Chapter one : Scarlett Hayes

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.

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