Chapter 1

When I caught Julian with his mistress, after his car was rear-ended, he just leaned out the window and smiled at the paparazzi.

“Got a scandal on your hands? Make sure you find my wife. She *loves* dealing with this kind of news.”

Whenever my name, Mrs. Thorne, came up, everyone in the social circle would say the same thing, almost in unison:

“She was a nobody who snagged a rich husband. She'd never dare to leave.”

No one remembered that when Julian married me, he’d graciously introduced me, almost as if he was doing them a favor:

“This is my wife. She’s young, so please be patient with her.”

Everyone assumed I’d throw money at the paparazzi, just like I always did.

They thought I'd smooth over the gossip, and keep up the facade of a loving power couple with Julian.

But this time, I simply walked into Grandfather Thorne’s study.

“It’s been three years. You should let me go.”

There’s an unwritten rule among Hong Kong’s tabloids.

If a entertainment reporter’s monthly performance isn’t up to par, they just need to stake out Julian Thorne, CEO of Concord Group.

He cycles through a new lover every month, flaunting them openly, making it effortless to snap a picture.

Men will be men, a little scandal is normal.

But his wife, she has to maintain appearances, uphold her reputation.

If you capture his latest affair, just take the evidence to her and name your price. She’ll pay for it all.

However, old habits sometimes meet new circumstances.

When a rookie paparazzo from the Daily Scoop brought a video to Julian, only to be sent to me, I had just arrived home from the office.

My villa sat atop Victoria Peak, offering a panoramic view of the entire Victoria Harbour skyline.

The voice on my phone continued, unskilled yet surprisingly shrewd, asking for an outrageous amount.

“Mrs. Thorne, it’s just two million. That’s like, what you pay for a handbag, right? Just two million to buy off your husband’s scandal. Such a bargain! If you’ve decided, just call this number…”

This paparazzo wasn’t very bright. His first time tailing Julian, and the second time he was brazen enough to knock on Julian’s car window.

Julian’s cars were hard to identify; he changed them frequently, with hundreds in his garage. Yet, for those few days, he kept driving the same one.

In the video the paparazzo sent me, Julian lowered his window. In the passenger seat sat a woman dressed provocatively.

Last month, when I received photos, that seat was occupied by a rising starlet from mainland China.

Julian took off his sunglasses, revealing an almost flawless face to the camera. He crooked a finger at the paparazzo.

As the man approached, Julian’s voice was languid, coaxing him gently, “Newbie? So clueless. After you take the pictures, you go to my wife. I won't give you a dime.”

“Don’t have my wife’s contact information?”

He pulled out a piece of paper, scribbled a few numbers, and casually tossed it into the paparazzo’s arms.

Then, he glanced at the woman beside him and clicked his tongue, “Get out.”

She leaned in, whining, “Mr. Thorne, didn’t you say three days? It’s only been a few hours…”

Julian tossed a card at her, then pressed the unlock button. “You got caught in just a few hours. Get out, or do you want me to physically kick you out? Scram.”

I turned off the video, my face calm, and sat at the dining table. The maid had meticulously laid out dinner, dish after dish.

The clock in the grand hall chimed eight times.