Adeline and I had been secretly married for three years. She was eight months pregnant when she told me she wanted to give me a proper ceremony—one where we wouldn't have to hide anymore.

I believed her.

I stood on the stage that day, dressed in a tailored tuxedo, heart thudding, full of anticipation. Soft piano music played in the background. Everything had been carefully arranged. I smiled like a man who thought he had it all.

But the one walking down the aisle wasn't her. It was Daniel, her assistant.

He stormed up the stage, his expression a mixture of rage and triumph. He threw a paper at me—

A marriage certificate.

"Gavin, you shameless homewrecker," he barked. "You think getting my wife pregnant makes you her husband? Dream on."

Then he turned to the audience. "Aren't your parents supposed to be respectable? What kind of trashy homewrecker of a son did they raise?"

And there she was—Adeline—standing behind him in white. But not for me. Her eyes were cold, unreadable. When our gazes met, I felt like I'd plunged into hell.

I learned later what had really happened. She had legally married Daniel the day before what should have been our wedding. Not out of love. It was revenge—for the deaths of her childhood sweetheart and his mother.

In a single move, she destroyed me.

That night, my father collapsed in his study. The doctors said it was a heart attack brought on by stress and shame. He never got back up.

My mother slipped on the stairs during our rush to the hospital and fell into a coma from a spinal injury.

Then came the accusations. One by one, Adeline filed plagiarism reports against all my academic work. I lost my degree, my reputation, everything.

Even our child—she forced an early birth. And the media labeled him: illegitimate. A scandal.

And then... she vanished.

I saw Adeline again five years later. I'd imagined that moment countless times—her begging, me raging. But it wasn't like that.

——

"Gavin?"

That voice. Quiet, but it hit like a shock. I turned.

There she was. Adeline. Her long dress swayed around her ankles. She looked older, more composed, but just as beautiful.

Her expression faltered for a second.

But me? I felt nothing. No rage. No sorrow. Just... hollow.

"Excuse me," I said, walking past her.

She moved to block me. Awkward silence followed—until loud laughter spilled from the private room behind us.

A woman's voice, tipsy and mocking, rang out, "Even if I couldn't be with Oswald Cooper, so what? His precious son still ends up on his knees, begging me for love."

More laughter.

"You're amazing, Isabella. Oswald must've died pissed to see what his son became!"

Oswald Cooper—my father.

The voice? Isabella—my sugar mommy.

Years ago, she threw herself at my father. He rejected her. Now she got her revenge through me—his only son.

I stared at the door. The mockery inside didn't sting anymore. It was routine. I reached for the doorknob.

But Adeline shoved me aside and flung it open.

"What do we have here?" she said, voice cold. "Everyone having fun?"

The room went silent for a beat. Then laughter resumed.

Isabella stood, slightly unsteady, red lipstick smudged, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"Well, well. Ms. Penna too? Want a turn with my little toy?" she slurred. "Go ahead. He's cheap—two thousand a year. That's 365 days of service, never repeats a trick. Total sex demon, that one."

Laughter erupted. Jeering, crude.

I stood there as they praised her "training." Said I was more obedient than a little girl.

Just as things turned worse, I stepped forward, smiling calmly and steadied Isabella.

"Didn't the doctor tell you to cut back on drinking?" I murmured.

Everyone turned—some shocked, some amused.

But Adeline's gaze was different. Steady. Sharp. She looked at me like she didn't recognize what I'd become.

Isabella blinked, smirk faltering for a second. Then she regained her act, sliding her fingers down my chest.

"You're late and still trying to boss me around?"

Then she turned to the crowd with a smirk. "Everyone, this is the one I told you about—Oswald's precious son!"

Isabella's voice was loud, dripping with mockery. She pulled me close. "Tried for years with his dad and failed. But him? Took me three seconds."

Her hand slid to the small of my back. I felt sick, but I smiled. A good pet doesn't bare its teeth.

Let her show off. Let them laugh. Compared to my mother's medical bills and my son's upcoming surgery, this was nothing.

I reached up and wiped a smear of wine from her lips with my sleeve, gentle and calm.

"The doctor told you to quit drinking," I said. "Do it for me?"

She blinked, caught off guard, then recovered and poured out three glasses of liquor.

"I told you to be here in fifteen minutes. Why are you late?" she snapped. "Apologize to the execs. Or forget about your leave tonight."

If I hadn't run into Adeline, I wouldn't have been late. I'd timed it all—fed my son, put him to sleep despite his fever, then rushed here with one of my own. But she appeared and everything cracked.

Isabella couldn't last a night without drama unless I was sick—sick enough to collapse. When I asked for time off, she gave me a choice: perform, or lose it.

I didn't look at Adeline. Her face hovered somewhere between disdain and curiosity.

I picked up the three glasses. The sharp scent of alcohol hit before it even touched my lips.

One. Two. Three.

Each glass hit my stomach like a blow. My fever flared, vision blurring, knees shaking.

"I need the restroom," I muttered and walked off before they noticed.

Inside, I barely made it to the sink before vomiting. Acid and liquor tore out of me. I gripped the basin, breathing hard.

The mirror showed a man who looked half-dead. My shirt clung to me. My face was pale and slick with sweat.

I splashed water on myself. Then came the voice. Cold. Familiar.

"Your dad hated mistresses. What would he think if he saw you like this?"

I froze. Even after five years, her voice made my spine stiffen.

I looked up. Adeline stood at the door, unreadable.

I forced a smile and rinsed my mouth.

"You're quiet now," she said, stepping in. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Isn't this what you wanted?!" I snapped suddenly. The words came raw, hoarse.

I wasn't sure what I meant—then or now.

Her gaze shifted—something flickered in her eyes. It vanished quickly, but I saw it.

And with it, the memory of five years ago surged back.

Daniel hurling the marriage certificate at me in front of the crowd. Calling me a homewrecker. My father collapsing. My mother slapping me.

And Adeline? Standing there. Cold. Watching.

She believed my father caused the death of Harry Adams—her childhood sweetheart—and his mother.

But the truth? It was never him.

Harry's father had been the one who tore a family apart. My father only helped the real husband reclaim what was his.

Harry's mother couldn't bear the betrayal. She dragged her son to the roof, threatening to jump. She slipped. They both fell.

But Adeline didn't believe it. Or didn't want to.

So she married me in secret. And crushed me in public.

She ruined my family, my future.

Now, here she was. Still looking at me like she had something to say.

"Gavin," she said, voice sharp as glass, "what kind of man did your dad raise you to be?"

"Isabella is old enough to be your mother and you still shamelessly became her boy toy? Pathetic."

Adeline's voice was razor-sharp, her eyes drilling through me like I was something she'd stepped in.

My chest tightened. The pain from my father's death never really faded—it just hid better some days. But her words cracked something wide open. My breath hitched, rage rising fast. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasted blood and forced it down.

That man—my father—was the kind who stood straight even when the world tried to bend him. He hated mistresses, never touched a drop of scandal. Even in death, he clung to dignity like armor. And now? They all spat on his name. Called him a failure. Said he raised a disgrace.

Maybe they were right.

I exhaled slowly and forced a crooked smile to my face.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm pathetic. Otherwise, why would I have believed your bullshit and been your secret lover for three years?"

The words hit heavier than expected. Her eyes flickered, something like guilt flashing across her face. But before she could speak, my legs gave out.

A wave of heat crashed over me as the room spun. My vision blurred. I staggered, clutching the wall for balance.

Her hand shot out instinctively, grabbing my arm. Her eyes widened the second she touched me.

"You're burning up," she muttered, her tone shifting.

I tore myself free, my body trembling from the effort. "None of your business," I spat, voice hoarse and raw.

She didn't back off. If anything, her grip tightened. "You're going to the hospital."

I tried to pull away, but she held on, unrelenting. Her perfume filled the air—once comforting, now nauseating.

"Let go!" I snapped. "Isabella's still waiting. I don't have time for your games."

Adeline's expression darkened, but before she could reply, the bathroom door creaked open.

"Well, well," came a slurred voice laced with venom. "Ms. Penna really is interested in my little boy toy."

Isabella leaned against the doorframe, eyes flicking over us with wicked amusement. She walked in slowly, owning the room like a queen surveying her court.

Adeline didn't flinch. "He has a fever," she said flatly.

Isabella's lips curled. "Since when is my man your concern?"

She wrapped herself around me, purring into my ear, "Come on. Let's go back and keep drinking."

Her touch felt like poison, but I nodded faintly. Pain and fatigue flooded every inch of me, but I'd learned how to perform. How to pretend.

Then Adeline said something I didn't expect.

"Isabella," she said, voice low and sharp, "humiliating the son of the man you once adored—is this your idea of love?"

The words hit like ice water.

Even through the fever haze, I registered what she'd said. Adeline—the woman who'd ruined my father, shattered my family—was now defending me?

Isabella's smirk vanished. Her expression turned to stone. "Ms. Penna, that's a low blow."

"He's burning up and you're still pouring drinks. Partying is one thing. But if he dies, it won't look good on you."

For a second, just one, I saw hesitation flicker in Isabella's eyes. She looked at me again and this time, her amusement faltered.

She masked it with a sneer. "Aw, Ms. Penna's grown a heart? Funny, you sure didn't have one when you dumped him five years ago."

Adeline didn't respond. She grabbed my arm and started dragging me out. I barely resisted. I didn't have the strength.

Behind us, Isabella cursed, voice sharp and shrill, but Adeline never looked back.

She shoved me into the back seat of her car. The leather burned against my fevered skin. I leaned my head on the cool window, eyelids drooping.

Then Isabella climbed into the front passenger seat without warning, her voice laced with challenge.

"Ms. Penna, where exactly do you plan on taking my man?"

Adeline didn't miss a beat. "If he ends up brain-damaged from the fever, your fun will be over."

Isabella scoffed but didn't argue. Maybe she saw I wasn't faking it.

The car sped off into the night. Silence stretched between them.

Then, quietly, Adeline said, "Where's our child buried? I want to visit him."

Her words sliced through me like a blade.

My fists clenched. Nails dug into my palms.

She didn't know. She thought the baby had died.

Five years ago, after her betrayal, she'd forced herself to give birth prematurely. A son. She hadn't even looked at him—just handed him over like trash.

And walked away. She never asked, never cared.

Later, she destroyed what was left of my life. I lost everything. So I left—with that child in my arms.

That boy, born with a failing heart, was the only reason I kept breathing.

Everyone assumed he'd died. And I let them. Because the last thing I wanted... was for her to find him.

"There's no need," I said coldly. "A child like him doesn't deserve a mother like you."