In the most innocent years of my youth, I gave up passion for the illusion of love, entering a sexless marriage just to become Mrs. Francis Weston, the man I had adored in silence for ten long, aching years.

He wore his faith like armor, untouchable and unreachable.

Loving him felt like chasing smoke—beautiful, yes, but impossible to hold.

Before we even exchanged vows, he laid out his terms.

“No children,” he said, voice flat and unyielding. “And I won’t touch you.”

That was it.

No tenderness. No explanations. No room for questions.

So I turned to the only thing I still believed could make us a family.

I went to an adoption agency.

That’s how I met my son.

Percy. My little angel.

The gentlest soul I’ve ever known. I named him Percy and built my world around him, poured everything into loving him the way I never got to love Francis.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

When Percy was five, he went to Silverstone City to see a magic show. He was so excited that his little face lit up like it held the sun.

And then... he was gone.

Just like that.

I searched everywhere. Street corners, police stations, hospitals, shelters. Days bled into nights and back again. I didn’t sleep.

And then, the gut punch hit me.

Francis.

There he was, my cold, distant husband, standing with a pregnant woman cradled in his arms. They looked like a perfect family, with two children clinging to their sides.

And that woman? None other than his so-called adopted sister, Natasha.

For a moment, I thought I had to be hallucinating.

Had I really just seen that?

But then Natasha smiled, reached up, and rested her hand on his chest, confirming the truth I wasn’t ready to face.

"That kid may not be yours by blood,” she said, “but he was your wife’s whole world. You let him starve. And in the end, you left him to be torn apart by vultures for a ritual sacrifice? Was it worth it?

Oddly, Francis looked at her with a tenderness that was almost sickening, and sneered.

"The sacrifice was fake, Natasha. That boy isn't mine, and Kierra raised that kid as her own. Only when he’s dead will Kierra accept our two kids."

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my world shattering around me in slow motion. For so long, I had believed Francis was a good man. He wore morals like a second skin—ethics, discipline, devotion.

'A spiritual man,' I told myself.

The kind of man you could trust, depend on, and build a life with.

But I was wrong.

He wasn’t a man of substance—he was a man of performance. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, shrouded in borrowed integrity and borrowed righteousness.

Six years of marriage—six years of sacrifices, of silence, of pretending, of hoping.

And in the end, it was all a joke. Cruel, hollow, and fake.

——

Kierra's POV

I watched as Francis, usually so indifferent, dropped his mask.

He crouched down, pulling Natasha’s kids into his arms as if they were his flesh and blood.

“Natasha,” he murmured, his voice oddly soft. “Raising the three of you here in Silverstone is just a temporary cover. Once you've got your new identity, I’ll bring you back home. After all, Ella and Noah can’t stay here hiding forever.”

Natasha smiled, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Francis, I knew you were the best! You built Silverstone to keep me safe, right? I’ll be patient. I know you’ll take care of Kierra soon. Will you stay here tonight? It’s been forever since we had some time together…”

Her hand slid casually over him, her touch lingering, but Francis stiffened, his breath quickening.

“Natasha, you’re pregnant,” he said, his voice tinged with concern. “It’s not the right time."

Natasha quickly reasoned, "The doctor said it’s safe now. We can…"

Then, she saw Francis's hesitation.

Right then, Natasha stomped her foot in frustration. "If you won't touch me, is it because you've fallen for Kierra? Stop playing games."

His gaze remained tender, but his following words hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water.

"Back then, everyone said you were the one who seduced me. If I didn’t need to shift the public’s view, why else would I have married her? I never touched her in six years, and I’m sure as hell not starting now."

Then he kissed Natasha, a kiss that seemed to burn with a need I had never felt from him, as if she were the only person who mattered.

“My body belongs only to you, baby,” he whispered.

Even after their figures disappeared into the distance, I stood frozen in shock.

My heart felt like it had splintered into a thousand pieces, each one stabbing deeper as the truth sank in.

My legs refused to move. My hands were cold and trembling.

I wanted to scream, to shout, to make sense of what I'd just seen, but no sound came.

I had loved Francis in secret for ten years.

Ten years of longing. Ten years of sacrifice.

I gave up everything just for the chance to stand beside him.

But every time, he turned me away with that same distant indifference.

Everyone knew Francis for his unwavering faith, leading a life of simple devotion, prayer, and ritual, marked by abstinence and a complete avoidance of women.

But I believed, stupidly, that I could warm a man who had built his entire life around ice. I thought love could be enough.

Then came Natasha. She got into trouble.

The Westons were obsessed with appearances, grooming their sons to be noble, dignified, and restrained, and their daughters molded to be graceful, modest, and untouched.

But Natasha shattered all of that.

A scandal broke out: a livestream—raw, explicit, impossible to deny.

She brought a man home.

Into her room. Into her bed. Before marriage.

It was all caught on camera. The backlash was immediate and merciless.

To save the family's reputation, the Westons disowned her on the spot. Right then, Natasha was cast out in disgrace, stripped of her name, nearly left on the streets.

Kierra's POV

After that, Natasha vanished without a trace.

I never imagined it was Francis who had hidden her all along.

Even Silverstone City, that glittering, opulent place we built together, had been built for her. Every stone, every flower, every breath of that city existed for her protection.

At first, I thought the whole idea of a secret mansion to hide a mistress was just some old-fashioned myth. But then I found his journal.

Francis’s diary.

He’d poured everything—his time, his brilliance, his money—$600 million into building Silverstone City, claiming it was to bless Brookfield’s.

But the truth? It was all for Natasha.

Thinking of this, I pulled up the news article back when Natasha's indecent photos had been exposed.

I paused the video and captured the frame where the man’s hand flashed by. When I saw the red mole on his ring finger, I staggered and nearly collapsed.

It was Francis.

Even then, Francis loved Natasha. His marriage proposal to me had nothing to do with love; it was just a distraction for his family.

Just a decoy. A smokescreen.

Something to quiet his family while he protected the only woman he ever truly wanted.

Six years of cold silence, of celibacy, of nothingness.

He’d wrapped it all in the language of religion and said he wanted a life of simplicity and worship.

He prayed. Meditated. Disconnected from the world.

And like a fool, I supported him. I thought I was helping him find peace.

But this? This betrayal? I couldn’t forgive.

Francis had been living with Natasha and raising two children with her while I sat alone in our house, convinced that his rejection and reserved attitude were due to his sacred vow as a devout.

So, right there, standing on the riverbank, the cold wind cutting through me, my tears had nearly dried up.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

The pain was too deep, too vast, too empty.

As the sky began to lighten in the morning, I pulled out my phone and called my lawyer. “Atty. Lawson, help me prepare a divorce agreement.”

I hung up and, with a cold fire in my chest, began tearing through every corner of Silverstone City in search of Percy.

And since my husband was gone, it was up to me to save my son.

But I was still too late.

I tried everything—bribed one of Francis’s bodyguards, coaxed the location out of him.

But when I finally found him…

His body was barely recognizable.

The vultures, scavengers, had gotten to him. Picked him clean.

My baby. My beautiful, bright, gentle boy.

Percy had been murdered, then devoured. Feasted on like he was nothing.

I couldn’t breathe.

My legs buckled beneath me as I collapsed to the ground, the weight of it all pressing into my chest like a vice.

I wanted to scream—to rip the sky apart with the sound of my agony.

But no sound came.

Just air. Just pain. 'Percy! My baby!'

The words clawed their way out of my throat, raw and ragged.

The pain hit so hard I coughed up blood.

My vision blurred.

Though not my biological child, I devoted years of love and care to raising him. Although only five, Percy was way more sensible than kids twice his age.

He would just smile through the tears, hold my hand, and say, "Mommy, don't cry. I'm not hurt. I'm okay."

Such a small child, yet he already felt sorry that Francis always ignored me.

In six years of marriage, Francis had never given me a single gift. So Percy spent days carefully drawing a family portrait just for me.

He even used his pocket money to buy a rose from a street vendor, handing it to me with a shy smile.

“It’s from Daddy,” he said.

How could Francis do this? How could he destroy a child so pure?

I wrapped Percy’s tiny, lifeless body in my arms, the warmth long gone.

My knees nearly buckled, but I held on. “Don’t be scared, Percy. Mommy will take you away from here.”

But then one of Francis’s bodyguards stepped forward, blocking my path. “Mrs. Weston, you can’t take the child with you.”

I glared at him coldly, reached into my coat, and handed him a bank card.

“There’s $5 million in there,” I said.

He paused. Then snatched the card like a drowning man grabbing for air.

“Can I leave now?”

He glanced around nervously, then leaned in. “You can... but don’t tell anyone I let you take him.”

...

Later, I bought Percy his final suit. Arranged his cremation. Held his tiny urn to my chest and walked beside his ashes, numb.

Just like that, my bright, kind little boy had turned to dust.

When Francis finally came home, he opened the door to find me sitting there, cradling the urn like it was still warm.

He was dressed sharply. Slick. A businessman again, no longer cloaked in his monochromatic religious attire.

He paused, forcing sorrow on his face like it was just another role to play.

“News came from Silverstone City,” Francis said. “Percy... something happened to him.”

Kierra's POV

I didn’t look up.

Francis paused for a beat, his voice heavy with guilt. But I wasn’t buying it.

“Probably some occult group kidnapped him,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. “I heard they starved him for three days before he passed. When I found him, vultures had already picked him apart, and his bones... were treated like some ritual offering.”

He finished speaking and handed me a small, weathered photo of Percy taken before he died.

“Please accept my condolences,” he added, his voice too smooth, like it was rehearsed.

I calmly looked up at him. There were fresh, suspicious red marks on his neck, like a cruel joke reminding me just how foolish I was.

The mockery felt like a slap to my face.

For six years, I had played the dutiful wife, accepting a marriage without intimacy to stay close to him.

Every night, he claimed to be lost in worship, kneeling and praying for his 'supreme higher being,' but all I could think was that he was probably with Natasha.

Last night, he didn’t come home.

Of course, he didn’t. He had stayed in Silverstone with her.

He had no clue. No clue that I had already cremated Percy, his ashes quietly resting in my hands now, a painful reminder of everything I’d lost.

For days, I had been losing my mind.

I called the police, hired private investigators, and threw money at the problem as if it could bring him back. Exhausted and delirious, my body finally gave out, burning with fever.

And that was the day I was admitted to the hospital…

This was the first time Francis showed me the first flicker of tenderness I'd ever seen from him.

“Why don't you take a rest first, Kierra?” Francis asked in feigned concern, his words almost foreign to me. “I’ll take care of everything. I’ll find Percy. I’ll bring him home.”

But now? He handed me a broken photo of Percy as if somehow it would replace my son.

I wanted to laugh, but the tears burned my eyes.

“Francis, did you really treat Percy like your own child?” My voice cracked, but I couldn’t stop myself.

He froze for a moment, then nodded, convinced of his lies. "Certainly. We've maintained a celibate marriage, and Percy is our sole child.”

I laughed, though it wasn’t a sound of joy. It was bitter and cold.

He never even wanted to touch me.

So, how could he have had children with me?

We’d spent six years together, Francis in his world of spiritual rituals, while I desperately tried to win his affection. I racked my brain, thinking of ways to strengthen our marriage.

But Francis? He wasn’t worried about us. He was thinking about Natasha, about getting her back.

I trembled as I took the photo and said cynically, “You really worked hard, didn’t you?”

He thought I believed him.

Right then, Francis retreated to his study, calling Natasha in a voice that wasn’t quite as careful as it should’ve been.

“Natasha, Kierra believes it. She’s upset now, but she’ll come around in a few days. After that, I’ll bring Ella and Noah back.” His voice dropped lower, but there was an unmistakable spark of anticipation. “In three months at most, we’ll be a family. I’ll finally be able to be with you openly.”

I didn’t want to hear it, but the words cut through me, anyway.

The child we had raised together for five years, my son, was dead, and Francis hadn’t shed a single tear.

Instead, he was already planning the next steps as if nothing had happened.

I stood there, leaning against the wall, my body shaking as I laughed bitterly through my tears.

What was I doing?

What was I holding on to for six years?

Why had I stayed with him, compromising every part of myself?

It all came back to that moment ten years ago, at a party, when I saw Francis with such compassion save an injured bird.

I couldn’t let go of that image, that feeling. That secret crush slowly consumed me until I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.

Back then, my best friend had caught on and warned me with a serious look. “You really like him, don’t you? You’d better not, Kierra. Everyone knows Francis is not into women. Even if you were the most beautiful girl on the planet, he wouldn’t even look at you.”

But I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe it.

I chased him for ten years. I used every trick, played every game, and tried everything I could think of to get him to notice me. But he still ignored me.

Francis never smiled, never even looked my way.

I was ready to give up, to walk away. I cut up all the pictures of him, buried my secret crush diary, and promised my family I would settle for the marriage they arranged for me.