Haskell Francis saw her standing by the elevator, his eyes flicking down to the suitcase at her feet. A flicker of surprise crossed his handsome features before it was quickly masked by his usual cool indifference.

He loosened his tie. "Going somewhere this late?" he asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking if she was going for a walk.

Julissa looked up at him. At this man she had loved for two years. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, his posture perfect, but there was a weariness in his brow.

She didn't answer. She just stared, her gaze cold and clinical, like an X-ray trying to see through flesh and bone to the lies beneath.

"I asked you a question, Julissa." A note of impatience entered his voice.

A bitter, mocking smile twisted her lips. "What's wrong, Haskell? Did you finally finish celebrating your 'daughter's' birthday and remember you have a home?"

Haskell's eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression remained unchanged. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was at the office. A cross-continental conference call."

He said it so smoothly. So confidently. If she hadn't seen the photograph, she might have almost believed him.

He brushed past her, walking into the apartment. He tossed his jacket onto the sofa. As the fabric settled, a scent wafted towards her. It was sweet, cloying, and utterly foreign to their home.

Chanel's Coco Mademoiselle.

Julissa knew it well. It was Anastasia's signature scent.

The smell was like a silent, vicious slap across her face.

The last of her self-deception shattered. Her body went cold.

Haskell walked into the kitchen, saw the empty dining table and the chaotic mess in the trash can. He frowned.

He came back out, his voice laced with accusation. "I told you I wasn't coming home for dinner. Why do you do this? Cook all this food just to throw it away like a lunatic?"

"Did you?" Julissa asked softly, her voice hollow. "I didn't receive any message."

"I had my assistant, Leo, call you," Haskell said, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation.

Julissa pulled out her phone. She showed him the screen. The call log was pristine. No missed calls from Leo Clark.

Another lie. He couldn't even be bothered to make it a believable one.

"Enough, Julissa," Haskell said, his patience clearly gone. "I've had a long day. I don't have the energy to play your childish 'do you love me' games."

He moved towards her, reaching for her suitcase. "Put your things back. Stop this nonsense."

Julissa recoiled, taking a sharp step back as if his touch were toxic.

"Don't touch me." Her voice was quiet, but it was sharp with a chilling revulsion. "You're filthy."

Haskell's face finally darkened. A storm brewed in his gray eyes. "What did you just say?"

"What did I say?" A desperate, broken laugh escaped her. "You come home smelling of another woman and you ask me what I said?"

"Haskell, we've been married for two years. What am I to you? A decoration? A fool you can lie to whenever you please?"

The questions poured out of her, each word edged with pain.

"Anastasia is my friend," he said, his explanation flat and rehearsed. "Her husband died. It's my duty to take care of her and her daughter."

"A friend?" Julissa repeated the word, the irony choking her. "A friend whose arm you hold like a lover? A friend whose daughter's birthday is more important than your own wife?"

Haskell's lips pressed into a hard, thin line. He stopped explaining. "This is my business," he said, his voice cold and hard. "You just need to do your duty as Mrs. Francis."

That single sentence extinguished the last flicker of hope in Julissa's heart. Her duty? Her duty was to tolerate her husband's affair and be grateful for it?

"I can't do it anymore," she said, her voice suddenly calm. "Haskell Francis, we're done."

She didn't look at him again. She pulled her suitcase, turned, and pressed the down button for the elevator.

Haskell stood frozen in the entryway, watching her resolute back. The crystal chandelier cast a long, lonely shadow behind him.