Chapter 3

Scarlett's POV

For seven years after that, he played the part of the devoted husband to perfection.

Every time Evelyn showed up at our house to humiliate me, demanding he find a surrogate or use a donor, Tristan would kick her out without hesitation. Then he would turn around, wrap me in his arms, and softly reassure me that I could rest easy at home and ignore all the cruel gossip.

I lifted a hand and traced the jagged scar across my lower abdomen.

Even seven years later, the mark still ached when winter set in. I had always worn it like a medal of our unbreakable bond. Looking back now, the irony cut straight to the bone.

He starved himself and knelt in the rain for three days to marry me, yet he couldn't even give me a real marriage license.

He announced to the entire world that he wanted only me and cared nothing for children, but in the very first year of our marriage, he had gotten Wendy Miller pregnant. And six years ago, on May twentieth—a date dripping with romance—he had legally tied the knot with her.

I shut my eyes. Memories from the past few years replayed in my mind like a horror movie.

Starting six years ago, Tristan took a routine two-week business trip to Europe every single July. Before leaving, he would always be impossibly sweet, clinging to me in bed and waking early to make the oatmeal I loved.

And every time he returned, he brought me a gift. A designer silk scarf, an antique brooch, or a bottle of niche perfume.

I had once teased him, “Tristan, how did you get so good at picking out women’s things?”

His gaze had flickered, and he had wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder with a low laugh. “Because my head is full of you. Whenever I see something that suits you, I just have to buy it.”

My eyes snapped open. I reached over and popped open the glove compartment.

Sitting inside was an unopened tube of hand cream. Tristan had tossed it to me after his trip last month, saying it was a complimentary gift from an overseas boutique. Rosewood scent. I had a mild allergy to rose fragrances, so I’d never opened it.

I pulled out my phone and searched the brand’s official site.

The moment the page loaded, my stomach heaved again. It was an ultra-luxury French skincare line dedicated exclusively to postpartum recovery and maternal care. That specific hand cream was a complimentary gift only given with purchases over a hundred thousand dollars in mother-and-baby products.

The scarves, the brooches... all trendy, vibrant styles meant for a young girl, completely at odds with my sharp, professional wardrobe.

July had never been about European business meetings. July was Julian’s birth month. He had been flying out to celebrate Wendy and their son’s birthday, playing happy family on holiday.

The gifts he handed me were nothing more than freebies left over from his shopping sprees with Wendy, or cheap afterthoughts picked up to keep me quiet.

He had looked at me with utter adoration and whispered the sweetest vows, all while building a real family with another woman behind my back, playing me for a fool for seven straight years.

Why?

If he loved Wendy, if he wanted an heir that badly, why kneel in the rain to marry me? Why not just let me walk away?

Staring at my bloodshot eyes in the rearview mirror, the truth suddenly hit me.

Seven years ago, Tristan had just taken over Vance Group, and his grip on power was fragile at best. I was the sole heiress of the Sterling family, holding the keys to their vast political and corporate networks. On top of that, I was one of the sharpest patent and tax strategists in the city.

He needed the Sterling backing. He needed me to engineer Vance Group’s patent fortress. And he needed the glowing public image of a devoted, selfless husband who chose love over bloodlines to win over the board and the press.

He had turned my guilt into his greatest leverage, bleeding my devotion dry until he had extracted every drop of my worth.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. My fingernails dug deep into my palms, drawing tiny beads of blood, but I didn't feel a thing.

I turned the key, hit the gas, and raced toward our estate on the hill.