was gone.

No kiss. No goodbye. Just the sound of the door clicking shut, like always.

And I was left in the echo of our perfect, broken routine.

I grabbed the mop and bucket like a reflex—like my body knew what to do even when my mind was elsewhere. The tiles were spotless, but I cleaned them anyway.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

But my thoughts weren’t in the kitchen.

They were in the restroom.

With him.That smile.

God, that smile.

The way his eyes met mine in the mirror like he already knew me—like he saw right through the painted face and pressed dress and caught something I didn’t even know still existed.

His touch had barely lasted seconds. Just a zip. Just a graze of his fingertips against my back.

But it burned. Still. It left trails of fire beneath my skin, like he had branded me with something dangerous.

I didn’t know his name.

Didn’t know where he came from or why he looked at me like that.

But I remembered the way his voice sounded when he said, “Let me help you.” Low. Smooth. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… certain.

I had goosebumps now, just remembering.

And then—reality struck, cold and sharp.

I was married.

To Adrian.

Adrian, who hadn’t touched me with care in years. Adrian, who hadn’t asked if I was okay. Who hadn’t wondered what I wanted. Who saw me every day and never looked.

I dropped the mop with a small thud. My fingers curled tightly around the counter.

What was I doing?

What was I thinking?

I was a wife. Bound in vows and diamond rings and lifeless routines.

And yet…

Why did a stranger’s gaze feel more intimate than four years of marriage?

Why did my heart race remembering him… when it barely beat beside Adrian?

I pressed my hand to my chest. My breath came out shaky.

This wasn’t me.

Or maybe—this was me.

The girl I buried long ago. The one who once dreamed of love. Of tenderness. Of something real.

And maybe she had stirred last night.

For the first time in forever… she was awake.

Dinner was ready by seven.

Nothing fancy. Just enough.

The soup simmered gently on the stove, steam curling like ghosts. The roasted chicken sat perfectly on the plate, golden and warm. The vegetables were seasoned with care, out of habit more than love.

I had already showered, wrapped myself in the warmest towel I could find, and let the water rinse off everything it could—pain, ache, memory. But the weight remained.

Now, curled up on the couch in an oversized tee, I let a soft show play in the background. Some sitcom I’d seen before. The laugh track felt distant, like it belonged to someone else’s life.

The front door creaked open.

I straightened.

Footsteps.

I was on my feet before I even thought about it, already moving toward the kitchen. The shift was automatic. Learned.

He followed. Not a word.

He sat down at the table, scrolling through his phone while I served the food. My hands moved quickly—plates, spoons, napkins. I didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at me.

We ate in silence.

The clink of cutlery was the only sound between us.

I glanced up once. His brow was furrowed, like always. Focused. Distant. Married to everything but me.

I cleared my throat gently. “The Carter event is this weekend, right?”

He didn’t look up. “Yes. Saturday evening.”

Another pause.

Silence.

Back to chewing.

That was it. That was our conversation for the night. One question, one answer, one quiet gulp of water. I watched him for a moment longer, searching his face for something familiar—some flicker of the man I married.

But he was just… Adrian now.

Not mine. Not really.

I looked down at my plate, the food suddenly cold.

I had fed him. Cleaned the house. Wore the dress. Played the role.

And still invisible.

The dinner plates sat half-empty between us. My fork scraped across porcelain, chasing a piece of carrot I wasn’t going to eat. I’d been chewing the same thought for minutes now, and finally, it pushed its way out.

“That man…” I said quietly, my voice barely above a hum. “The one from the ballroom. The one who came up to you… who was he?”

For the first time all evening, Adrian looked up from his food. His jaw stiffened. His eyes, wide for a brief moment, flickered with something unfamiliar—panic? rage?

“An old friend,” he said, far too fast.

“No, he isn’t.” My voice was firmer this time, surprising even me. “I saw the way you looked at him.”

His spoon clattered sharply against the plate as he threw it down. “Mind your own damn business.”

My throat tightened, but I didn’t stop. “I’m your wife, Adrian. I have the right to know.”

He stood slowly, his fists clenched at his sides. “Damien,” he said, jaw locked. “His name is Damien. And he’s not a friend. He’s my worst goddamn enemy.”

His voice was low, dangerous, like the rumble before a storm. I sat still, heart pounding in my ribs, my hands frozen over the table. His grip on the fork was so tight, his knuckles turned white.

Damien.

So that’s his name.

The rest of the night unraveled quickly. He barely touched the food again. Didn’t speak another word to me. He went to bed early, but not quietly. Slammed the bedroom door. Yelled from the other side about how I should’ve kept my mouth shut. How I was prying where I didn’t belong. How I was lucky he hadn’t done worse.

I just stood in the hallway, holding my breath like it might keep the tears down.

Later, I lay beside him, still and small, the gap between us a canyon.

He was asleep. Breathing heavy. Angry even in his rest.

I stared at the ceiling.

I wanted to cry. God, I wanted to.

But what good would it do?

Crying didn’t change anything. It didn’t soften his voice, or the way he looked at me. It didn’t bring back the girl I used to be. It didn’t stop my heart from aching for a man whose name I’d only just learned.

No.

Tears were useless now.

So I didn’t cry.

I just lay there in the dark, quiet and awake, while my husband dreamed, and Damien's name echoed in my head like a secret I wasn't supposed to find.