Chapter 1

Margaret Kennedy returned home from the hospital alone and immediately noticed a pair of high heels by the entrance that didn't belong to her, alongside Richard Neville's expensive custom leather shoes.

Everything seemed the same as when she'd left, but the signs were everywhere—her husband had been unfaithful. Another woman had been in their home.

Her favorite mug bore lipstick stains. Her cashmere shawl, draped over the sofa, lay crumpled on the floor. Even the white roses she'd arranged in the vase had been replaced with red ones.

"Tiana, did we have a visitor while I was away?" Margaret's voice was soft, edged with ice.

The housekeeper Tiana responded coldly, without even bothering with a respectful title. "Ms. Barnes. Mr. Neville brought her by to pick up some documents. They sat for a bit."

Just sat for a bit? Margaret climbed the stairs and pushed open the master bedroom door.

Her vanity had been ransacked, several lipstick caps left open. The walk-in closet door stood ajar, her white silk robe nowhere to be found. By the floor-to-ceiling window, a burgundy robe lay in a wrinkled heap on the ground.

Margaret walked over and bent down to pick it up.

This was from Richard—a custom piece he'd ordered for their first anniversary. There were two, one white that she wore regularly, and this burgundy one she'd never touched. Because Richard had said someone as plain as her couldn't pull off that color.

Now the burgundy robe reeked of Jennifer Barnes's sickly sweet perfume, with several strands of dark hair clinging to the fabric.

The cleaning staff's gossip drifted up the stairs:

"Mr. Neville really spoils Ms. Barnes. When she stood on her tiptoes to reach a book, he just put his hand on her waist to steady her..."

"Of course! Ms. Barnes wanted to walk the dog, and Mr. Neville—who's such a neat freak—didn't even change his shoes before going down with her!"

Margaret could picture it perfectly: Richard's hand on Jennifer's waist, his eyes filled with an indulgent tenderness she'd never seen.

On the nightstand sat a note, arrogant and taunting:

[Margaret, Richie mentioned you don't like this robe, so I took the liberty of trying it on. Richie was absolutely mesmerized by how I looked in it. The way he went wild for me in bed was so damn sexy. —Jennifer]

A wave of humiliation crashed over Margaret.

The other woman had waltzed into her home, worn her clothes, used her things, slept with her husband, and then had the audacity to rub it in her face.

Tiana chose that moment to speak up. "Mrs. Neville, Ms. Barnes is really sweet. She even brought us gifts. She asked me to tell you that you should be more understanding toward Mr. Neville."

Margaret laughed softly. "Understanding of what? That my husband brought his mistress into our bedroom to screw her?"

Tiana's face darkened, her fake politeness vanishing. "Mrs. Neville, you can't say things like that. What's Mr. Neville's status? And what's yours? If it hadn't been for the Kennedy family back then..."

"My status isn't yours to judge." Margaret cut her off.

Tiana bristled with anger. "What's the point of acting tough with me? If you've got the guts, go say it to Mr. Neville. Everyone knows his heart belongs to Ms. Barnes. You're just occupying the wife position—you should know your place."

Know her place? From the moment she signed that marriage agreement—basically a contract selling herself—Margaret had been nothing more than a glorified housekeeper living in Crownspire Villa. Mrs. Richard Neville in name only.

Margaret made up her mind. "Bring me a trash bag."

Tiana froze. "Mrs. Neville, what are you doing?"

Margaret didn't waste another word. She pulled off the ring she'd always worn on her left hand and dropped it into the trash can.

The burgundy robe went into the garbage bag next. Then the cosmetics on her vanity that had been touched. Jennifer's note from the nightstand. The cushions on the sofa that had been sat on. The mug with the lipstick stain...

She moved silently, methodically finding every single item in the house tainted by Jennifer's presence and throwing it into the black trash bag.

The servants stood frozen, wanting to intervene but too intimidated by the cold determination radiating from her.

Finally, Margaret walked slowly to the entrance, picked up those red high heels with just two fingers like they were contaminated, and threw them out the front door along with the trash bags.

When it was done, she rushed to the bathroom to scrub her hands clean, then leaned over the sink dry-heaving, though nothing came up.

She looked at herself in the mirror and suddenly felt like a stranger.

What had she been doing for the past five years?

Just then, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into an embrace. A familiar cold, sharp scent enveloped her from behind.

Margaret turned her head and saw her husband, Richard.

His broad back blocked the door as he closed it, then lifted her and carried her toward the bathtub. Richard wore a black silk robe, the collar open, revealing his collarbones. He smelled faintly of alcohol mixed with that sickeningly sweet perfume—Jennifer's.

He was a germaphobe. Every day after work, he insisted they shower together. Today was no different.

The thought that he might have bathed here with Jennifer made Margaret's stomach turn. She shoved Richard away hard, breaking free from his arms.

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

He took a step back, his eyes scanning the unusually empty bathroom, his brow furrowing. Finally, his gaze settled on Margaret's cold face.

Margaret said nothing, just stared at him quietly.

Richard grew irritated under her gaze, "I'll handle the situation with Jennifer."

"Handle it how? Warn her to be more careful next time so she doesn't leave evidence? Or just find a more discreet place to cheat?"

Richard's expression darkened completely. "Margaret, watch your tone."

Margaret stared directly at him. Those eyes that used to be filled with adoration now held nothing but lifeless emptiness.

"Our agreement never said I had to tolerate your mistress sleeping in my bed, wearing my clothes, using my things."

"She didn't sleep in your bed."

The words left his mouth before Richard realized what he'd said. Why was he explaining this?

Margaret laughed—a sound more painful than crying. "Oh really? Should I thank her for her mercy then?"

"None of that matters. Don't forget what day it is."

Richard grabbed her wrist and yanked her close, his handsome face inches from hers, his hot breath hitting her skin with oppressive force.

Every time he wanted sex but was too lazy to bother with foreplay, he used this line to remind her that she was ovulating. To remind her that her only value was her womb—a tool that existed solely for pregnancy.

But she had no power to refuse.

Margaret's heart went completely cold. She closed her eyes and stopped struggling, like a soulless puppet.

"I know," she said. "Let's get started. Make it quick."