The words slipped out of Declan Shaw’s mouth, casual and almost bored, as he adjusted the lace on my mermaid gown. “That fishnet skirt—Tiffany the secretary, she looked quite good in it.” He smoothed the exquisite French lace I’d flown to Paris to have fitted, the same lace he was now admitting had been tailored to another woman. “The girl doesn’t have a single fine line around her eyes yet, and her body is still elastic, you know?” he continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “She’s cute when she pouts, so I let her try it on.” The delicate fabric of the wedding dress, still warm from the steamer, suddenly felt cold and foreign against my skin. I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. “What are you talking about?” He glanced dismissively at the corner of my eye. “Nothing, really. I just suddenly realized a younger woman wore this cut better than you do.” He paused, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long. “If you object to wearing a used dress, you can skip the wedding. And if you object to a man who’s been used by others…” His shoulders lifted in a shrug that spoke volumes. “You can walk away. Whatever makes you happy, Stella.” I stood paralyzed. The impossibly light, floating bridal gown suddenly weighed a ton, suffocating me. Declan’s kiss landed lightly on my shoulder. “The time you had that high fever… I’m actually kind of sorry about that.” His voice was low, discussing a devastating injury as if it were a misplaced accessory. “The night it poured rain and I had you deliver those documents? That was just Tiffany wanting to play a little game. She made up the excuse to send you out.” All the blood in my body turned to ice. A month ago, during a massive Nor’easter, he’d claimed a client was urgently waiting. I, desperate not to delay his business, had sprinted into the torrential rain without securing my umbrella. I was drenched to the bone, and by that evening, I was burning up. If his assistant hadn’t called, concerned, I might have suffered permanent damage. Delirious with fever, I’d still managed to grip the poor assistant’s hand, pleading with him not to bother Declan, because my fiancé was so busy and I didn’t want to burden him with such a small thing. A low, humorless chuckle escaped Declan’s lips. “The assistant did call me, actually. But Tiffany had a new trick she wanted to try out, and honestly, I was right in the middle of it.” The foundation of my world shattered. A deep, penetrating chill crept from my bones to my skin. “Why? Did you fall in love with someone else?” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the sharp smell cutting through the floral air of the salon. “One morning, when you told me ‘Good morning,’ I noticed a new fine line at the corner of your eye. It was weird. After that, I couldn’t get excited about you anymore. Didn’t you notice? We haven’t slept together in months.” He took a sharp drag. “‘Love’ is too strong a word. But when that many young, soft girls are throwing themselves at me—I’m a man, Stella, not a saint. Honestly, I enjoyed the freedom.” He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. “I probably could have kept this from you forever.” He took another puff. “But watching you try on this dress, seeing the waist was a little tight… I just blurted it out.” Tears, huge and hot, began to splash onto the hardwood floor. Declan reached out to brush one away. “Stella, when you buy a dozen roses, don’t you always pick the freshest, newest bloom?” I began to shake uncontrollably. It didn’t make sense. Thirty minutes ago, wearing the million-dollar dress he’d commissioned, I was looking in the mirror, certain I held the entire world’s happiness in my hands. Just as I felt I was choking, his phone vibrated. Tiffany Lowe flashed across the screen. He ignored it, looking at me, unhurried. “Have you decided? The kid is young; she’s hard to mollify if she has to wait too long.” I slapped his hand away, a guttural sound escaping my throat, and grabbed the nearest heavy water pitcher, hurling it at the wall just inches from his head. “Get out! Get out, both of you!” He didn't flinch. A shard of the ceramic caught his temple, and blood began to seep out. He pressed his jaw tight, his expression hardening. “Fine. I’m leaving first. Whether you want to end this or go through with it is up to you. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of financially.” The slam of the door vibrated in my eardrums. I was alone in the fitting room. I tore the dress from my body, pulling and ripping at the exquisite lace until it lay in shredded pieces on the floor. Fifteen years of shared history, undone by a few naturally formed wrinkles? I looked at my reflection and, in a blind rage, grabbed the nearest object and smashed the mirror. In the sheer, agonizing pain, I saw the past flash before my eyes. The two of us, kids, kidnapped by that horrible couple. Not knowing where we came from. I couldn't steal and I wasn't a good beggar. "Dad" decided to break my legs so I’d be more effective. Ten-year-old Declan had rushed in, a rusty fruit knife in his hand, ready to fight. As the police took him away, he smiled at me. “Don’t be scared, Stella. I promised I’d protect you.” When he got out of juvie, he had no education and a record. To ensure I had a good life, he took any job—the dirty, the dangerous, the ones no one wanted. He threw his face and his dignity onto the ground for me. The worst time, he was hauling contraband and got two ribs shattered. Lying in the hospital, barely breathing, I cried and asked: “Was it worth it? Doing this for me?” He squeezed my hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. “How could it not be worth it? You are the best thing in the world, Stella.” The cold was absolute. A kind boutique assistant, seeing my breakdown, quietly offered me a room at a nearby hotel. I wrapped myself in the duvet and swallowed a handful of pills. If this is a nightmare, I’ll sleep it off. But when I woke up, my phone was ringing incessantly. Reporters were calling, bidding for my story. The scandalous photos of Declan and his secretary—Tiffany—getting intimate in his SUV had gone viral. Declan’s call came next, his voice lazily dismissive. “Stella, go talk to the media, hash out a price. My face can’t be shown. If you don’t know how to negotiate, ask Mrs. Cole for advice, she’s been through it. This kind of thing will happen again, anyway.” “You know how much I hate the media circus.” I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. I did know he hated interviews. The one and only time he’d ever agreed to a press conference was three years ago, when the media had photographed me and published stories calling me unworthy of him. Declan had gathered dozens of news outlets, looked straight into the camera, and smiled so gently. “My partner is the best person in the world. Being worthy of even a fraction of her is my life’s greatest honor.” He had even, completely losing his temper, physically attacked a reporter who insulted me. From that day on, everyone knew I was the one person in Manhattan you didn’t cross. Just three years later, the same reporters were waiting to watch me burn. I couldn’t take it anymore. But when I got back to our apartment, a trail of scattered silk tops and dress shirts led from the foyer, across the living room carpet, and into the master suite. The sound of laughter and intimacy came from the marriage bed I had personally selected. The door was ajar. The girl—Tiffany—threw her head back in ecstasy, and her eyes suddenly locked with mine. A violent, crushing emotion tore through my mind. I had to brace myself against the wall to keep from collapsing. Declan’s voice came from behind her. “Go home now.” She didn't move, looking at me with undisguised curiosity. “Is that your wife? She does look kind of old. No wonder you’re bored.” Declan gave her a cold, level stare. “I said, get out first.” She didn't dare argue, pouting dramatically. “Fine. But I’ll be waiting tonight.” She stood up, bouncing, and intimately stroked his chest. “But you have to promise me you won’t touch this old woman! I want you all to myself.” Declan gave her a quick pat on the backside. “Okay. You get everything.” Declan watched her retreating figure and actually chuckled. “She’s cute, isn’t she?” My nails dug into my palms. Maybe it was sheer stubbornness. Maybe it was because I had no family, no friends—Declan had been my entire universe. I wanted to hold onto something. Anything. “Declan Shaw, you want a divorce? Dream on.” I stormed into the company, using my founder’s equity to easily blacklist Tiffany Lowe, ensuring she’d never work in this sector again. But I never expected to return from a business trip only to find my personal assistant was the same girl I’d rescued from traffickers seven years ago—the girl I’d put through school and treated like a younger sister. She’d once knelt before me, crying and promising to pay me back for life. Yet, when I cornered her in Declan’s office, her expression was pure provocation. “Stella, we couldn’t help ourselves. It was electric.” I flipped Declan’s desk, screaming at him like a lunatic. “Why are you doing this to me?!” Declan only watched me, unbothered. “So many people want to climb into my bed. As long as it’s a young, desirable body, I’ll accept.” I couldn’t tolerate it. I used every resource I had to oppose him, caused scenes at the girl’s university, and employed every trick to make his life hell. Declan just smiled, watching my desperate struggle, even with a hint of indulgence. “Stella’s little temper tantrum is actually kind of endearing.” But his counter-attack was swift. He donated an entire wing to an international university and sent the girl—Lila Cross—abroad. He then banded together with the other partners to vote me off the board. The day I was evicted from my own company, looking like a stray dog as reporters swarmed me, Declan was ostentatiously seen escorting Lila through the airport. He made sure everyone knew his attention had shifted. The passionate, intimate photos of them abroad flooded my phone. I became the laughingstock of the Tri-State Area. In those pictures, I spotted a necklace. Declan had given his first gift to me—a few thousand dollar silver chain—to her. It wasn’t expensive. But back when we were living in a leaky basement, sharing a single bagel for dinner, he had been broke. On my eighteenth birthday, he had exhausted himself working extra shifts just to buy me that gift. “Other people’s girls get gifts, and so should mine, Stella.” “Trust me, Stella. I will always love you, and I promise to give you a good life.” I called him, begging through tears, demanding he give me back the necklace. This time, he finally answered. In the receiver, he sighed, sounding mildly annoyed. “Stella, it’s just a cheap piece of junk. My new flame liked it, so I used it to placate her. You didn’t want to be pliable, so there you go.” He was doing this on purpose. He knew exactly how to inflict the deepest pain. The final wire in my brain snapped. I grabbed a utility knife and dragged the blade across my forearm. Declan had no choice but to fly home. “Stella, you have options. Why are you making such a scene?” “If you’re this miserable, let’s just separate.” I lay on the hospital bed, lost in a fog, remembering the time I was misdiagnosed with cancer. Declan had walked on his knees up three thousand steps, three steps per prayer, to beg for my life. His shins had been raw and bruised, nearly crippled. But when he found out it was a misdiagnosis, that’s when he cried. “I thought I was going to lose you. I don’t know how I’d keep going without you.” My mental state was fragile, and Declan stayed by my side for a while. But he couldn't resist the fatal pull of youth and novelty. He started up again: influencers, minor celebrities—each new flame younger and more vibrant than the last. But the final woman photographed with him was different. Her name was Camille Foster. Average build, unremarkable features, and yes, fine lines around her eyes, perhaps even a little older than me, mid-thirties. I flung the photo onto his chest. “I thought you only liked young girls! Explain this!” He picked up the picture and gently brushed a smudge of dust from her face. “She’s different. She gives me peace.” He said Camille was gentle. She made him congee when his stomach hurt. She gave him massages when he was stressed. My head spun. I asked, incredulous: “Did I not do those things for you?!” In the past, I’d prepared his hangover remedy every morning and night. I’d spent two years learning massage techniques because he often had stress headaches. I broke down, screaming, but Declan only looked at me, cold and indifferent. “She’s a very gentle woman. Don’t use your typical methods on her, Stella. Or else…” He treated Camille differently than the others. Declan, who barely finished high school, began reading obscure philosophy books for her. The man who got sick from spicy food hired a famous Southern chef. Slowly, Declan stopped coming home entirely. I know how pathetic this sounds. I started waiting outside his known haunts, just hoping he would come home. But Declan, fearing I would hurt Camille, applied for a restraining order against me. He had me barred from coming near them. He then spent a fortune, securing an absurdly expensive diamond ring for Camille. I threw the television across the room, my heart wrapped in a tight tar knot, suffocating me with pain. He had proposed to me the moment I turned eighteen. But we were drowning in debt, living in an apartment where rats scurried across the floor in the middle of the night. I’d picked out a plain silver band—three hundred dollars—and happily let him put it on my finger. He clutched that cheap ring, his eyes red for a long time. He promised that once we were comfortable, he would buy me the best things in the world. Now he was comfortable, able to buy the finest diamonds. And he put it on another woman’s hand. What finally crushed me was the news that Declan, the man who “enjoyed freedom,” had cut off all his other women. He proposed to Camille with that diamond ring. “She’s older. She wants stability. Enjoying freedom isn’t that important anymore.” I was utterly annihilated. I breached the restraining order, running toward them. Police officers grabbed me, but I screamed hysterically at Declan. “Tell me, Declan! Why does she get to have it?!” Declan shielded Camille, glancing at me with utter contempt. “What are the cops doing? Get her out of here.” The last dregs of my pride ignited. I pulled out my utility knife and pressed it to my throat, threatening to kill myself if he didn’t come with me. Declan actually laughed. “You didn’t die last time, did you? Still using that same cheap knife?” My fragile peace shattered again. I broke free from the officers. Declan shoved me away, annoyed. “Stop making a scene. If you’re going to be dramatic, go home to do it.” I lost my footing and tumbled down the mansion’s sweeping spiral staircase. Before I even knew I was pregnant, the child was gone. Declan sat by my hospital bed, reaching for a cigarette, then stopping himself. “No one wanted to lose the baby, but you shouldn’t have been so hysterical…” I lay there, white as a sheet, unable to speak or think, a mere puppet. Declan was likely wracked with guilt and stayed by my side for a while. Until the day Camille came. I glanced at her, then blankly pulled my eyes away. Camille asked me a question. “Do you remember how you lost your first child?” I froze. A year ago, I had lost a baby. At the time, Declan’s funds were running dry, and he was working himself to the bone. I hadn’t known I was pregnant. To secure an investor for him, I’d endured the client’s cruel demands—drinking an entire bottle of ice-cold, high-proof vodka in the dead of winter. That’s how I lost the first one. Both Declan and I were orphans; we had always desperately wanted a child. Back then, Declan’s eyes were bloodshot as he apologized, swearing he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to me. Camille smiled gently. “Declan had already secured the funding. He just wanted to celebrate with a mistress at home and deliberately had his clients stall you.” My numb sanity finally snapped. Declan rushed into the room just as I slapped Camille across the face. He gripped my wrist with crushing force. “The baby’s gone, it’s gone, and frankly, the timing wasn’t right anyway. Why are you hurting other people?” I hysterically demanded if he remembered the first baby. His face darkened. “Why are you bringing up old dirt? Don’t act like a psycho. It’s exhausting for everyone.” A psycho? I started crying, a desperate, gasping, wretched sound. Declan watched me, calm as a stone. When I was finally too breathless to continue, he spoke, his voice chillingly composed. “Done crying? We have things to do, so we’re leaving now.” I was trembling, watching his back as he nearly disappeared through the doorway. I finally spoke. “I agree to the separation.” He stopped, stunned. “You’ve made your choice?” I nodded mechanically. Declan grabbed my arm, his brow furrowed. “You won’t regret this?” I jerked my hand away as if burned. “No. I won’t.” Declan stared at me, then slowly released me. “Fine. Just don’t regret it.” I checked out of the hospital and moved out with frantic speed, terrified that any delay would make me change my mind. When I was with Declan, I had nothing. Leaving him, I was empty again. He wasn’t there the day I left. I didn’t try to say goodbye. The car sped away, the massive villa shrinking in the rearview mirror. Declan, hiding behind a marble column, watched the car disappear. It was a long time before he moved. He and Camille bought a new villa and started their domestic life. But within months, the young women were back, flocking to him. Declan resisted for a while, but soon started accepting their advances again. The novelty wore off quickly. After seeing so much youth, it all felt the same. Camille started fighting with him constantly. Annoyed by her nagging, he instinctively snapped back. “Who do you think you are, Stella Hawthorne? I was going to marry her.” They both froze.
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