Chapter 1

Iris was pregnant, and the father of her child was my legal husband, Julian Thorne.

On our seventh wedding anniversary, Serena Hastings leaned into Julian’s embrace, triumphantly announcing the news to all our guests.

I, Iris Thorne, the rightful Mrs. Thorne, became a colossal joke.

Julian warned me to keep my schemes in check and to wholeheartedly serve Serena during her pregnancy. He showed no regard for my dignity.

I stared at the tall man before me, a wave of desolation washing over my heart.

It has to end, I thought.

When I decided to leave, Julian casually made a bet with his friends:

“If Iris isn’t back, begging to come home within 24 hours, how about that prime development property downtown? It’s yours.”

“24 hours? No way, eight is plenty! Everyone knows Iris can’t live without Mr. Thorne,” someone scoffed.

Laughter erupted.

Outside, a Jaguar sat parked in the dark night. The man inside wore sunglasses, his expression unreadable.

This time, I was truly leaving.

My suitcase had been packed for ages, holding only a few changes of clothes.

After marrying Julian, all the jewelry gifted by his family, those precious pieces, had been meticulously kept in the master bedroom’s jewelry box. I didn't take a single one.

As I dragged my suitcase, about to step out of the villa door, I heard Serena’s sickly sweet voice.

“Iris, just walking out like that wouldn’t be very nice, would it?”

I paused, wondering what game Serena was playing.

“The Thornes are a powerful family, a massive empire. Who knows what precious valuables you’ve stuffed into that suitcase.”

I calmly replied, “I haven’t taken anything from the Thorne family. This is just some of my clothes.”

Serena clacked towards me in her high heels, stopped right in front of me, and looked down her nose, dramatically saying, “Clothes? Are clothes even yours? You’re a freeloader with no job, living off him!”

Her cruel words flooded my ears. I bit down hard on my lip, quickly tasting the metallic tang of blood.

Serena was right. I didn’t have a job.

Seven years ago, when Julian and I got married, I had just graduated from college. But Julian had said he didn’t like high-powered career women who were never home.

He preferred a devoted wife, someone who’d make a warm home for him.

So, I decisively gave up the offer from an internationally renowned design firm, trapping myself within the four walls of the kitchen.

“Fine.” I pushed my suitcase forward.

Serena was still relentless. “What about what you’re wearing?”

I froze. What I was wearing?

“Julian, make her leave the clothes! She can’t take anything that isn’t hers.” Serena pulled Julian in front of me, waiting for him to speak and back her up.

“Iris, strip.”

Numbly, I took off my jacket and tossed it to the ground.

Finally, I gave one last, heavy look at the husband I’d been married to for seven years, then turned and walked away without a backward glance.

A familiar license plate came into view. I quickened my pace, when suddenly a large hand, like a vice, clamped onto my wrist. It was Julian.

“Iris, even like this, you’re still dead set on leaving?”

My wrist throbbed from his grip. I ignored Julian’s words and instead asked him, “Julian, do you still remember our child?”

Julian’s grip on my wrist loosened.