I was the ghostwriter of the Sterling Group’s success, the unseen wife of its CEO, Pablo Sterling.

But my humble background meant I was never allowed at the victory celebrations for the triumphs I had engineered.

I’d masterminded eighteen campaigns that dragged the company back from the brink. Yet, for our anniversary, he refused to even acknowledge me as the project’s lead creator. This, the nineteenth event, was supposed to be different. He’d finally agreed to let me attend as "Mrs. Sterling."

My heart soared. I slipped into the haute couture gown I’d been saving and spent hours preparing, only to arrive and find another woman—socialite Sloane Davenport—already standing at his side.

Their fingers were laced together, a portrait of perfect love. And the three-year retrospective video I’d poured my soul into? Replaced. In its place was a slideshow of them, flaunting their romance at one high-profile event after another.

Pablo’s arm was possessively wrapped around Sloane’s waist. He looked at me with disgust, his gaze coming from the same blue eyes I’d once found myself lost in.

"The muse for my brand needs to be someone who truly represents the Sterling Group's image," he said, his voice cold. "Besides, you were never really part of the creative process. Sloane will be taking over your role."

His fingertips brushed my arm, a touch so light it felt like a brand, as he whispered a venomous warning not to embarrass him.

Everyone stared, waiting for the meltdown. But I didn't scream. I didn't cry. Instead, a wave of relief washed over me. I could finally breathe.

Because in three days, the three-year marriage contract between Pablo and me would officially expire.

————————

1

Pablo Sterling was convinced I was hopelessly in love with him. It made him careless. He betrayed me again and again, forgetting we were bound by a contract—a contract with an expiration date.

Right after Pablo announced Sloane Davenport’s new title, she triumphantly flashed the custom "Muse" diamond bracelet on her wrist, a clear symbol of her new status. Her eyes were alight with victory, daring me to react.

But I felt no anger. I simply handed her the tablet that controlled the night’s presentation and walked out of the banquet hall without a backward glance.

After all, Pablo and I were only bound by a three-year business arrangement. With the contract ending and my replacement already chosen, I felt nothing but relief.

Returning to our penthouse apartment, I started packing.

Three years, gone in the blink of an eye. I stared at the eighteen framed campaign posters lining the wall, relics of my work. A strange numbness settled over me.

I was Pablo's wife, but he had never wanted me as a partner. He had signed a three-year marriage agreement with me solely to stabilize his company's position.

The day we signed the papers, he’d looked at me with cold detachment. "I don't understand why it had to be you," he'd said, his voice flat. "Your background… it doesn't fit the Sterling image. But a deal's a deal."

"So, Cora, I need your talent to help the group through this crisis. In three years, we go our separate ways."

As a designer, the chance to contribute to such a renowned company was thrilling, and I nodded without a second thought.

From that day on, Pablo mentored me, teaching me the ins and outs of the business. "Even as a designer, as my wife, you have to know how to lead a brand project," he’d said.

In the early days, he checked on my creative progress daily. But at some point, he simply stopped asking.

Because of my background, Pablo never wanted me in the public eye. But he still needed someone to do the actual work.

So, our "joint efforts" became my solo responsibilities. I orchestrated every event, down to the last detail.

Determined not to waste his guidance and desperate to prove my worth, I always began preparations three months in advance, ensuring every aspect was flawless.

From the visual design's theme and color palette to the media selection and seating charts, I personally vetted everything. On top of that were the guest lists, venue decor, and the event’s entire rundown.

Pablo had once promised that for the final event before our contract expired, I could design it however I wished.

So for this nineteenth brand event, I had poured my own tastes into it. I even produced a retrospective video of our collaboration over the years, a final, poignant farewell to our time together.

But when I arrived, I found it all erased.

My minimalist white theme had been swallowed by tacky gold decorations and garish, overlit fixtures. The video I’d worked so hard on was gone, replaced by a slideshow of Pablo and Sloane’s public displays of affection.

I thought I wouldn't care. I was leaving, after all. But watching my farewell party morph into their coronation, the memory of it all was a surprisingly sharp pang in my chest.

It held every professional milestone we'd shared over the past three years.

There were clips of Pablo patiently guiding me in the office, of him standing by my side during our first successful project, of the moment he gifted me my first professional-grade design pen.

Remembering all that, while watching my farewell party morph into their coronation, a sharp pang of… something… pierced my chest.

Did he even remember this was my last event for the company? As he flaunted Sloane, did he have any clue that our contract—our entire marriage—had only three days left before it dissolved into nothing?

Back in my study, I gazed at the posters from the eighteen events I’d planned. They were a testament to my hard work, my memories.

I took them down, one by one. Just as the last frame came off the wall, the intercom buzzed.

His voice, sharp and accusatory, crackled through the speaker. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? This schedule is a mess. I can't make head or tail of it, and Sloane is completely overwhelmed!"

I was speechless. Still, a lingering sense of duty compelled me to offer, "Do you want me to come back and manage it?"

A pause. "Forget it. Just stay put."

Then, silence.

I was still packing when Pablo barged into the study. "Not making you creative director was the best decision I ever made! Is this how Mrs. Sterling acts? Just walking out on her responsibilities?"

He yanked at his tie in frustration, revealing the faint, crimson smudges of lipstick on his collar.

Just then, Sloane drifted in behind him, her face a mask of pitiful innocence.

"Pablo, your suit is wrinkled. I brought a fresh one. It's all my fault, I should have familiarized myself with the schedule..."

Pablo’s expression instantly softened, his eyes filling with adoration. "It's not your fault. It’s Cora’s. Why did she have to make the rundown so needlessly complicated?"

"If you hadn't been there to handle all those guests tonight, I don't know what would have happened."

He turned on me, his voice dripping with fury. "Don't you think you owe me an explanation, Cora? The second things get tough, you run away and leave Sloane to clean up your mess. Thank God for Sloane. If she hadn't stepped up, you would have disgraced the entire company!"

Pablo and Sloane were waiting for a scene. It never came.

I just stood there, my expression unreadable.

For three years, they'd all assumed I was wrapped around Pablo's little finger—the dutiful wife, content to support him from the shadows.

And it was true, at first. I did love him. I poured every ounce of my passion into my work, and into him. But now? Nothing. The only reason I stayed was my passion for the craft itself.

My parents had nurtured my creative talents since I was a child. Those who saw my work called me a natural artist.

They hoped I would protect my own creative spark and use it to build a better life for the people I loved.

So when I learned I was to be Pablo's partner, I was overjoyed. I gave him everything—my love, my creativity, my time.

I worked tirelessly, diving into the complex worlds of finance and operations that were foreign to me. There were countless times I wanted to quit. But the thought that my work could bring the company success always spurred me on.

And, just as I’d hoped, I watched the company stabilize and flourish.

But as the company grew stronger, Pablo grew more distant. I told myself he was just busy. That is, until I saw a photo of him and Sloane on vacation in Italy, splashed across a gossip magazine.

I knew our marriage was a contract, but the betrayal was a physical ache in my chest.

That night, I tormented myself, asking why it wasn't me by his side. I was his wife. Why couldn't he just love me?

Back then, I fought back. I threw tantrums and caused scenes.

I couldn’t understand why all my efforts earned me nothing, not even a glance. But now I understood. Love couldn't be earned, only given.

...

My placid reaction was not what Pablo expected. The old Cora would have exploded.

He stared at me, dumbfounded, and took a step closer. "What did you just say?"

I met his gaze evenly. "I said, it's my fault. My fault for thinking that if I just worked hard enough, you'd choose to stay. My fault for believing that if I gave you my all, one day you would finally see me."

His brow furrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I opened my mouth to tell him about the contract, but I stopped myself.

He'd never cared. What was the point? In three days, our legal ties would simply cease to exist.

Sloane watched from the side, the feigned concern on her face melting away, replaced by a flicker of pure triumph.

Seeing the smug smile she couldn't quite suppress, I half-expected her to burst out laughing.

Pablo frowned, his annoyance clear. "What's the big deal about making Sloane the muse? Do you have to be so dramatic?"

I offered him a thin smile. "I'm not angry."

"Is this some new trick to get my attention?" he sneered. "Fine. You can spend the night in the guest room. Maybe it will help you remember your place."

It was his standard punishment.

I didn't argue. I just turned and walked away. I spent the night in the cold, sterile guest room, the distant sound of his and Sloane's laughter drifting from the master bedroom.

At dawn, I received an unexpected call from my father.

"The Global Pioneer Design Competition is today," he said, his voice urgent. "What are you still doing there? You worked too hard to get selected just to miss it."

The design competition.

Right. I’d almost forgotten. A month ago, I had poured everything into my application, hoping that a strong showing might finally earn me a sliver of Pablo's respect.

I didn't need his validation anymore, but I wasn't about to let my hard work go to waste. I nodded, my resolve firm, and headed to the competition venue.