Diana didn't come home for three days. We had officially entered a suffocating cold war, our communication completely dead.

That silence broke when her secretary sent me a text, telling me that Diana's chronic gastritis was flaring up and that she had been breaking out in cold sweats during the board meeting.

I stared at the message for a long time.

Diana's stomach issues were severe. For years, I had been the one meticulously managing her diet. Every time she had an attack, I would spend hours standing over the stove to simmer stomach-soothing soup.

In the clash between my fading dignity and 20 years of deep-rooted devotion, habit won. I spent the afternoon cooking, packed the warm soup into a thermos, and drove straight to her office.

The moment I stepped off the elevator onto the executive floor, the atmosphere shifted. The employees avoided my eyes, some catching their breath as if they wanted to warn me about something, only to swallow their words and look away.

When my hand touched the doorknob of Diana's office, the sound of bright, unfiltered laughter drifted through the wood. Looking through the gaps in the blinds, I saw her sitting remarkably close to another person.

As soon as I pushed the door open, the two snapped their heads toward the entrance. Diana immediately pulled back, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Pierre? What brings you here?"

I didn't answer, my gaze landing straight on the nervous man. Up close, Tyler looked young, barely 19, while Diana was more than a decade his senior.

The guy was sunny and sharp.

My gaze dropped to the desk where sat a bowl of seafood oatmeal.

Diana was an incredibly picky eater who despised seafood—a visceral aversion that hadn't changed once in the two decades I had known her. Yet, she had already eaten a significant portion of the bowl he brought.

The sight hurt me deeply, but I kept my expression neutral as I walked over, picked up the bowl, and dropped it into the trash can.

Diana's face fell instantly, while Tyler pressed his lips together in a display of silent grievance.

"How long has this been going on?" I asked, placing my thermos on the desk.

My tone was casual, as if I were talking about the weather.

"Pierre, what is wrong with you?" Diana snapped, surging to her feet.

Tyler waved his hands frantically. "Sir, you've misunderstood! Diana helped me out in the past. When I heard her stomach was killing her today, I just wanted to return the favor. I didn't mean to..."

"You have a cat?" I cut him off, my voice flat. "We don't keep pets because of my rhinitis. Yet, lately, I've been picking cat hairs off the cuffs of her clothes while doing the laundry.

"And I looked up that white bear pendant on her keys. It's a couple's set. And yesterday, I found a stray lighter wedged down the side of her passenger seat. I don't smoke."

A sharp crack echoed through the office, cutting my words short.

A sharp, burning pain exploded across my cheek. I ran my tongue against the inside of my lip, the metallic taste of blood immediately filling my mouth.

Diana's chest heaved with ragged breaths. She yanked Tyler behind her back, her voice pitching into a defensive shriek.

"Are you done?" she glared. "My family took you in. We fed and sheltered you! Do you honestly think you've earned the right to act like my keeper?

"I already told you nothing is going on. Tyler is just a friend, but you just won't stop pushing!"

In her blind, escalating fury, she grabbed the thermos and hurled the contents at me. The scalding liquid splattered across my forearms and hands.

Painful blisters rose on my skin within seconds. I clenched my fists, the physical agony of the burns blurring into the emotional wreckage of her words.

I couldn't tell which part of me was hurting worse.

The loud shattering of the thermos and the shouting brought the outside office to a dead halt. Dozens of employees were now staring through the glass partition.

Diana froze, a flash of sudden regret crossing her face as she instinctively reached toward her desk drawer for burn ointment.

But Tyler chose that exact moment to bow deeply. "I'm so sorry, sir. This is all my fault. Diana and I are completely innocent. Please, don't ruin your marriage over me."

With that single sentence, the guilt in Diana's eyes evaporated, instantly replaced by a cold, protective anger. She stopped looking for the medicine and pointed a shaking finger at the door.

"Get out!" she hissed. "This is a place of business, not your stage."

My face throbbed, and my hands burned like fire. I walked out of the building in a daze, the judgmental whispers of her staff following me with every step.

Diana's secretary caught up with me, her expression a mask of forced corporate formality.

"Ms. Grant just issued an official directive. Moving forward, you are prohibited from entering the corporate property without her authorization. Your facial recognition profile and digital keycards have already been wiped from the security database."

Diana didn't come home until well after ten o'clock that night.

She stood in the entryway for a long, heavy moment before unceremoniously dropping an assortment of shopping bags onto the floor. Among the designer logos, she carried a box of my favorite blueberry cake.

I sat motionless on the sofa, keeping my eyes fixed straight ahead.

Diana approached, holding a tube of burn cream. She crouched down in front of me, dabbing the ointment onto my hand with extreme care.

I stayed silent. Every time we fought, she did exactly this. She would buy the things I loved, convinced that throwing money at a conflict would fix it.

For over 20 years, that tactic had never failed her. I had forgiven her every single time.

This time, I simply yanked my hand back. She froze mid-motion, her fingers suspended in the air.

"I'm going to start looking for a job tomorrow," I said evenly. "I won't be staying here anymore."

She raised an eyebrow, her gaze finally shifting past me to notice the suitcase propped against the door.

"Pierre, are you seriously throwing a tantrum right now?" she scoffed, pushing herself to her feet. "Looking for a job? Do you have any clue how many years it's been since you last touched a legal file?

Her sharp taunts cut through the room. "Eight years. You've been out of the game for eight whole years. Do you seriously think you can just waltz back into a firm? You're joking. You probably can't even remember half the state bar rules."

She wasn't worried for a second, completely writing off my decision as a ridiculous bluff. But she wasn't wrong.

Eight years was a lifetime in this field. I'd drifted too far from my career.

"Don't bother. I've got my plans," I said, letting out a dry laugh. "Might as well clear the way for your little boyfriend. That way, he doesn't have to hide in the shadows anymore."

Diana gritted her teeth, pinning me with a sharp, freezing stare.

"Don't bother? Pierre, don't you dare forget who you are. Without me and my family, you'd still be a homeless orphan living on the streets. Your father was an institutionalized schizophrenic. Did you finally inherit his crazy genes?"

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, freezing me to the core.

My mother was dead, and my father was broken. That stigma had been glued to me since the day I was born. In the orphanage, everyone had kept their distance from me, as if trauma were contagious.

The girl I grew up with had protected me from that past. I had almost forgotten it existed. But now, she was slapping that same degrading label back on me without a second thought.

I lifted my head and looked her in the eye. "You think I'm crazy too?"

My voice wavered, thick with a sudden rush of emotion.

She took a deep breath, then tossed the tube of burn cream into the trash can.

"I've been sick of this for years," she spat, unleashing a torrent of built-up resentment. "Ever since we were kids, you've been breathing down my neck, controlling every little thing I do. Who the hell do you think you are?

"I let you have your way half the time, but can you just leave me alone already? I'm exhausted. Sometimes, I think the gossip was right. No wonder you were abandoned. Who could put up with a jinx like you?"

A wave of intense nausea rolled through my empty stomach, a bitter lump forming in my throat. I couldn't throw up or swallow it.

The ten-year-old Diana, the 17-year-old Diana... I had spent years trying to fuse all those cherished versions of her into the woman standing before me.

But she felt like a total stranger. The way she looked at me held no affection—only deep annoyance and indifference.

"Is this because of Tyler?" I asked, my hands trembling. "Is that why you're saying all this?"

We'd been together longer than we'd been apart, but now the last illusions were popping like soap bubbles.

Diana looked down at me, her expression entirely cold. "Tyler and I are exactly what you think we are. I need some excitement in my life, Pierre. If you can't handle that, we can get a divorce."

She paused, a slow, cruel smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "But let's be real. Can you give up this perfect, luxurious life? What could you amount to without me?"

I didn't come to my senses until Diana left the house.

When I first left the orphanage to live with the Grant family, I thought I had finally found a home. But over the years, I realized I would never stand on equal footing with Diana.

I studied relentlessly, worked myself to the bone, and fought tooth and nail to build a career. Yet, in Diana's eyes, I remained a mere freeloader living off her family's wealth.

I sat alone in the dark living room all night until my phone vibrated. It was Diana. Her tone was completely casual, almost playful, as she spoke. "Pierre, I found your father. He's still alive."

A loud, violent ringing exploded in my ears. For a split second, the world went entirely silent.

"Give me the address," I said eagerly, clutching my phone.

I was terrified she was playing a cruel trick. For 25 years, I had never stopped searching for my father. Even knowing the severity of his mental illness, I desperately wanted to see him one more time—to lay eyes on the only blood relative I had left in the world.

The moment the text with the address came through, I didn't hesitate. I didn't stop to question if it was real. I drove blindly, far too fast, and rear-ended the vehicle in front of me.

Before I could react, a semi-truck came barreling forward, causing my car to spin out violently and flip onto the shoulder of the road.

Cuts and bruises lined the entire side of my body. The panicked truck driver rushed over, frantically trying to call an ambulance, but I merely wiped the blood from my face, shook my head, and stepped away.

The crash had occurred just a few blocks from the address Diana sent. Bleeding and dazed, I began to walk, taking one agonizingly slow step after another.

The closer I got to the private lounge, the harder my heart hammered against my ribs. My breath caught as my fingers curled around the brass doorknob.

Forcing myself to hold it together, I pushed the door open. What greeted me was loud whistles and raucous laughter.

"He's here! He fell for it!"

"Diana, that husband you've kept is so obedient. He's practically a trained puppy."

I froze in the doorway, my heart slamming painfully against my chest. I had braced myself for the worst, but the reality hit so hard it stole the breath from my lungs.

I felt entirely hollow, stripped of any remaining power.

"Diana, you won the bet," Tyler chuckled, swirling a glass. "I'll take a drink to pay up. But honestly, isn't it a little messed up to lie to him like that?"

His voice snapped me out of my trance. Only then did I look around and notice the decorations. It wasn't a reunion; it was Tyler's birthday party, filled with Diana's wealthy circle of friends.

Diana took one look at my bloodied, disheveled state and frowned. Rising from her seat, she walked over to me and lowered her voice.

"It's Tyler's birthday. We're just playing a game, Pierre. Don't take it so seriously," she whispered. "I'm still looking for any leads on your father, but there's nothing so far. Let's talk once this party is over."

From across the room, someone shouted over the music, "Pierre, give it up already! Your dad's probably been dead for years. He was a nutjob anyway. What do you expect from him, fatherly love?"

Another round of roaring laughter broke out, but Diana didn't even attempt to stop them.

"Since you're here, just stay and celebrate Tyler's birthday with us," she said, reaching out to grab my arm.

I flinched away before her fingers could make contact. Ignoring the sudden darkness in her expression, I turned on my heel to leave.

Behind me, her voice rose with anger. "If you walk through that door, don't you dare come back!"

I didn't slow down for even a second or look back.