The building was quieter by evening.

Most employees had gone home, leaving behind only the faint hum of the air conditioners and the muted clicking of cleaning staff down the hall

l

I was still in my office, gathering files, when the door creaked open.

I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

The soft fragrance of Gwen’s designer perfume gave her away before her voice even did.

“Still working late, Jenna?”

I looked up, slowly closing the file in front of me. “Gwen.”

She leaned against the doorway, all casual charm and effortless poise. Her red heels gleamed beneath the warm light, her smile perfectly curved — but her eyes held nothing but disdain.

“It’s surprising,” she said, stepping inside. “You actually take this job seriously. I would’ve thought by now you’d be tired of pretending.”

“Pretending?” I repeated quietly.

She walked closer, her tone almost teasing.

“Come on, Jenna. You can drop the act. We both know you don’t belong here — not in this company, not in Elijah’s life. You were just... a convenient cover.”

Her words hit like tiny shards of glass, but I didn’t flinch. Not this time.

I stacked the papers neatly, pretending not to notice her circling around my desk like a vulture.

“If you’re here to gloat,” I said softly, “you can save your breath. You’ve already done that in front of the whole board.”

Gwen chuckled. “Oh, darling, that wasn’t gloating. That was just a little reminder of how high above you I stand.”

She reached out and picked up one of my sketches — a design draft I’d spent hours perfecting. Her eyes scanned it briefly before she dropped it carelessly back on the desk.

“Elijah asked me to look over the design proposals. I might make a few changes before he signs them.”

My jaw tightened. “You’re not part of the design team, Gwen.”

“But Elijah trusts my judgment,” she said sweetly. “Something you’ve failed to earn even after two years of marriage.”

My pulse quickened, anger rippling through my veins. I wanted to scream, to throw something, to make her see what she was doing — but I didn’t.

Instead, I met her gaze, calm and steady.

“You can have his attention, Gwen,” I said quietly. “You always could. But what you’ll never have is peace. Because no matter how many times you win, you’ll still be jealous of what you can’t destroy.”

Her smile froze. For the first time, her confidence cracked — just slightly.

“Jealous?” she repeated, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Jealous of *you*?”

I didn’t answer. I just stood up, gathering my bag.

“You hate me because you need me to exist,” I whispered. “Without me, there’s no one left to compete with.”

Gwen’s expression darkened, her voice lowering into a dangerous whisper.

“You think you’ve won something just because Elijah put a ring on your finger? Please. That ring was a transaction. You were the charity case — the pitiful substitute he needed when I wasn’t available.”

Her words burned.

For a moment, I froze — my hand tightening on my bag strap.

“You should’ve stayed hidden, Jenna. You had your quiet, pitiful life. You didn’t need to step into ours.”

She leaned closer, her perfume suffocating, her voice venom-sweet.

“You’ll lose everything soon. Elijah’s just playing his role. And when he’s done, he’ll come back to me. He always does.”

I forced myself to breathe, to hold her gaze without breaking.

“If you’re that certain,” I said softly, “why are you here trying to convince me?”

That single line stopped her.

Her smile wavered — just enough for me to see the flash of insecurity beneath it.

For all her arrogance, Gwen hated one thing more than anything else: doubt.

I stepped around her calmly and reached for the door. “Good night, Gwen.”

But just as I reached the handle, her voice sliced through the air.

“Does Elijah even know?”

I froze.

“Know what?” I asked quietly.

She tilted her head, smiling like a predator who had just scented blood.

“That you’re pregnant.”

My breath caught.

She laughed softly. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I have friends at the clinic. It wasn’t hard to find out. Three heartbeats, isn’t it?”

My fingers trembled on the door handle.

“How cruel of you, Jenna,” she continued, voice low and mocking. “To trap a man who doesn’t even want you — with children he’ll never love.”

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

“You don’t know anything about love,” I said hoarsely. “You only know how to take it.”

Then I pushed the door open and walked out before she could see me break.

---

In the corridor, I pressed my back against the wall, trying to breathe.

My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped my bag.

She knew.

Gwen knew about the pregnancy — and if she knew, it was only a matter of time before Elijah did too.

But the way she said it… the delight in her voice…

I knew she wouldn’t keep it quiet for long.

I clutched my stomach protectively, whispering through trembling lips,

“No one will hurt you. Not her, not him. I won’t let them.”

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside, wiping my tears before they could fall.

As the doors closed, my reflection stared back at me — pale, hollow-eyed, but still standing.

For the first time, I realized:

It wasn’t love that kept me here anymore.

It was a war.

And I was done losing.

The house was quiet when I returned.

The faint tick of the clock echoed through the wide, dimly lit living room.

Elijah sat on the couch, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. The city lights poured through the tall windows behind him, brushing against the sharp lines of his face.

He didn’t look up right away.

But I felt his eyes follow me the moment I stepped in.

I set my bag down by the stairs, keeping my voice steady. “I’m home.”

No response. Just the soft sound of ice clinking in his glass.

I didn’t wait for a greeting. I walked toward the kitchen, each step measured, calm. I’d long stopped expecting warmth.

Behind me, Elijah’s gaze lingered. He noticed.

How I didn’t ask if he’d eaten.

Didn’t ask if he wanted me to prepare anything.

Didn’t even glance in his direction.

She’s pretending I’m not here, he thought coldly.

His fingers tightened around the glass. She used to ask me everything — if I was tired, if I wanted dinner, if I was coming to bed. Now she moves like a stranger.

I filled a glass of water and drank quietly, my back turned to him.

She doesn’t even look anymore.

It’s like I’m invisible in my own house.

He leaned back slowly, his jaw tightening. He could tell she was keeping her distance deliberately, like she was playing a game.

Hard to get.

But Jenna didn’t look like a woman playing. Her eyes were hollow, her face pale from holding too much in.

When I walked past him again, he caught a faint trace of my perfume — familiar, clean, something that used to ground him. But tonight, it only made him restless.

She’s getting quiet. Too quiet.

For a long moment, he watched me walk away — no questions, no hesitation, no trace of the woman who used to wait by the door just to make sure he came home safe.

Now she just disappears.

His eyes dropped to his drink, the amber liquid catching the light

Let her keep pretending, he told himself.

Let her act indifferent.

It won’t last.

But as the sound of my footsteps faded up the stairs, his chest tightened unexpectedly — a flicker of something sharp and unfamiliar tightening inside him.

He didn’t understand it, didn’t want to.

He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly.

She’s really not going to say a word.

When he opened them again, the stairs were empty.

The house felt colder.

He lifted his glass, finishing what was left, letting the burn trail down his throat.

Maybe silence was what she wanted.

Fine. She could have it.

Yet as the quiet stretched through the room, he found himself listening — waiting — for the soft sound of her door closing upstairs.

And when it finally came, he realized he’d been holding his breath.

Sunlight crept through the tall curtains, spilling soft gold across the marble floor. The air was still — too still — except for the faint clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.

Jenna was already awake.

Elijah stood at the top of the stairs, his hair slightly disheveled, tie draped loosely around his neck. From where he stood, he could see her — sitting by the dining table, perfectly composed, sipping tea as if last night had never happened.

There was no trace of tears. No nervous glances in his direction. No greeting when he descended the stairs.

Just silence.

She didn’t even look up.

He paused halfway, eyes narrowing slightly. Something in his chest tightened — irritation or confusion, he couldn’t tell.

No “Good morning.”

No “Did you sleep well?”

Not even a polite nod.

She moved as though the house belonged only to her.

He walked toward the table, the sound of his shoes echoing lightly against the floor. She didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge him — not even when he sat down opposite her.

Her plate was neatly arranged — toast, sliced fruit, and a small cup of tea.

His side, untouched. Not even a second plate waiting for him.

She always set the table for two.

Always.

He stared at the empty space in front of him.

Then at her.

She calmly spread jam across her toast, her movements graceful and unhurried. The sunlight caught her face — pale, soft, unreadable. It annoyed him that he couldn’t read her anymore.

He cleared his throat slightly, though he didn’t say a word.

Still nothing.

Not even a glance.

She finished her tea, set the cup down gently, and stood. Her robe brushed lightly against the chair as she pushed it in.

“I’ll be late coming back today,” she said quietly. Her tone was calm — polite, almost distant — as if she were talking to a colleague, not her husband.

Elijah’s gaze lifted slowly, his expression unreadable.

She didn’t wait for permission or response.

She just turned and walked away.

No warmth. No tension. Just quiet finality.

He watched her go, his eyes following the gentle sway of her hair as she disappeared into the hallway.

The faint click of her heels on the marble grew softer until there was nothing left but silence.

He sat there for a long time afterward, his breakfast untouched.

Something about her calmness gnawed at him.

She’s too composed.

Too quiet.

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tracing the rim of his untouched coffee cup. He wasn’t used to this version of her — one that didn’t wait for him to speak, didn’t rush to please him, didn’t fill the silence with small talk just to keep the peace.

Now, there was only distance — neat, deliberate, and sharp.

He didn’t like it.

But he couldn’t say why.

At least when she cried, he could control the situation.

Now she gave him nothing to hold on to — no anger, no pleading, no tears.

Just quiet indifference.

He stood finally, buttoning his jacket with slow, steady movements. His reflection in the mirror looked the same as always — composed, commanding, unreadable — but something beneath the surface wasn’t as still.

He picked up his car keys, his thoughts colder than his expression.

She’s learning to pretend I don’t exist.

Fine. Let’s see how long she can keep it up.

He left without another word.

But as he stepped into the car, the faint sound of porcelain breaking from the kitchen reached him — soft, fragile, like something had slipped from trembling fingers.

He froze for half a second, his hand tightening on the steering wheel.

Then he looked away, started th

e engine, and drove off.

He told himself it didn’t matter.

But his heart didn’t agree.