1: The Cover

I tilt my head toward the mirror, squinting to see if the makeup covers the red mark. The foundation smooths over the skin fine enough, but somehow, I can still feel it—a prickling reminder right there on my cheekbone. I dab another layer, then another, the brush pressing harder until my jaw clenches.

He didn’t even flinch.

I shake the thought away, pulling back to check my work. The mirror reflects something close enough to perfect, so I force a smile. I pick up my phone and tap into I*******m. This—decorations, outfit, everything—has to mean something. Tonight’s the night.

As the camera goes live, I tilt my face just right, adding a little shimmer of joy to my eyes. I’ve practiced the smile enough that it comes naturally. “Hi, everyone! Welcome back to Estella’s Living,” I chirp, waving. “Tonight’s a special night. It’s our five-year anniversary, and I thought you’d all love a little peek into the surprise I’ve put together for him.”

I adjust the angle to show the beautifully arranged roses, the candles, the elegant table setup—every detail planned down to the last rose petal. “It took weeks to get everything just right, but… he’s worth it,” I add, laughing softly, though it feels hollow.

Hearts and comments flood in. As I reply, reading some aloud, something shifts. The comment bubbles go from cheerful emojis to bursts of text. Confused, I tap on one of the comments: “Is this your way of trying to distract from his dinner with her?”

Her.

I pause, keeping the smile plastered on, and scroll quickly through more comments. Every one of them echoes the same message. Your husband’s cheating on you… Saw the gossip post, is it true? She’s prettier than you; stop embarrassing yourself.

Forcing myself to breathe, I swipe to my texts, ignoring the audience, ignoring the comments and hearts and whatever else they’re saying. I send him a quick message, Where are you? Then another, Did something come up?

Nothing. Silence. And the comments are still coming.

Check Page Six. Are you really gonna ignore this?

With fingers shaking, I pull up the gossip site. And there it is, front and center. The first thing I see is the headline: “Inside Scoop: Marco Harris Caught at Romantic Dinner with Best Friend Amid Anniversary Plans!” A picture of him leaning into Claudia Romanov, his hand resting over hers across a candlelit table. She’s laughing, gazing up at him.

My heart clenches as I scroll, seeing her arm—her thin, graceful hand—resting against her neck. Her blond waves almost cover her face, but not quite. Around her throat is a delicate gold pendant, unmistakably the family heirloom his mother once promised me when I became the mother of her grandchild. The one that was supposed to signify my acceptance into their family. They… gave it to her?

I scroll down further, to a picture of them standing, side by side. Her hand is placed gently on her stomach. My breath stutters, stomach twisting. She can’t be… But the article hints, speculating if she’s pregnant and whether the two of them are starting a family. Each line feels like a knife twisting deeper, suggesting that I might have known all along, that I just played along for attention.

My phone vibrates with a message—finally, from him. But the words freeze my blood.

Stay put. Don’t embarrass yourself.

Don’t embarrass myself? I blink, bile rising in my throat as his words sink in. He’s out there, flaunting her, while I sit here, painted up and dressed like a fool for a celebration he never planned on attending.

The comments are relentless now, every notification a dagger digging deeper. People are laughing. Mocking. Telling me to “take the hint” or “stop pretending.” The smiles, the hearts—they’ve vanished, replaced by sneers and accusations. My fingers curl around the phone, knuckles white. The room around me feels too bright, too empty, every carefully placed decoration a mocking echo of my own foolishness.

Another text from him, colder this time: You’re overacting, like always. We’ll talk when I’m home.

Like always. Like always. The words echo as I stare at the screen, numb. He’s saying it’s my fault, that I’m the problem, that I’m overacting. Even after… after this.

I step back from the camera, ending the livestream mid-sentence. The screen goes dark, leaving my reflection staring back, bare and vulnerable in a way that makeup couldn’t cover

I sat on the floor, my back against the cold edge of our bed, knees hugged to my chest, staring blankly into the darkness. Everything I’d hoped for tonight now felt like a cruel joke.

My gaze drifted over the cake, untouched, mocking me with its perfect icing that read, Happy 5th Anniversary baby.

I glanced at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. I’d already scrolled through the messages I’d sent too many times to count.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m waiting for you.”

“It’s our anniversary. Please, just come home.”

I wanted to believe that he was stuck in traffic, that he’d lost track of time, that he’d walk in any minute, apologize, and tell me it was all just a misunderstanding. But as the hours crept on—one, then two, then three—I couldn’t cling to that hope anymore. Not with the silence filling the space where he was supposed to be.

I let my head rest against the bed, the scent of roses and wine nauseating now, like a perfume that had turned sour. I didn’t realize I’d drifted off until a loud slam jerked me awake. My heart hammered as I looked at the clock: 3:15 a.m.

Marco stumbled out of the bathroom, his footsteps heavy, uneven, and the acrid smell of whiskey filled the room, sharp enough to make my stomach twist.

He stopped when he saw me, and for a second, I thought maybe he’d feel some remorse. But his face curled into a sneer instead. “Still waiting up like a loyal little lapdog, huh? Pathetic bitch.”

I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady, but it wobbled, betraying me. “Why, Marco? Did you even think of me tonight?” My words spilled out, shaky and raw. “While you were out with her?”

He laughed, that cold, dismissive sound I’d come to dread. “Think of you? God, Estella, you’re such a bore now. Barren. Dry. Predictable. You think that’s what a man like me wants?”

His words hit me like slaps. “Maybe I’ve become that way because you’ve spent years breaking me down, Marco.” My voice grew sharper. “Maybe you’re too blind to see what you’ve done to me.”

His eyes flashed with anger, and in one stride, he crossed the room, his hand clamping around my throat. I gasped, fingers reaching up instinctively to pry him off, but he pulled me close, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol, suffocating.

“Do you forget who’s in control here?” he hissed.

Then his hand whipped across my face, the crack echoing in the silence. My cheek burned, stinging with the force of it, but I refused to cry. I refused to let him see me break.

He leaned closer, his gaze dark, taunting. “You’ve always been weak, Estella. Not enough of a woman to give me a family, not enough of a wife to keep me interested.”

I wanted to scream, to shove him away, but he was already reaching for me, his grip like iron. “You’re my wife,” he whispered, his voice low and sickeningly intimate. “You’re here to do as I say, whether you like it or not.”

My heart pounded, panic flooding my veins as he dragged me towards the bed. I tried to push him away, to scream, but he covered my mouth. “Quiet,” he murmured, almost as if it were a twisted caress. “We wouldn’t want anyone to hear, would we?”

He shoved me onto the bed, his grip bruising as he pressed me down, his weight crushing, pinning me in place. I struggled to breathe, and a whimper slipped out as I felt him rip at my dress, the tearing sound sharp and final, like a knife carving through hope. My panties and bra followed, tossed aside with a casual violence that left me trembling, exposed, utterly vulnerable.

For a second, he leaned back, fumbling with his belt. I tried to twist away, to move, to take any chance of escape, but his hand snapped out, catching me with a slap that burned my cheek and knocked me back into place. The sting throbbed, leaving me dizzy, and I lay there, frozen, helpless, as he took what he wanted. Each passing second, each touch, each whisper pressed into me like salt in an open wound.

When he finally rolled off me, he did so with a careless indifference, his breath already slowing into that familiar rhythm of sleep. I stayed where I was, staring up at the ceiling, numb as a tear slid down my cheek. I’d never felt so alone. So utterly trapped.

I looked over at him, this man lying next to me, this cruel stranger who was supposed to be my husband. But had he ever really been the man I thought he was? Or had I been too blind, too desperate to believe in a version of him that never existed?

My phone buzzed, breaking the silence. I reached for it, my fingers trembling, and saw Claudia’s name on the screen.

“Hope you enjoyed your night alone. He deserves someone who understands him.”

Attached was a picture of her and Marco, cozy in that restaurant, Claudia’s hand on his cheek, her smile smug, victorious. Another photo showed the two of them, barely dressed, tangled in each other, and a final one—a single used condom wrapper on her bedside table, as if to drive the point home.

My heart shattered, each beat a fresh agony, every lie I’d told myself unraveling before me. I could hear his mother Helena’s voice in my head.

At a family dinner, she’d once looked me in the eye, smirked, and said, “You should keep yourself busy fetching drinks, Estella. A real wife would have given him a son by now.” And the guests around us had laughed, all too willing to humiliate me for not measuring up to her standards. Marco had just sat there, watching.

At last year’s gala, he’d brought me only to ignore me all night, parading Claudia around instead, leaving me alone at the table, humiliated and fighting back tears as everyone else noticed his blatant disregard.

And then, after I’d dared to confront him, Marco had forced me to apologize to Claudia in front of everyone, framing me as the jealous, paranoid wife, thanking her for her “patience” with my insecurities. The words had tasted like acid, but I’d said them anyway, hoping he’d finally see me, finally defend me. Instead and worst of all, he’d left me on the side of the road that night, claiming he needed a moment to cool off. He’d watched me stand there, in heels, dressed up for him, before he drove off, abandoning me to walk miles back, humiliated and shamed, with people glancing, whispering, some even recognizing me.

The rage that built in me now was unlike anything I’d ever felt. For years, I’ve made myself bend backwards to fit his expectations, endured every slap, every insult, every betrayal, hoping someday he’d see me for who I was. But tonight, something in me snapped. As I looked at him, lying there peacefully, oblivious to the destruction he’d wrought, I felt something .

I would no longer be his punching bag, his discarded, forgotten trophy wife. I let myself imagine a life free from his cruelty, free from his family’s endless ridicule, a future where I reclaimed the power he’d stolen piece by piece.

Leaving wouldn’t be easy. It would be a battle, one I hadn’t dared to face before. But as I stared at his sleeping form, I knew one thing for certain:

I couldn’t stay here anymore. And I wouldn’t.