Chapter 1

"Stella's back." Julian Hayes strode past without a glance.

She'd saved him once. Left with trauma, fragile as glass. Every time her love life failed, she came running back.

And every time, Julian blamed me. Said my place as "Mrs. Hayes" triggered her.

So I'd vanish. Give up our bedroom so he could hold his broken angel.

When she left, he'd call me home.

Five years. No more, no less. Eighteen times.

But Julian, I will never love you again.

Audrey's POV

"Dad, I want a divorce."

I held the phone, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'll get the immigration paperwork done as soon as possible. I'm serious this time."

My father's voice came through the receiver, carrying a hint of relief. "My dear, you've finally come to your senses. I'll handle the rest. You'll be out of there within a month."

I hung up and looked at my reflection in the mirror, expressionless.

The doorbell rang.

I opened the door. Julian Hayes stood there, his face etched with his usual thinly veiled impatience.

"Stella's back." He strode into the entryway without even glancing at me. He walked straight to the walk-in closet and pulled out the suitcase I'd already packed. "You know her mental state. She can't handle any stress."

Of course, I knew.

Stella had once saved his life, and supposedly, it left her with severe psychological trauma and extreme emotional instability. Since then, every time she hit a wall with some awful guy, she'd come running back to Julian for shelter.

Julian stubbornly insisted that my status as "Mrs. Hayes" was the biggest trigger for Stella.

In his mind, as long as I stayed in this house, Stella would feel like a third party. And that would only make her condition worse.

So, every time Stella returned, I had to disappear like a ghost, vacating our master bedroom so he could comfort his fragile angel.

Once Stella left, he'd have me come back.

In five years, no more, no less, exactly eighteen times.

Today marked the nineteenth.

"She'll stay at our place first," he said, setting the suitcase down on the living room rug. "I can't let her have an episode out of guilt. I've already had my assistant, Karl, book you a suite at the Four Seasons."

I looked at the familiar suitcase, saying nothing, just silently beginning to pack my personal belongings.

This unusual calm compliance seemed to surprise him more than any hysterical crying fit would have.

He frowned, loosening his expensive silk tie, and stared at me suspiciously. "Audrey, why are you so cooperative today? What are you up to?"

It was no wonder he was suspicious.

After all, I wasn't always willing to be his doormat.

The first time, I cried and blocked his way, begging him not to make me leave. He just coldly pushed me aside.

The fifth time, I shredded all his custom shirts. I threatened him that if he dared to make me leave, he wouldn't be able to walk out of the house looking presentable.

He just glanced at them coldly and had the bodyguards "escort" me out. The next day, the closet was filled with new season clothes.

By the tenth time, I no longer resisted, just cried silently. He came over then, patted my head as if I were a pet, and said, "Now you're being a good girl."

And the eighteenth time, just last month, I could even smile as I helped him pick out the suit he would wear to see Stella.

I looked up at him, shaking my head calmly.

"I just think... this whole situation is pointless."

Just then, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen, and his impatience instantly transformed into tension and tenderness.

It was Stella.

He didn't avoid me, directly putting it on speaker.

"Julian, this floor is so quiet. I'm all alone in the hotel. I'm scared. When are you coming to get me?" Stella's voice trembled, pitiful as ever.

"Don't be scared. I'll come as soon as I'm done here," Julian cooed softly. "I had Karl order you a diamond bracelet, a welcome back gift. It's already in your room."

Stella's voice lifted with surprise. "Is it that Van Cleef & Arpels one we saw in Paris last time?"

"Yeah."

My hands, mid-fold, stiffened in the air.

Last week, I'd spread that Parisian fashion magazine in front of him, pointing to that very bracelet and joking, "It's so beautiful."

He had chuckled then, playfully tapping my nose, saying, "Noted."

Turns out, he did note it, but not for me.

Julian hung up and looked at me, his eyes full of warning.

"One hour. I'm going to pick her up. You better be gone by the time I get back."

Seeing no reaction from me, he even reached out and touched my face with a hint of pity, his voice softening. "Be good. Stella never stays long. I'll pick you up once she's gone."

With that, he turned and strode away, without a backward glance.

I sat alone in the empty living room, not moving immediately.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

The call connected, and a professional, steady voice answered from the other end. "Hello, Mrs. Hayes."

Watching the city's bustling skyline outside the window, my voice was calm and even.

"Mr. Harrison, it's Audrey."

"Please start preparing the asset division and divorce agreement."

I didn't go to the Four Seasons Hotel he booked. Instead, I took a taxi to a small apartment I owned before we got married.

It was the only place in this city that truly felt like my sanctuary.

For the next three days, Julian didn't call once.

I was glad for the peace and quiet.

On the fourth night, I habitually scrolled through Instagram.

A jarring photo flashed across my screen.

Stella had posted it.

In the picture, Stella was wearing my silk robe, sitting on the wool rug in our marital home's living room, holding a steaming mug of latte.

Julian was on the sofa behind her, looking down at some documents, his profile appearing unusually soft in the warm glow of the floor lamp.

The caption read: "With you, all my anxiety disappears."

I stared at that photo for a long time.

That robe was my favorite; my initials were embroidered on the cuffs.

I had left it in the closet when I moved out.

That woman not only occupied my home, my husband, but also casually took my personal belongings.

In the comments section below, many of our mutual acquaintances had left messages.

"Is this the official announcement on Instagram?"

"Has Julian finally come to his senses?"

Julian neither liked the post nor replied.

But I knew his silence was implicit consent.

I turned off my phone screen. My expressionless face reflected in the black glass.