On our anniversary, Williams spent a small fortune to plaster my name across every digital billboard in the city. I watched the neon glow of my own name reflecting in his eyes, so moved that I let tears slip down my cheeks. That night, I officially declined my offer for an Ivy League graduate program, choosing him over my own future. But today, the building administrator came by for a routine residency check. She looked at me with a soft, pitying expression. “Mrs. Calloway, according to our system, this penthouse belongs to Camille Weaver. And the woman registered as your husband’s legal spouse is also her.” “As far as the building records are concerned, you’re just a temporary guest.” I pushed open the heavy double doors of Williams’s private office at the Calloway Group. He was leaning over his mahogany desk, his lips pressed softly against Camille’s ring finger. When I demanded an explanation, his brows furrowed, and his face hardened with immediate frustration. “Camille grew up without parents, Isabel. She has no sense of security. It’s just a deed and a marriage certificate—I only gave her those titles to put her mind at ease.” “I gave you a million-dollar wedding that the entire city envied. I gave you all the public dignity any woman could ask for. Is none of that enough for you?” Camille leaned back against his chest with a soft, mocking smile. “Don’t be angry, Isabel. I only wanted the title. At the end of the day, he still comes home to your bed to play the husband, doesn’t he?” I looked down at the diamond ring on my finger. Suddenly, its sparkle felt blindingly cheap. I slid it off and placed it quietly on his desk. I turned and walked away, pulling out my phone to text my father. Three words: I’m coming home. … “Miss Calloway, I’m so sorry, but Ms. Weaver submitted a request to revoke your long-term access permissions. If you plan to continue staying here, we’ll need to re-file your temporary residency paperwork.” The building manager stood in the hallway, looking deeply uncomfortable. I stared at the smart-lock screen. Biometrics not recognized. My finger hovered in the air, frozen. “Temporary residency?” I repeated, the words tasting like ash. “Yes, ma’am.” The manager pulled up the digital portal on her tablet and gently turned it toward me. “The sole owner of this property is Camille Weaver.” “According to the building’s HOA policies, anyone who is not the deed holder’s legal spouse or direct relative must be registered as a temporary occupant.” The bright blue light of the screen made my eyes sting. Owner: Camille Weaver. Spouse: Williams Calloway. The digital file was stark, clear, and utterly devoid of misunderstanding. I pulled my hand back, my voice barely a whisper. “I understand. Thank you.” She gave me one last pitying look before stepping back into the elevator. The hallway fell dead silent, save for the low buzz of the motion-sensor lights. I pulled out my phone and dialed Williams. It rang for a long time before he finally picked up. The background was quiet, the faint rustle of documents the only sound. “What is it, Isabel?” His voice was deep, smooth, carrying that effortless composure I had fallen in love with. “I’m locked out of the penthouse,” I said, staring at the matte-black door. There was a brief pause on the other end. “Camille mentioned she’s been feeling anxious about privacy lately,” Williams sighed, his tone adopting a patient, soothing cadence. “She wanted to audit the security permissions. She must have cleared your biometrics by mistake.” He let out a soft breath, trying to placate me. “Just use the keypad for now. The code is still the same—my birthday.” “Isabel, don’t take this to heart. I’ll handle it.” I lowered my gaze to the tips of my shoes. “Williams, the building manager told me I’m registered as a temporary guest.” Silence stretched over the line for two agonizing seconds. Then, he let out a low, weary laugh. “Isabel, didn’t you make enough of a scene at the office today?” “I already explained it to you. Camille grew up in the system. She’s an orphan. She has a desperate need to feel like she actually belongs somewhere, that she has a home of her own.” “Putting her name on the deed was just to give her some security.” “You got the wedding of the century. Everyone in Chicago knows you’re Mrs. Williams Calloway.” “You live in that penthouse. Who would dare call you a guest?” In his mind, it was a neat equation: love and public prestige belonged to me; the legal titles and real estate belonged to Camille. “And the marriage license?” I asked, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles turned white. “You kept telling me the county system was experiencing a backlog, that our certified copy was taking longer to process.” “But in the city registry, she is your legal wife.” Williams’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “Isabel, what has gotten into you? You’ve never been like this.” “Whose home do I return to every single night? Whose hand did I hold in front of the entire city on our anniversary?” “A piece of paper doesn’t change how I feel about you. You are more important to me than any document.” “I will sort this out. I just need a little time.” I didn’t answer. A dull, sickening ache bloomed in my stomach. “Alright?” Williams’s tone softened again, returning to his familiar coaxing rhythm. “I have a client dinner tonight, but I’ll be home late to make it up to you. Don’t overthink things. We’ll talk tonight, okay?” The line went dead. I stared at the blank screen, then reached out and punched in his birthday. Beep. The lock clicked open. In the foyer, the fresh lilies I had arranged yesterday were still blooming. But on the marble coffee table in the living room sat a stack of cardboard moving boxes. I walked over and lifted the lid of the top box. Inside was the hand-lettered parchment of our wedding vows. Beside it lay my dried bridal bouquet. Yesterday, I had proudly displayed them on the mantel. Now, they had been packed away like junk. I walked into the master bedroom. I pulled open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Our marriage certificate lay inside. On our wedding day, Williams had handed it to me, calling it the ultimate proof of our commitment. I pulled it out and opened the folder. Our names were printed in elegant calligraphy, but the space for the official court seal was entirely blank. It was nothing more than a souvenir prop. With my fingernail, I pried at the adhesive lining of the leather certificate holder. A small, glossy photo slipped out. In it, Williams wore a crisp white shirt, his smile bright and unburdened. Camille was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes curved with pure joy. I stared at the photograph for a long time. Then, I slid it back into the hidden sleeve and placed the folder back in the drawer. I pulled my suitcase from the closet. I folded a few essential pieces of clothing and packed them inside. Just as I zipped the suitcase shut, the doorbell rang. I walked back to the foyer and pulled the door open. Camille stood in the hallway wearing a camel trench coat. Behind her stood a man in a sharp gray suit, flanked by two movers in uniform. “Isabel, I had a feeling you’d still be here,” Camille said, her smile sweet and guileless as her eyes swept past me into the apartment. “What are you doing here?” I blocked the threshold, making no move to let her in. The man in the suit stepped forward, offering me a business card. “Good afternoon, Miss Calloway. I am Ms. Weaver’s legal counsel.” “This property is registered as Ms. Weaver’s personal asset under her marriage settlement. She has requested to begin redecorating and taking possession of the premises.” “We ask for your full cooperation.” Camille sighed, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Don’t misunderstand, Isabel.” “I just find the current minimalist style a bit too cold. I want to bring in some warmer furniture.” “After all… this is Williams’s and my home now.” She let the words Williams’s and my home linger in the air. “I don’t mind that you’ve been living here. I just need you to vacate the master bedroom so I can move in.” I looked at her face, and suddenly, the anger drained out of me, replaced by an overwhelming sense of futility. “There’s no need to clear anything out,” I said, stepping aside. “I’m leaving.” Camille’s eyes lit up with a flash of triumph. She immediately turned and gestured for the movers to bring in the boxes. Just then, the elevator doors chimed open. Williams strode out, his brow furrowed in a deep, tense line. “Camille, what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice sharp with frustration as he approached her. Camille’s eyes welled with tears instantly. She grabbed his sleeve, looking up at him. “Williams, I just wanted to see our new home. But Isabel seems so angry with me.” “Did I do something wrong?” Williams patted her hand gently, then turned his gaze to me. His eyes fell on the suitcase at my feet. His expression darkened. “Isabel, are you seriously doing this right now?” “I told you, the code hasn’t changed. You are welcome to stay here.” I looked at him, my voice completely flat. “Your legal wife is here with her attorney to claim her property, Williams. What exactly would I be if I stayed?” “Your tenant? Or your mistress?” Williams’s face turned ash-gray. He stepped forward and gripped my wrist. His grip was tight, but his thumb reflexively stroked the delicate skin over my pulse point. “Isabel, don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re better than this.” “I told you, I love you. A legal title for Camille doesn’t change what we have.” “She’s had an incredibly hard life, and I couldn’t let her bear the brunt of public scrutiny.” He glanced at the quiet, sniffling Camille, then back at me. “I’m not trying to excuse her, Isabel. I just don’t want any more misunderstandings.” “Go stay at a hotel for a few days.” “Once things settle down here, I’ll come and bring you back myself.” I looked down at his hand gripping mine. His fingers were long, his knuckles elegant and familiar. This was the same hand that had held me so desperately at O’Hare airport. I had just received my Ivy League acceptance letter. He had pulled me into his chest in the middle of the crowded terminal, his eyes bloodshot, whispering: Isabel, stay. Let me build a life for us. And I had stayed. Now, he was asking me to pack up my things and move into a hotel. I reached down and, finger by finger, peeled his hand off my wrist. “Okay,” I said. I picked up the handle of my suitcase and walked toward the elevator. Williams froze, clearly taken aback by how easily I was giving in. He took two quick steps after me. “I’ll have my assistant book your usual suite at the Peninsula. I’ll order some warm soup for you—your stomach has been acting up.” “Don’t bother.” I pressed the elevator button. “Isabel,” Williams’s voice took on a firmer, authoritative edge behind me. “The Calloway Group’s annual charity gala is in three days.” “Get yourself ready. I need you to attend with me.” I turned my head to look at him. “In what capacity?” Williams frowned, as if the question itself were absurd. “As my wife, of course.” “The entire city knows I married you. If you don’t show up, the media will tear Camille apart.” Three days later. I had no intention of going to the gala. But Williams’s assistant was waiting in the lobby of my hotel four hours before the event. He brought a team of stylists and a garment bag holding an exquisite haute couture gown. “Miss Calloway, Mr. Calloway wanted me to remind you that tonight is critical for the firm’s image. Please, keep the bigger picture in mind.” The assistant’s tone was polite, but his stance was unyielding. I looked at the dress. Before our wedding, Williams had spent hours watching me try on gowns. He had touched the silk of this very dress and said, Isabel, this was made for you. You will never have to envy anyone else. I put on the dress and got into the town car. When we arrived at the venue, the red carpet was already lined with flashing cameras. Williams was waiting for me at the end of the carpet. He looked striking in his black tuxedo. The moment my door opened, he stepped forward, wrapping his hand possessively around my waist. “You look breathtaking,” he murmured in my ear. “Just bear with it tonight, Isabel. As long as you stand by my side, you are the only Mrs. Calloway they see.” I remained silent, letting him guide me through the grand doors. But the moment we stepped into the ballroom, a sudden murmur rippled through the crowd. I followed the direction of everyone’s gazes. Camille was standing near the champagne tower, a glass of sparkling cider in her hand. She was wearing the exact same gown. Except hers had been altered at the waist, draped in a way that made her look fragile, almost ethereal. She raised a hand to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. On her ring finger, the diamond wedding band caught the light of the crystal chandeliers, sparkling mockingly. The guests began to whisper. “Is that a wardrobe clash?” “Wait, isn’t that his executive assistant? Why is she wearing his wedding band?” “Who did Williams actually marry?” A few reporters quickly converged on her. “Ms. Weaver, is your dress tonight a coincidence?” “Does the ring on your finger mean there’s an announcement coming soon?” Camille shrank back, looking appropriately startled. She cast a timid, helpless look toward Williams. Then, speaking softly into a reporter’s microphone, her voice trembled. “Please, don’t misunderstand.” “Williams and I are legally married. It’s just that Isabel… she really wanted the dream of a grand wedding, so Williams threw that ceremony for her to keep her happy.” The ballroom erupted. In an instant, every lens swung around, targeting Williams and me. The barrage of flashes was blinding. “Mr. Calloway, is what Ms. Weaver said true?” “The public registry confirms Camille Weaver is your legal spouse. Where does that leave Isabel?” “Miss Calloway, did you knowingly enter a relationship with a married man, or were you deceived?” Microphones were thrust into my face. The crowd pressed closer, and someone shoved me from behind. Williams instinctively pulled me against his chest, his palm shielding my lower abdomen. His expression turned lethal as he glared at the press. “Step back,” he commanded. The reporters retreated slightly, intimidated by his tone, but the cameras kept clicking. “Mr. Calloway, please give us a direct statement.” I turned my head to look at Williams. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes filled with a turbulent mix of emotions. I waited for him to speak. I waited for him to clear my name, to tell the world that this was all a terrible mistake, that I was not an interloper in my own life. But he only tightened his grip around my waist. “Everyone in this room knows who my wife is,” he said to the cameras, his voice flat and controlled. “Tonight is a charity event. Our focus should be on those we are here to help, not my private affairs.” It was a non-answer, and the press knew it. Their questions grew sharper, more vicious. Camille, her eyes red, walked over and stood on Williams’s other side. “Please, stop pressing him. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Williams reached out, steadying her shoulder and pulling her half-behind him. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” he whispered to her. Then he looked back at me, his brow furrowed, his voice urgent. “Isabel, stay steady.” “I’ve got this.” I stared at his face. He was telling me to stay steady. Yet, in the very moment I was being branded a home-wrecker to the world, his words of protection were entirely empty. The ballroom air conditioning was blasting, but I felt cold from the inside out. My phone buzzed in my clutch. I didn’t need to look to know the internet was already exploding with the story. I reached down and pushed Williams’s hand off my waist. I took a step back, separating myself from him. “Williams.” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the sudden hush of the ballroom, it carried clearly. “If you stand in front of these cameras right now and tell them I am not a mistress…” “I will believe you. One last time.” The reporters fell silent, thrusting their recorders forward. Williams’s face went pale. He lowered his voice, his tone laced with mounting panic. “Isabel, calm down.” “This isn’t the time or the place. I will explain everything to you once we get through tonight.” “If you say anything now, it will only make things worse.” I ignored his warning, my eyes locked onto his. “Do you dare tell them that you never legally married me?” “Do you dare admit that the wedding you gave me was nothing but a sham?” Williams went silent. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His gaze flickered frantically between me and Camille. He couldn’t do it. He was terrified that if he clarified the truth, Camille would be branded a homewrecker. He was terrified of the fallout to his own pristine reputation. His silence was the final, fatal blow. Seeing his hesitation, Camille suddenly let out a sob. She broke away from Williams and stepped in front of me. And there, in front of every media outlet in the city, she fell to her knees. “Isabel, I’m so sorry,” she wept, grabbing the hem of my gown. “I know how much you love Williams. I shouldn’t have been greedy for a title.” “I’ll sign the divorce papers tomorrow. I’ll give him back to you. Just please, don’t force him into a corner like this.” The flashbulbs went wild. The whispers around us morphed into outright condemnation. “The poor wife… reduced to begging on her knees.” “How shameless can a mistress get?” I looked down at Camille kneeling on the floor, and a wave of pure nausea washed over me. I reached down to yank my dress out of her grasp. “Let go of me,” I said. But Camille held on tight, looking up at me. Behind her tear-stained eyes, I saw the cold, sharp glint of malice. Suddenly, using the momentum of my pull, she threw herself backward. “Ah!” she gasped. Williams’s face drained of color. He lunged forward, catching Camille before she hit the floor. But in the split second she fell, Camille’s hand shot out from beneath her sleeve, giving my knee a sharp, deliberate shove. I was already off-balance in my heels. The force of her push sent me staggering backward. Behind me was the towering pyramid of champagne flutes. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the ballroom like gunfire. I hit the hard floor. A deluge of crystal and alcohol rained down on me, cutting into my skin. The room went completely still. I lay in the wreckage, my palm pressed against a jagged piece of glass, but I couldn’t feel the pain in my hand. Because a sudden, tearing agony in my lower abdomen eclipsed everything else. It felt as if my insides were being violently ripped apart. A warm, thick tide of fluid began to seep down my thighs, staining the pristine silk of my gown with a rapidly blooming circle of crimson. Williams was still holding Camille in his arms. But when he turned his head and saw the pool of blood spreading beneath me, every ounce of color vanished from his face. “Isabel!”
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