My husband, Julian Vaughn, was a star architect.

One day, he was drugged by a new intern at his firm, which led to a one-night stand.

The next morning, he called me, his voice hoarse from a hangover and filled with an unfamiliar panic.

"Clara, I messed up. But don't worry, I gave her more than enough money to get her out of the city for good."

After ten years of marriage, I believed it was a momentary lapse in judgment.

Six months later, Julian's firm was in the final, critical stages of bidding for a landmark project.

I rushed over from my art gallery, only to be met with a shocking scene at the door of the model room.

Julian stood before the massive architectural model, a weariness and guilt so profound it felt foreign on his features.

The doctor said the intern, a woman named Chloe Jensen, was three months pregnant. She'd been matching his grueling hours in the model room and was now at risk of a miscarriage.

Later, Chloe gave birth to a pair of fraternal twins, a boy and a girl.

The entire Vaughn family was ecstatic.

My fingertips ice-cold, I slipped the Cartier wedding band from the finger where it had rested for ten years.

I sent a text to a number saved only by a last name: "Sterling."

"I accept your offer."

A moment later, my phone vibrated.

A single phrase lit up the screen: "Awaiting your command."

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1

I stood at the end of the corridor in the VIP obstetrics center of New York's best private hospital, my nails digging deep into my palms. The expensive white tea aromatherapy couldn't mask the cloying scent of milk that permeated the air, nor the cheap cherry blossom perfume clinging to Chloe.

I had spent my life working with color and composition, and at this moment, the two scents swirled into a discordant mess that grated on my senses.

Through the glass, I watched Julian's parents, Eleanor and Harrison, beaming with joy, each holding a swaddled infant.

And Julian—the man who was always so calm and self-possessed, who'd always said the structure of a building was more reliable than human emotion—was now gazing down at his daughter with a tenderness I had never witnessed, gently kissing her forehead.

How ironic. They looked like the perfect family, while I was the unwelcome intruder.

Julian looked up and saw me, his smile freezing instantly. "Clara, you're… you're back from the Hamptons."

I said nothing. His mother, Eleanor Vaughn, holding her newborn grandson, shot me a sidelong glance, her voice laced with an icy disdain that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

"So you remembered to come back? Did all that painting by the sea make you forget who you are? Staring at the ocean all day. Planning to achieve enlightenment out there?"

"It's good that you're back." Julian's father, Harrison Vaughn, tried to smooth things over, though his eyes never left the baby girl in his arms. "The children will be a month old soon. You're Julian's wife, you should help manage things."

Eleanor's expression softened. "The situation with the children needs to be sorted out. You and Julian should discuss it. Don't worry, we Vaughns aren't unreasonable. As long as you play your part, your place as Mrs. Vaughn is secure."

I looked at the patronizing pity on their faces, nodded, and said only one word.

"Okay."

After the two elders handed the babies back and left, Julian's phone rang. He glanced at me and stepped out onto the adjacent balcony to take the call.

Only Chloe and I were left in the room. Her complexion was rosy, her face glowing with a maternal radiance, and even her hair was impeccably styled. It was clear the Vaughns had spared no expense on her these past few months.

"Mrs. Hayes," she began timidly, like a frightened fawn. "I know I was wrong. You can punish me however you want, I just beg you not to be angry with Mr. Vaughn anymore. He only has you in his heart. While you were away, he had the housekeeper clean your studio every day, paranoid it would get dusty."

"Chloe," I cut her off, my voice sharp. "There's no need to act in front of me. The money Julian gave you was enough to buy a penthouse in any major city and never work another day in your life. You could have vanished without a trace, but you chose to show up six months later, pregnant, in front of him."

"Don't think I can't see through your little tricks."

Her face turned deathly pale. Suddenly, Chloe snatched one of the babies from the bed and thrust him into my arms. The sudden weight of the warm, soft bundle, thick with the scent of milk, made my entire body go rigid. The next second, she raked her nails quickly across the infant's face.

A heart-wrenching wail pierced my eardrums. Julian burst in like a gust of wind and shoved me away.

I staggered back against the wall, watching him shield the child as if it were a priceless treasure. When he turned to look at me, his eyes were filled with crushing disappointment and fury.

Chloe sobbed breathlessly beside him. "Mr. Vaughn, I just wanted Mrs. Hayes to hold the baby, to like our children, but she…"

Julian's voice was glacial. "Clara, Chloe is being discharged tomorrow. Since you can't tolerate the children, I want you to go to the Hamptons house. Take some time to cool off."

I bit my lower lip until I tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

I sat in that tomb-like villa from dusk until dawn. It was for the best. At least I wouldn't have to see their happy family of four or smell that nauseating mixture of scents.

Memories flooded back like a relentless tide. I had been with Julian since the beginning, watching him grow from a talented young architect into a superstar in his field. For ten years, we were known as the model couple in our circle.

The first time, he was drugged by a business rival and slept with Chloe, who was then just an intern. He called me immediately, his voice trembling. "Clara, I was set up! I swear on my honor, it was just this once! I've handled it, she'll never appear in front of us again!"

I believed him. But six months later, a pregnant Chloe reappeared, using her father's unemployment and desperation as an excuse to find Julian while he was out drunk at a social event.

He knelt before me, weeping and clutching my legs, but I gave him one last choice.

"Julian, either we divorce, or you make her disappear."

"I won't divorce you!" he roared, his eyes red, like a trapped beast. "Clara, I can't live without you! But… but I have to be responsible for her, too…"

He wanted me, but he also wanted to uphold his "responsibility."

Shaking off the memories, I took out my phone and pressed send in the darkness.

It was a text I had composed long ago: "Let's get a divorce."

Less than ten minutes later, the villa's smart lock alarm blared as it was forced open. Julian rushed in, his forehead beaded with cold sweat. "Clara! I don't agree to a divorce!"

I sat silently on the sofa, watching his loss of control, and sighed softly. "Let go, Julian. I'm tired."

"I told you, she won't affect our relationship, and she won't affect your position!" he said desperately.

Just then, his phone rang shrilly. Chloe's tear-choked voice came through the receiver, loud and clear.

"Mr. Vaughn! The baby won't stop crying! He's burning up! I think Mrs. Hayes scared him! The doctor said it's serious, we might need to go to the ER!"

Julian's expression froze. He looked at me, then at his phone, his eyes filled with an agonizing struggle.

Finally, he spoke with great difficulty. "Clara, I… I have to go check on them…"

I watched his hasty retreat and suddenly let out a low laugh. So this was my marriage. A divorce negotiation, forced to take a backseat to another woman and her children.

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Go on," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Your children need you."

Julian fled in a panic, never once looking back at me, the rush of air he left in his wake brushing against my face.

I sat alone in the darkness, without turning on the lights, and without crying. I knew Julian would probably never marry Chloe. But because of those two children, he would be called away by her again and again.

I had painted thousands of pictures, where light, color, and lines were distinct yet harmoniously unified. But my own life had been forcibly invaded by a garish, discordant color.

If I didn't get a divorce, how long would I have to endure this contamination? A lifetime?

A familiar wave of dizziness washed over me, and my hands began to tremble uncontrollably. I curled up on the sofa and opened my phone.

Chloe had posted an Instagram Story. In the photo, Julian stood vigil by an incubator, his profile haggard, his expression a mixture of panic and worry I had never seen before.

The caption read: "With you here, I'm not afraid."

I smiled bitterly and called my lawyer, telling him to draft the divorce papers. Then, I went to the gallery I had co-founded, Galerie Hayes, now one of New York's top art galleries.

When the HR director saw my resignation letter, she nearly spilled her coffee. "Clara, you're resigning? Does Julian know about this?"

I smiled faintly. "He's very busy right now."

Seeing the flicker of pity in her eyes, I knew the entire New York art scene was laughing at me.

I returned to the Hamptons villa, once our sanctuary for short stays and creative inspiration. My small studio was still tucked away here.

While packing, I found a yellowed napkin tucked inside a sketchbook. It was Julian's handwriting, youthful and bold.

On it was the first house design he had ever sketched for me.

"Clara, I don't know when you'll find this. But when you do, I hope we have a couple of kids running around—one who looks just like you, and another one like me."

"I love you, Clara. No matter what happens in the future, you're not allowed to leave me."

Tears fell unbidden onto the paper, blurring the ink. Suddenly, a violent wave of dizziness hit me, more intense than ever before. My vision went black, and I collapsed to the floor.

I woke up to the ringing of my phone.

"Clara Hayes! What the hell are you trying to do!" Julian's furious voice exploded from the receiver, making my ears ring. He rarely called me by my full name.

"Chloe has been careful enough, accommodating enough! I've told you countless times that she won't affect you! Why are you sending her threats? Cursing my children, Clara? What the hell is wrong with you?"

I had no idea what he was talking about. Threatening messages? The accusation was so absurd I felt dizzy. He hadn't even bothered to ask if it was me; he had already convicted me.

"Are you finished?" My voice was as calm as stagnant water.

My reaction seemed to surprise him, and his anger subsided slightly. "Next Sunday is the children's christening party. You have to be there. Clara, please, stop making a scene, okay?"

"Okay."

After hanging up, I stared at the waves outside the window and suddenly felt that everything had lost its meaning.

…

On the day of the christening party, I arrived without any makeup. Among the guests glittering with jewels and designer clothes, I looked like an out-of-place ghost. Everyone looked at me with a mixture of pity, curiosity, and schadenfreude.

In the center of the ballroom, Chloe, dressed in a striking red gown, nestled against Julian like a delicate bird, smiling as if she were the true lady of the house.

Eleanor saw me and frowned impatiently. "Since you're here, you might as well hold the children and share in the joy."

Julian brought his daughter to me, his voice low and tinged with a plea. "Clara, I won't pursue the matter of the texts. I know you're upset."

"After today, I'll arrange for Chloe to go abroad. The children… we'll register them under your name. I know you can't…"

He trailed off, his gaze complex as he looked at me. I knew what he wanted to say.

A few years ago, I had undergone major surgery for severe endometriosis. The doctors said it would be very difficult for me to ever have my own children.

He had held me and sworn that just the two of us were enough for a lifetime, that he wanted nothing else but me. And now he was saying, "Isn't this the best solution?"

It was as if the surgeon's scalpel from years ago had sliced me open all over again, the old wound tearing apart with an agony that stole my breath. Just then, the baby girl in my arms started coughing violently. A red rash quickly spread across her small face, and her breathing became ragged.

"Something's wrong with the baby!" someone screamed.

Chloe lunged at me like a madwoman, her voice sharp enough to shatter glass. "Clara! If you have a problem, take it out on me! Why would you hurt my child!"

A powerful shove sent me to the ground. It was Harrison who had pushed me.

My head snapped to the side, and I fell, seeing stars. My elbow scraped against the floor, burning with pain, and my mouth instantly filled with the metallic taste of blood.

Julian instinctively reached out to help me up. His fingertips had just brushed my arm when the boy let out a sharp cry, his face breaking out in the same alarming rash.

The scene descended into utter chaos.

"Mr. Vaughn!" Chloe screamed desperately, positioning herself between us like a magnet. "My son! Save my son!"

The hand Julian had extended toward me trembled violently in mid-air. I could clearly see the struggle and guilt in his eyes being swallowed, bit by bit, by panic and heartache.

Slowly, he retracted his hand. He turned and picked up the boy who was struggling to breathe.

The scent of disinfectant was overwhelming in the hospital corridor. I stood in a sterile white maze, feeling a bit lost. The prepared divorce papers slipped from my coat pocket and fluttered to the floor.

Eleanor's sharp eyes spotted them. She stepped forward, snatched them up, and after reading the contents, slapped them across my face. The edge of the paper cut my cheek, leaving a fine, stinging scratch.

Her well-maintained face was twisted with disgust. "You venomous woman! After all these years, how has the Vaughn family ever wronged you? Tell me!"

"For the sake of that worthless gallery of yours, Julian fought with us so many times, and we put up with it! Now you can't even stand two innocent children?"

"Since you're so eager to leave, then get out! Get out of my sight!"

I silently bent down and picked up the dusty papers. The door to the PICU opened, and Julian walked out, his eyes red. "The children… they're safe."

He looked at me with the fury of someone staring at a murderer. "Clara, this time you've really gone too far."

Trembling, I handed him the divorce papers. "Let's… end this."

His pupils constricted as he stared at me. "Are you sure?"

"I'm tired," I said, holding back tears. "I'm afraid of what else might happen if I stay."

"Fine! Just fine!" he snarled, snatching the papers from my hand. He pulled a pen from his pocket, viciously signed his name, and then threw the pen to the ground. It snapped in two with a sharp crack.

"You got what you wanted, Clara!"

I returned to what was once our penthouse in Manhattan.

Maria Lopez, our housekeeper of many years, ran over in a panic. "Ma'am! Your face…"

I looked around and realized that my favorite Rothko original was gone from the living room, and the enormous wedding portrait had also vanished. My private studio had been completely cleared out, replaced by a playroom filled with luxury brand baby supplies.

In this home, all traces of me had been erased. Maria nervously wrung her hands.

"It was… Miss Jensen. She moved in while she was pregnant. She said the smell of paint made her dizzy, so Mr. Vaughn had everything put away."

The lock clicked, and Julian walked in, supporting Chloe. She leaned against him, her face showing the perfect amount of surprise when she saw me.

"Mrs. Hayes, what are you doing here?"

Her tone suggested she was the lady of the house.

"Where are my things?" I stared at Julian, my voice trembling.

Julian sneered, pulling Chloe closer into his embrace. "Since we're getting a divorce, why do you still care about these things?"

Chloe approached with false sincerity, trying to take my hand. "Mrs. Hayes, please don't blame Mr. Vaughn. I was just weak during my pregnancy, and I was afraid of damaging those precious paintings…"

"Don't touch me!" I snapped, pulling my hand away as if I'd been burned.

She cried out and fell backward dramatically. Julian caught her in a flash, anxiously checking her from head to toe.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt anywhere?"

Watching the two of them, a wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I turned and walked away.

Julian's voice, laced with anger, followed me. "Clara! You stop right there!"

I didn't look back. I didn't want him to see me in such a pathetic state.

Sometime while I was inside, a downpour had begun. I wandered aimlessly through the streets like a soulless puppet. The rain washed away the tears on my face, cold and biting.

After what felt like an eternity, I was heading to my car in the underground parking garage when two masked men cornered me.

"Well, well, isn't it Mrs. Hayes," the leader said, approaching with a lecherous grin. "Someone paid us to 'take good care' of you."

He leaned in closer and took a deep breath. "Smells so good. The abandoned wife of a star architect really is different."

My fingers fumbled for my phone, subconsciously dialing the number etched into my muscle memory. The call connected instantly. But what came through wasn't salvation—it was Julian's gentle voice.

"Don't be scared, it was just a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

He was talking to Chloe.

"Julian! Help me!"

"Clara, I don't have time to play your games right now."

The line went dead. When I tried to call back, all I got was a cold, robotic voice. Icy rainwater mixed with desperate tears, trickling into the corner of my mouth, bitter and salty.

"Go on, scream! No one's coming for you!"

The attacker's hand reached for the collar of my coat, just about to touch me. I closed my eyes, my nails digging into my palms, feeling nothing but a chilling cold.

Suddenly, a few dull thuds and the crisp sound of cracking bones exploded next to my ear, followed by agonized screams.

Thank God, the assault never came.

I opened my eyes, trembling, to see the two masked men lying twisted on the ground.

At the garage exit, a tall figure stood against the light, striding toward me through the rain. His custom-made black leather shoes stepped through puddles with unhurried elegance. The rainy night was too dark to see his face clearly.

"Can you stand?" A slender, well-defined hand reached out to me, its knuckles scraped and bloodied.

Following the hand upward, I saw a pair of bottomless eyes. In the dark night, they were as sharp as a falcon's. His face was a mask, but an almost palpable power radiated from him.

I recognized him. He was Julian's biggest business rival, a man known on Wall Street for his ruthless methods—Rhys Sterling.

I opened my mouth to thank him, but my vision suddenly went black, and my body pitched forward. His strong arms caught me effortlessly.

Before I lost consciousness completely, I caught a faint, cool scent. Ambergris.