I found them near the conservatory, partially hidden by a towering palm. Franklyn' s voice was low, laced with a tenderness I hadn't heard in years.

He was gently stroking Heaven' s hair, murmuring something about how unfair the world had been to her.

Heaven leaned into his touch, then pulled back slightly. "I don't need pity, Franklyn," she said, her voice sharp. "I need to prove myself. On my own."

His eyes, usually so calculating, softened further. "You deserve every success, Heaven. More than anyone I know."

Then he pulled a thick, leather-bound portfolio from inside his jacket. It was too familiar. My heart dropped.

He pressed it into her hands. "This community arts center project. It needs a visionary. Someone with your drive."

"But this is… immense," Heaven demurred, but her fingers already traced the cover. "It would make my foundation's year."

"And it will be credited to you," Franklyn said, his voice firm. "Every single piece of it."

My breath hitched. The blood roared in my ears. I stepped out from behind the palm, my legs feeling like lead. "That's my design," I stated, my voice shaking despite my best efforts.

Franklyn turned, his expression quickly hardening. "Clara. What are you doing out here?" His tone was dismissive.

"That portfolio," I insisted, pointing a trembling finger. "That's my community arts center design. For our son."

He sighed, as if I were being inconvenient. "Heaven needs this, Clara. She's building something from nothing. You have everything."

"You built nothing from nothing," I countered, my voice cracking. "That project was my soul. It was for us. For him."

Franklyn's jaw tightened. "Don't be dramatic. It's just a design. And it's going to do a lot of good, now. For Heaven."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. Heaven clutched the portfolio tighter, a sly smirk ghosting her lips.

"Thank you, Clara," Heaven said, her voice dripping with fake sincerity. "I'll be sure to make your… original vision proud."

Franklyn opened the conservatory door for Heaven. She passed me, her perfume sickeningly sweet. He didn't look back.

The sleek black car pulled away, leaving me standing alone in the grand, empty driveway. The first drops of rain splattered against my bare shoulders.

I kicked off my heels. The cold asphalt felt like ice beneath my feet. I walked, not caring where. The rain began to pour.

Through the downpour, I heard it. Their laughter. Free, joyful, utterly oblivious laughter. It cut through the night like a knife.

I remembered Franklyn' s vows, five years ago. "Forever," he' d promised, his eyes shining. "Always."

He wasn't always. He was never. The man who stood next to me on our wedding day was a stranger. The one who truly hurt me was him.

I somehow made it back to the penthouse. The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked windows. I felt a sudden, dizzying lurch.

My legs gave out. I crumpled to the cold marble floor, my head hitting the ground with a dull thud. Everything swam.

Hours later, the bedroom door creaked open. Franklyn. He found me there, a heap on the floor. His eyes widened.

He rushed to me, lifting me into his arms. "Clara? What happened?" His voice was laced with a concern that felt foreign.

He carried me to the bed, stroking my hair. His touch was almost tender. It was the way he used to hold me.

A sickeningly sweet scent of Heaven' s perfume clung to him. It was everywhere. On his shirt, in his hair, on his skin.

"You smell nice," I said, my voice barely a whisper. My own words tasted like ash.

He pulled back, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "It's nothing. Just… business."

"Of course," I said, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Business. And when business is done, you'll come back to me, won't you? Like a good little boy."

He sighed, a long, weary sound. "Clara, you know I always come home to you."

But his words held no comfort. They were just empty promises. I couldn't even cry. My tears had dried up long ago.

I stared at him, numb. He was my husband. And he was a stranger.

The sharp clang of metal woke me. My head throbbed. I sat bolt upright in bed, disoriented.

Heaven was in my home office, sifting through my blueprints. My private space. My designs.

She held up a rolled parchment, a blueprint for a community center, the one that meant everything to me. "I'm having trouble with the structural integrity here," she said, without a trace of shame. "You're the expert. Help me fix it."

I stared at her, my throat tight with disgust. "No," I managed, my voice hoarse. "I won't."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult, Clara. Franklyn said you'd be cooperative."

"Franklyn said a lot of things," I retorted, pushing myself out of bed. My head still swam.

"Look, I know this is hard for you," she continued, her voice falsely gentle. "But this project is my big break. I need it."

She took a step closer, gesturing with the blueprint. In her carelessness, the corner of the heavy parchment scraped sharply across my arm. A thin line of blood welled up.

"Oh, my God! You clumsy fool!" Heaven shrieked, clutching her hand as if I had attacked her. "You tried to hurt me!"

Just then, Franklyn strode into the room, his eyes instantly falling on Heaven's feigned distress. "What happened here?" His voice was cold.

Heaven burst into theatrical tears. "She... she attacked me, Franklyn! She doesn't want me to succeed!"

He didn't even look at my bleeding arm. His gaze was fixed on Heaven, then flickered to me with pure contempt. "Clara, what have you done?"

"She scratched me," I said, holding out my arm, a futile gesture. "She did it to herself."

Franklyn's expression softened for a fleeting second as his eyes landed on the blood. But it vanished as quickly as it came. "Don't play the victim, Clara," he snarled. "You're better than this cheap trick."

"Apologize to Heaven," he commanded, his voice steel. "And then you will help her with this project. You will teach her everything she needs to know."

My jaw dropped. "Apologize? For what? And you want me to… hand over my life's work to her?"

"Your family's business," Franklyn said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "still relies heavily on my investments, Clara. Don't forget that."

My breath caught in my throat. My family. My loyalty to them was my greatest vulnerability. He knew it.

I swallowed hard, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. "Fine," I choked out. "I'll help her."

I watched, numb, as Heaven gathered my blueprints, asking questions I mechanically answered. Each word felt like a betrayal of my own soul.

When she finally left, a triumphant smile on her face, I sank to the floor. The tears came then, hot and stinging.

Franklyn reappeared at the doorway. He watched me, his gaze unreadable. "Crying again?" he asked, a strange note in his voice.

I quickly wiped my eyes, forcing a composure I didn't feel. "Just tired," I mumbled. "And my arm stings."

He seemed to relax, a subtle shift in his shoulders. "Good. Because tomorrow, you'll be on my arm. At Heaven's launch event."

He turned and left. I let the tears fall freely then. Not for him to see. Never for him to see again.

The ballroom glittered under a million lights, a spectacle of false glamour. On stage, Heaven Russell radiated confidence, a beacon of self-made success.

"And I couldn't have done it without the unwavering support of Franklyn Townsend," she simpered, her eyes meeting his across the room. The crowd applauded.

Then, the large screens behind her lit up. My design. My community arts center, meticulously rendered, was splashed across the jumbo monitors. My heart hammered against my ribs.

Under the table, Franklyn' s hand found mine. His fingers laced through mine, a possessive grip. His wedding ring dug into my flesh, a painful brand.

"Isn't she incredible, Clara?" he whispered, his eyes fixed on Heaven. "Such a natural. We're doing so much good." My blood ran cold.

I forced a smile, my lips stretched tight. My eyes burned, but I refused to blink. I wouldn't let the tears fall. Not now. Not ever again.

A sudden, jarring cough broke the polished silence. Then, a voice from the back of the room. "Is this the 'visionary' everyone's talking about?"

Before anyone could react, a series of photographs flashed across the screens. Franklyn and Heaven. Kissing. In a car, at a restaurant, on a yacht. Intimate. Undeniable.

Heaven gasped, her perfect composure shattering. Her face went pale. The room erupted in a cacophony of whispers and camera flashes.

Franklyn, without a moment's hesitation, moved. He stepped in front of Heaven, shielding her from the flashing lights, his body a fortress. The protective instinct was raw, fierce, and real. More real than any vow he'd ever made to me.

He grabbed the microphone, his eyes sweeping the room, then landing on me. My heart stopped. A cold dread washed over me.

"These photos," he boomed, his voice resonating through the speakers, "are a fabrication. This woman is not Heaven Russell."

My blood froze. I knew what was coming.

"This woman," he continued, his gaze pinning me to my seat, "is my wife, Clara Gibson."

A collective gasp. The spotlights, one by one, swung to me. Blinding. Disorienting. I swayed, my vision blurring at the edges.

I remembered the early days of our marriage. He had saved my family from financial ruin. He had been my knight then.

He leaned close, his voice a low, dangerous growl meant only for my ears. "Your family, Clara. Remember your father's business."

I squeezed my eyes shut, a silent scream trapped in my throat. I had no choice.

"My wife," Franklyn announced, his voice softer now, laced with false sympathy, "has been suffering from severe grief over the loss of our child. It has led to some… instabilities."

He turned back to the microphone, his arm still protectively around Heaven. "She fell prey to a driver, a man who took advantage of her fragile state. These photos are a result of that unfortunate affair."

The flashes multiplied, blinding me. The whispers turned into a roar. The shame was a physical weight, pressing me down.

I slowly stood, my knees trembling. Every eye in the room was on me. I cleared my throat, the sound amplified, echoing.

"Yes," I managed, my voice barely a whisper, yet it filled the room. "I… I admit it. I was unstable. I was weak. I… I had an affair."

The words tasted like ash. My dignity, my reputation, shattered into a million pieces.

"Heaven Russell is innocent," I continued, forcing the words out, each one a shard of glass. "She had nothing to do with this."

The cameras clicked like a thousand hammers striking glass. My tears, hot and uncontrollable, streamed down my face. Each sob, each choked gasp, was broadcast to the world. And with those tears, I knew, my family and I would forever be marked.