Victor stormed inside his mansion, his steps heavy and sharp against the marble floor, the cold air of the grand hallway filled with his simmering anger. William followed closely behind, trying to match his pace. The sound

of the door slamming echoed through the silent hall. Both men walked toward the grand staircase, their breath visible in the faint chill of the winter air still clinging to their coats.

“Mr. Hale,” William said urgently, his tone edged with concern. “Are you really not going to send Madam the money? What if she truly needs it?

What if it’s something serious?”

Victor halted mid-step. He turned to face William. His expression was cold,

the fury in his eyes glinting beneath the soft light of the chandelier above.

“How much more money does that woman want from me?” he snapped.

“For five years, her parents drained me dry by marrying their daughter off to me. The moment they saw my company in the news, they came running with a marriage proposal!”

His tone turned bitter, filled with restrained rage.

“How much money have I given her all these years? Bags. Jewelry. Clothes.

Every single thing is worth hundreds of thousands. Why doesn’t she sell one if she’s that desperate for money? With everything I gave her, she could live comfortably for decades!”

He scoffed, stepping closer to William. “That woman is insatiable!” he hissed. “No matter how much I give, she wants more. Always more.

Everything I gave was never enough. Even now, after walking out of my house and declaring a fucking divorce, she still wants more. When the hell is she going to be satisfied?!”

Victor turned to leave, his steps heavy with frustration.

“Mr. Hale wait! All those gifts, the jewelry, the bank card you gave her… Madam didn’t take a single thing when she left,” William called out.

Victor froze, his body stiffening. “What?” His head snapped back, brows drawn tight in disbelief.

William continued, carefully choosing his words. “Madam only took one suitcase the clothes she brought from her home when she got married. She didn't even take the clothes you bought her after marriage. She left

everything else behind.”

Victor's eyes narrowed, confusion mixing with disbelief.

“I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Hale,” William stood firm, though his voice softened. “Everything you ever bought for her, it’s all still here. You can check her room yourself.”

For a brief second, Victor didn’t move. Then, his jaw tightened.

Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed up the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the silent house, each step thundering louder than the last as he made a beeline for her bedroom.

He pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside, striding straight toward the walk-in closet. His hand gripped the handle, and with a forceful pull, he threw the door open.

The sight before him stopped him cold.

Inside, the room was lined with neatly stacked boxes—designer bags,

shoes, jewelry, perfumes, all perfectly arranged. The faint scent of unopened leather and luxury filled the air. Tags still hung from untouched

clothes. The shelves gleamed under the soft light, as if everything inside was brand new, preserved like a museum display.victor walked in slowly, his gaze darting from one shelf to another, his expression shifting from anger to surprise. He picked up a perfume bottle,

its seal unbroken. The liquid inside shimmered, full to the brim. Not a single drop was missing. He stared at it, his reflection caught in the clear

glass.

“Why didn’t she use any of this?” he muttered under his breath.

Behind him, William stood silently, observing his boss struggle to process the shocking sight. The normally inviting scent of luxury now felt heavy, almost suffocating.

Victor's fingers tightened around the perfume bottle, knuckles whitening.

“Doesn’t she love money more than anything?” he spat, voice sharp with bitterness. “Her parents married her off to me just for my wealth. And yet…” He gestured toward the untouched luxury items. “Why didn’t she

use any of it all these years? Didn’t take a single thing when she left?”

His eyes snapped toward William, desperate for an answer that made sense.

“Why didn’t she take any of it?” he demanded again.

William hesitated, then spoke softly. “Mr. Hale, Madam never asked you to give her anything. All of this…” He gestured toward the luxury items.

“…I purchased and placed in her closet every time a new collection came out, following your orders, so she could wear them to business events with you. She never once asked to buy anything herself. So how could she…”

He stopped, swallowing the unspoken words ‘have married you for your wealth?’

Instead, he looked at victor and continued. “She never once threatened to divorce you before. In all these years, she never mentioned leaving. But this time…” He paused, then added quietly. “This time, she left without a word

and divorced you. I think… she really means it.”

Victor went still. His body stiffened; his breath caught in his throat.

The bottle in his hand trembled, the tension in his fingers so tight it might shatter. The coat hanging from his arm suddenly felt like a dead weight dragging him down.

He swallowed hard, his head lowering as a flood of memories from the last five years rushed through his mind. The cold silences, the unanswered calls, the countless times he had dismissed her presence.

Then, abruptly, he lifted his head, his eyes wild with denial. “No,” he muttered. “That’s not possible.”

He waved the perfume bottle toward the closet, filled with untouched luxury. “Look at this. What woman would leave all this behind? What woman would walk away from this? From all of this?!”

He let out a harsh laugh, bitter and hollow. “Does she think I’m a fool who won’t see through her act of pretending to be some… selfless saint?”

The next moment, he hurled the perfume bottle at the ground.It shattered with a violent crash. The scent of expensive perfume flooded

the room, sharp and overpowering. The liquid spread across the hardwood floor, glistening under the dim light, while shards of glass scattered everywhere.

Victor stood still, his chest rising and falling with quiet fury. Then he turned and walked out, the sound of glass crunching under his shoes echoing behind him.

It wasn’t long before night fell quietly over the city. Inside the mansion, Victor sat slouched in his study, his head resting against the back of the chair. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the desk lamp, the papers scattered before him long forgotten. He had worked until exhaustion took over, his body finally giving in as sleep crept up on him.

But it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. His chest rose and fell heavily, his breath uneven and restless. Even in sleep, his brows were furrowed, his face tense.

It was the kind of sleep that trapped him in an anxious trance, one that made his body twitch and his mind spiral deeper into unease.

Behind those closed lids, a haunting vision replayed itself.

Snow fell thick and heavy in a dark, endless street. Through the blur of white, a figure appeared.

She was lying on the ground, her body still, her dress soaked in blood. Her skin was pale, her eyes closed, her lips faintly parted. The blood spread beneath her, staining the snow crimson.

Victor's body jerked violently. His hands twitched, and within seconds, he shot upright in the chair. His breathing was rough, his chest heaving as a wave of fear and confusion struck through him.

His voice came out low, shaken, and raw as he whispered into the darkness,“genevive…” The name left his lips before he could think.

For a second, his mind was blank. It took him a moment to realize he had only been dreaming.

He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, “Why the hell would I dream about that woman?” The irritation in his voice couldn’t mask the anxiety in his chest.

His pulse remained unsteady. His eyes sharp and cold during the day now looked clouded and uneasy. His breaths came harsh and shallow, and for a long moment, he just sat there, staring blankly at nothing.

When his gaze fell on the clock on the wall, it read two in the morning.

He exhaled slowly, pushed himself up from the chair, and grabbed his phone from the desk. Sitting still was impossible. His entire body felt

restless like he was being chased by a fear he couldn’t escape.

He walked out of the study, his footsteps echoing faintly in the silent hallway. His steps slowed as he reached the bedroom door. The dark room stared back at him, silent and cold. His hand clenched around the doorknob

but after a long second, he turned away.

He descended the grand staircase, crossed the hallway, and stepped out into the cold night behind the house.

The air outside was biting cold. A large swimming pool stretched before

him, the water dark and still under the faint moonlight. Thin layers of mist floated over the surface, and the faint rustle of wind was the only sound. Victor walked to the table beside the pool, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and took a long swallow. The burn slid down his throat, but he barely felt it. His expression didn’t change. His body was stiff, shoulders

squared, his thin nightshirt doing little to shield him from the cold but his body felt numb, as though the cold couldn’t reach whatever was left inside him.

He poured another, downed it, then poured again.

Each swallow was harsh, his Adam's apple bobbing as he drank without pause. The cold night mixed with the warmth of alcohol, but the numbness in his chest stayed the same. He paced alongside the pool, his eyes fixed on the water’s reflection, his thoughts circling back to the same question again and again.

“She walked out on her own,” he muttered under his breath. “Then why the hell is she crying to me now for help?”

Yet the words didn’t sound convincing. No matter how much anger he tried to summon, all he felt was a strange tightness in his chest. An agitation that refused to fade.

He finished the glass in one hard gulp and poured another, but his fingers trembled slightly this time. His gaze drifted to the side where his new phone lay on the table. The sight of it made something heavy settle in his chest

again something close to panic.

He set the glass down and picked up the phone, staring at the screen for a long time. The hesitation was clear in his eyes. Finally, he exhaled and dialed a number.

“Mr. Hale ?” came William’s drowsy voice on the other end.

“Did Genevieve call you again?” Victor asked directly.

There was a pause. Then William replied, “No, sir. She didn’t.”

Victor's throat tightened as he dropped the phone back on the table, the screen going black. He picked up his whiskey again, took a few small sips, and began pacing around the pool once more. The silence pressed against

him from every side.

He drank again. And again.

The glass was nearly empty when his grip started to tighten. His hand trembled, veins standing out on his skin. When the last drop was gone, he squeezed harder until a sharp crack echoed in the night.

The glass shattered in his palm.

Shards cut into his skin, thin lines of blood appearing against his fingers.

But he didn’t even flinch. He looked down briefly, then simply pulled the glass pieces out of his palm one by one, tossing them aside. His fingers bled, yet he simply wiped them on his shirt, his expression unchanged. The

pain didn’t register. The numbness stayed.

By the time dawn came, the entire city outside had begun to lighten with morning hues. The pool area glowed faintly under the rising sun.

William stepped into the backyard, his eyes widening at the sight victor seated in a lounge chair, the whiskey bottle empty on the table beside him.

He was still holding the last glass, slowly sipping the remaining drops.

“Mr. Hale,” William said carefully, stepping closer. “Are you all right?”

Victor looked up, his face blank. “It’s nothing,” he said flatly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

William inclined his head slightly. “Sir, Mr. Hales will arrive at your office within the hour for the meeting.”

Victor blinked slowly, then muttered, “Right.”

He pushed the empty glass aside, making it slide across the table. Then, with steady movements, he stood up. Despite drinking the entire night, there was no trace of drunkenness in his eyes only a hollow exhaustion that ran bone-deep.

Without another word, he turned and walked back into the house. In the.bedroom, he headed straight for the closet, his expression still hard as he reached for his clothes.

However, his eyes fell on the clothes hanging in the wardrobe next to his own. Genevieve's outfits from the parties they had attended together, neatly folded, still carrying the faint scent of her perfume. His chest tightened, a

surge of frustration and anger rising uncontrollably. Teeth clenched, jaw taut, he roughly yanked his own clothes from the wardrobe and stormed out of the closet.

He took a long, tense shower, letting the cold water wash over him, though it did nothing to calm the turmoil inside. Dressing meticulously in his finest suit, he fastened an expensive watch on his wrist and dabbed on his

signature perfume. Everything about him screamed control and power a man presenting perfection on the outside while chaos brewed within. He left the room, moving to the living and dining area.

The table was empty. No breakfast had been prepared. His eyes flicked toward Mrs. Maisel, who was working quietly in the kitchen. Her hands froze mid-motion as she noticed him. Instantly, she hurried forward, picking up plates.

“Mr. Hale, you’re here? I’ll set up breakfast for you,” she said, her voice anxious as she started arranging the table.

Victor's gaze flickered toward the empty chair across from him. Normally, Genevieve would already have the table set, the food arranged perfectly. She would sit beside him, eating lightly herself, watching him with that familiar

soft expression.

The familiar warmth of the morning routine was gone. His appetite died instantly.

Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving the house in silence and heading straight to the office.

By midday, after a morning packed with meetings, victor returned to his office. Gabriel was waiting, casually lounging in a chair, scrolling through his phone. The moment victor entered, Gabriel sprang to his feet, a gleam

of excitement in his eyes.

“Finally! I’ve been waiting here for hours, Hales,” Gabriel exclaimed.

“I was in meetings,” victor replied nonchalantly. Lowering himself into his chair, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Gabriel’s excitement only grew. “Tonight there’s a meeting that’s way more important than your board discussions.”

Victor rested his hands on the table, fingers twitching slightly, his mind barely registering Gabriel’s words. “What meeting?” he asked.

Gabriel leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Do you remember all our friends from college? They’re all gathering tonight at Neil’s villa.

And guess what? Ophelia is coming too! You have to come early. Don’t miss this chance to impress her.”

Victor leaned back in his chair, uninterested. “I’m not coming.”

Gabriel froze, frowning, and stepped closer to the desk. “Why not? I’m talking about Ophelia ! Don’t you remember how much she liked you back then? If it weren’t for Genevieve, wouldn’t she be… well, you know?” His voice teased, leaning suggestively toward Victor . “I asked around she hasn’t had any boyfriends, not even in France. Can you believe it? Despite becoming a popular actress there, she’s still coming back for you. Everyone has been

saying that she’s been waiting for you. Aren’t you even a little excited?”

Victor set aside his tablet, his voice flat. “I am married.”

Gabriel blinked, confusion flashing across his face as excitement drained away. “You… you don’t like that Genevieve Brooks, do you?”

Victor's fingers tightened. For a brief moment, his eyes flashed with something but he quickly shifted his gaze back to the files on his table.

“Have you lost your mind?” he said sharply, his tone laced with irritation.

“Why would I fall for a woman like that?”

Gabriel stared, disbelief flickering in his eyes. Victor pushed back his chair abruptly, stood, and strode to the door, slamming it behind him as he walked out.

When Victor arrived home again, the sight of the mansion made him pause.

The large house stood in stark blackness, silent and imposing. Gabriel’s words echoed faintly in his mind, gnawing at him.

‘You don’t like that Genevive Brooks, do you?’

He clenched his fists, jaw tight, and finally forced himself to enter.

Once inside, his gaze moved directly to the staircase leading to the upper floor. His feet faltered in the living room, his body stiffening. Instead of heading upstairs, he turned and sank onto one of the couches.

Mrs. Maisel approached promptly, her voice soft and measured. “Mr. Hale, shall I set the dinner table for you?”

His gaze slid toward the empty dining chair where Genevieve would usually sit,

and his frustration deepened until his temples began to throb. That chair had always been hers. Every day she would sit there quietly, waiting for him.

Now the sight of that empty seat made something inside him twist unpleasantly.This woman disappeared from my sight only to haunt my peace again and again!’ he thought bitterly.

His chest tightened as he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling harshly. He dismissed Mrs. Maisel flatly, not even glancing her way. “No. I don’t want to eat right now.”

“All right then, Mr. Hale,” she said quietly, giving a small nod. She hesitated for a second as if she wanted to say more, then turned and walked away.

But a few moments later, her footsteps returned soft, hesitant, almost uncertain. When Victor looked up, she was standing in front of him again, holding something in her hands. It was an album. Thick, with a faded pink cover and a faint scent of dust and perfume lingering on it.

“Mr. Hale,” she said gently, stepping forward. “When the maids were cleaning Madam’s bedroom, they found this album lying in a corner behind the couches. There are some photographs inside… it seems to be her

personal item. I thought you might want to take a look.”

Victor frowned faintly but reached out to take it from her. The leather felt oddly warm in his hand, as though it had been held many times before. It felt heavier than it looked.

Without a word, he stood and walked away with the album, his footsteps echoing through the empty house.

He went straight to his study, setting the album on his desk before sinking into the chair. He remained there for a long while, motionless, fingers

resting lightly on the cover. The silence of the house pressed down on him.

The same silence he had once liked but now found suffocating and unbearable.

After a moment, his hand slid over the cover, brushing off a thin layer of.dust. His lips parted, his voice low and rough as he muttered, “What kind of photographs have you been taking in this house, victor …”

Then, he flipped open the cover.

The first photograph stopped him cold.It was old from the day she had come to his house after their wedding.

The picture was slightly faded, the lighting uneven, but her smile was bright, pure, full of hope. She had lifted her hand close to her face, taking a selfie with the other hand. Beneath it, neatly written on the white border, was the date.

The day of their wedding. The day she had walked into his life as his wife.

Victor's throat tightened. He didn’t know why, but that smile made his chest ache.

He turned to the next page.

The next photo was dated a month after their marriage. Genevieve was sitting on

the edge of the bed, her posture small, her expression distant. Her eyes were

turned toward the empty side of the bed his side. The sheets beside her were untouched, perfectly neat.

A memory flickered painfully in his mind. He had left for work overseas right after their wedding, without even telling her when he would return.

She had been nineteen. He had been twenty-four. Their marriage had been arranged between two wealthy families a business union, forged after her parents sent a proposal to his family.

He turned another page, and his breath caught.

The third photograph showed him sitting at his office desk, fully absorbed in his work. The angle made it clear it had been taken secretly. Below it, there was another date… and a small note written in her handwriting:

‘victor told the receptionist that I’m not allowed to enter his office anymore. Maybe I did something to upset him. But… he still looks so nice when he sits there, working so seriously.’

Victor froze. His hand stilled on the page. His heart began to pound unevenly.

He remembered that day clearly. She had come to his office to deliver some files he’d forgotten at home. She’d walked into his office without knocking. Timidly, smiling softly, holding the documents close to her chest.Instead of showing gratitude, he had scolded her in front of three people sitting in his office for not leaving the files at reception and for coming

straight into his office. Then, in his anger, he’d even ordered the receptionist not to let her in his office ever again.

He hadn’t wanted her there because every time she appeared, something in him shifted. He didn’t like how unsettled she made him feel. So, he pushed.her away.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, believing it was better this way.

Cleaner, simpler. But now, seeing that single note, her face sprang to mind.

He remembered it clearly—the quiet hurt in her eyes, the forced smile she wore as she turned and walked away.

His knuckles whitened.

He flipped to the next page.

This time, the photo showed a bedroom window with snow falling outside.

The curtains were slightly drawn, the bed in the corner cold and empty. Beneath it, another note was written in her delicate handwriting:

‘My bedroom. Not ours.’

Victor chest tightened painfully. He clenched the edges of the album, his heartbeat thundering.

He had never shared a room with her. From the beginning, he had kept his distance. Even when she first stayed in his bedroom, he would sleep in another room. Eventually, she had quietly moved to the guest room without saying a word, and he had let her.

In five years of marriage, they had never once shared a bed.

Not even for a single night.

He could feel his pulse in his throat now, a dull pounding that wouldn’t stop. His breath grew shallow, the air in the room thick and suffocating.

Finally, he slammed the album shut. The sound echoed sharply across the.room, breaking the silence like a whip.

Mrs. Maisel appeared at the doorway, startled by the sound. “Mr. Hale, are you all right?” she asked, worry clear in her tone.victor didn’t look up. His jaw flexed, his voice cold but uneven.

“She likes playing hard to get, doesn’t she?” His lips twisted faintly. “What is this supposed to be?”

Mrs. Maisel entered the study quietly, her footsteps soft against the polished

floor. She stopped just in front of him, her hands folded in front of her apron. “Mr. Hale… I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Victor finally lifted his gaze from the album. His eyes, dark and sharp, met hers.

She hesitated, then said, “Maybe… you should look at the back of the album.”

His jaw flexed. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, eyes locked on her as if trying to read her. Then, without a word, his hands returned to the album.

He flipped to the last page