After three years of marriage, Caleb Sterling’s newest little mistress finally had the nerve to show up at my door. She screamed at me, calling me a "washed-up housewife." She demanded to know what right I had to stay by Caleb’s side. I looked at her with dull, tired eyes. "The right comes from the years he spent in the gutters of Brooklyn, eating scraps to survive. I was the one who held him through it." The girl tilted her chin up, her gaze full of contempt. "So you met him a few years earlier. You really think that’s a legacy worth bragging about?" 1 Caleb appeared just in time to witness the standoff. He walked toward me with measured steps. His hand reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear with a tenderness that felt like a lie. "Sloane, why are you at the office?" I held up my phone. "Didn't you text me to come?" Caleb’s brow furrowed slightly. Behind him, the young girl panicked, grabbing his arm. "Caleb, I'm sorry... I took your phone. I couldn't keep living like a secret anymore." She turned her venomous glare back to me. "If this woman would just give up her seat as Mrs. Sterling, we could finally—" "Get out." Before she could finish, Caleb cut her off. "What?" The girl froze, her eyes welling with tears. "Misty, I said get out." Caleb’s voice was flat, his eyes as cold as a winter morning in Manhattan. "But why..." The girl bit her lip, her face turning ashen. She probably couldn't wrap her head around how the man who was so gentle in bed yesterday could become a monster today. "Compared to my wife, you’re nothing." Caleb let out a short, mocking laugh. I knew then that Caleb would never see this girl again. She was too naive. She mistook a billionaire's game for true love and was stupid enough to try and flex on me. 2 I met Caleb when he was eight. Back then, he wasn't the long-lost heir to the Sterling dynasty. We were both victims of a child trafficking ring. We spent years being shifted from one abusive "foster home" to another until the FBI finally raided the place and put us in an orphanage. The orphanage was better, but it was still a war zone of bullying and hunger. Because we were older, no one wanted to adopt us. So Caleb and I fought our way through it together. We entered the world with nothing but each other. We knew the bitterness of being scammed out of our last dollar. We knew the embarrassment of splitting a single bowl of ramen while people stared at us in disgust. During the coldest winter in Chicago, when the heat was shut off in our tiny apartment, I leaned on his shoulder and looked out at the frost on the glass. I asked him, "Caleb, what’s your dream?" He gripped my hand, his voice deep and gravelly. "To make enough money to marry Sloane Vance in the most expensive cathedral in the world." Caleb actually did it. He gave me a one-of-a-kind Harry Winston ring and a wedding dress encrusted with real diamonds. When he married me, the Manhattan skyline was lit up with five hundred drones spelling out my name. The tabloids called it the "Billion Dollar Union." Everyone envied me. They couldn't believe the Sterlings—an old-money dynasty—would allow Caleb to marry a girl with no name and no background. But I knew the price he paid. To this day, his back is still covered in scars from the physical "discipline" his father enforced to keep him in line. The Sterling cousins were like sharks. To keep his position as CEO, Caleb worked until he coughed up blood. He flew between New York and London like a ghost. I watched him wither, heart aching, but I was powerless. I could only shrink my own personality, trying my best to play the role of the perfect Mrs. Sterling. 3 At a gala filled with the city's elite, the wives gathered in a circle, sipping champagne while casually discussing their husbands' affairs. To them, love was a punchline. Seeing my silence, a woman named Mrs. Harrington reached out and squeezed my hand. "Sloane, dear, you’ll have to get used to it. As Caleb grows the Sterling empire, he’ll need a few 'distractions' to blow off steam. It’s inevitable." I froze, then firmly shook my head. "Caleb isn't like that." Mrs. Harrington gave me a small, pitying smile. She didn't agree, but she didn't argue. "When a man stands at the peak of power," she said, "the temptations are infinite." The way she looked at me was like she was looking at a ghost. 4 I never believed Caleb would betray me. Until the day I looked through a cracked door at a private club and saw Caleb letting a woman kiss his neck while another unbuttoned his shirt. He sat there, draped in a silk robe, lazily exhaling a cloud of cigar smoke that blurred his features. The coldness seeped from my limbs into my heart, paralyzing me. It wasn't until a guest noticed me and gasped, "Mrs. Sterling!" that I finally snapped back to reality and ran. I don't remember the expression on Caleb’s face then. I only remember him shoving the women aside and chasing me down, pinning me into a hug in the hallway. He whispered over and over in my ear, "Sloane, don't cry. I love you. Only you." He promised it would never happen again. I didn't know if he was trying to comfort me or lie to himself. They say when faced with agonizing pain, the human brain chooses to flee. But can you really run away from a reality that’s already happened? That night, as I watched Caleb sleep, I felt like my heart was being carved out with a dull knife. Once the seed of doubt is planted, it grows into a forest. I became a neurotic mess. Every business trip, every gala, every vibration of his phone, every late-night call became a trigger for my anxiety. Finally, one night when he came home late, the war exploded. I smelled gardenias on his coat. I screamed. I threw the expensive porcelain. I smashed our wedding photo in the hallway. "Sloane, in this world, no one stays clean," Caleb said, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. "I'm sorry, but you’re the only one I actually love." He left that night, telling me I needed to "cool off." I knelt in the glass shards, sobbing until my hands bled. I wasn't just losing my husband; I was losing my mind. The suffocating pain eventually spiraled into clinical depression. I trapped myself in the past, in the promises he once made. Mrs. Harrington was the first to notice my illness. She sighed and held my hand. "Sloane, you're walking down my old path." I looked down, my heart a hollow shell. I wondered if Caleb felt any guilt—his wife was trying to slit her wrists in a dark room while he was drowning in the pleasure of a warm, new body. 5 Misty Hayes wasn't the last "canary" Caleb kept. A few days later, I heard at a lunch that he had picked up a pair of sisters—models from LA. No wonder when he came home, he looked so satisfied. Caleb came home early tonight. He had clearly showered; he smelled like fresh soap and expensive cologne. "The maid said you've been painting for three hours. Aren't you tired?" He hugged me from behind, burying his face in my neck. I put down my brush and pulled away, methodically cleaning my palette. "No." During my darkest days, I took up painting. It was the only time I could forget the things that were killing me. "Sloane, this painting is beautiful." I heard his gentle voice, but my lips only curled into a bitter smirk. It had to be beautiful. It was a gift for someone else. "By the way, Mom called," Caleb said, using a wet wipe to clean the paint off my hands as if I were a fragile piece of art. "She said you aren't answering your phone. Are we going to see her for the holidays?" "No." I pulled my hand back. The "Mom" he was talking about was my biological mother, Lydia Vance. Caleb had spent years using his resources to find my family. Two years ago, he succeeded. My biological father was dead. My mother had remarried and had a daughter who was now a senior in college. Lydia only wanted me back so I could get Caleb to secure a high-paying executive job for her "real" daughter. She told me she felt guilty about losing me, yet she gave all the love she "owed" me to my sister. I told her I was allergic to shellfish. She still put shrimp in my pasta. In her eyes, I saw only a business opportunity, not a daughter. "What’s wrong? Still fighting with her?" Caleb asked with a chuckle. "I'm done maintaining a fake relationship, Caleb. It’s exhausting. As of today, I don't have a mother." I looked into his eyes, my voice flat. Maybe I was too blunt. Caleb froze. A strange look passed over his face, and he gripped my chin. "Sloane, you've changed so much. You used to ask when I’d be home for dinner. You used to pick out my ties every morning..." Oh, Caleb. People don't change overnight. When I asked when you'd be home, you were in another woman's bed. The ties I picked for you were being loosened by other fingers. Every moment of my life was a reminder of your betrayal. It made me sick. 6 On New Year's Eve morning, I was at my studio door, and Caleb called. He said he’d be home early to ring in the New Year with me. I said, "Fine." Then I hung up. I was trying to hang a banner over the door, but I couldn't reach the top. I needed a stool. Suddenly, a pale, slender hand reached out and held the corner of the banner for me. I turned around and looked at the young man standing there. He was wearing a white hoodie, his eyes full of a playful light. "Hey, Sloane. Doing the heavy lifting without me? Not cool." I met Hunter Thorne at a gallery last year. It was the only time Caleb had stood me up for a show. I was standing in front of a painting of sunflowers, and the brushstrokes felt familiar. It reminded me of a piece I had bought at a charity auction a year ago. The other socialites thought I was crazy for spending millions on an unknown artist. But I bought it because I saw myself in that painting—the hesitation, the pain, the struggle. Hunter appeared right then. I met his burning gaze. "You like it? If you do, it's yours." I thought he was joking until the organizers delivered the painting to my house the next day. 7 Since that day, Hunter had been an uninvited guest in my life. Even I wasn't dense enough to miss his intentions. I told him a thousand times that I was married. He didn't care. He treated my warnings like background noise. Finally, during an outdoor sketching trip, I snapped at him. "Do you have any shame? I hate home-wreckers. Get out of my sight. You disgust me." Hunter went still for a long time. He looked utterly crushed as he walked away. It worked... for about two days. Hunter was the polar opposite of me. He was vibrant and loud. But he was also stubborn. Once he set his mind on something, he wouldn't let go. Sometimes his persistence gave me a headache, but there were moments when I was grateful he was the one person who refused to leave my side. 8 When I left the carnival with Hunter, it was late. My phone was buzzing in my pocket—Caleb again. I just shut the phone off. "Is it okay not to answer?" Hunter asked, his voice low. I smiled. "Where to next?" He excitedly put a pink helmet on my head and tapped the visor, glancing at the shadows behind me. "Somewhere he’ll never find us." The motorcycle roared to life. I instinctively gripped Hunter’s waist as he sped through the empty streets and hidden alleys. The wind howled in my ears, and the city lights became a blur. Suddenly, fireworks exploded over the horizon. Hunter shouted into the night: "Happy New Year! Sloane Vance, keep moving forward! Don't you dare look back!" I curled my lips into a smile and shouted with him. 9 It was nearly midnight when I got back to the estate. The lights were off, and the room reeked of smoke. Caleb was sitting on the sofa, looking drained. When he saw me, he stood up, forcing a smile. "Sloane. I couldn't reach you. I thought you went to Lydia’s." I just hummed, taking the exit he offered me. As I turned to go upstairs, Caleb’s raspy voice stopped me. "Sloane, I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt you fell in love with someone else and left me." He paused for a few seconds. "You’ll always love me, right?" He looked at me desperately, searching my eyes for an answer. I suddenly found it hilarious. Fate is a circle. In the past, I had asked myself that same question a thousand times: Does Caleb still love me? Back then, I thought he did. He planted my favorite roses in the garden. He bought me an estate for my birthday. He even walked for miles in a blizzard to find me specific medicine when I was sick. But his love was divisible. He could love me while being intimately entangled with half a dozen other women. I knew how he played. In that circle, threesomes and flings were just part of the lifestyle. The other wives told me not to take love so seriously. But I couldn't do it. I spent my days looking for proof that he loved me just a little more than the others. Until Hunter told me that real love doesn't need to be proven.
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