Chapter 1

My husband watched me miscarry while he was in the car with his new love. When he tried to reach out to me afterward, I told him that unless he was a vegetable, I wasn't interested. A year later, I read in the news that he had, in fact, become a vegetable.

When I lost my baby in the car accident, my world shattered into a million irreparable pieces. I was drowning in a sea of despair, but Milton was nowhere to be found. He happened to be driving by, his sleek car a glimmering facade under the late afternoon sun. I caught a glimpse of him through the chaos, his lips locked in a passionate embrace with his female assistant, her laughter ringing like a cruel mockery in my ears as they waited for the traffic light.

Our eyes met for a fleeting second—his filled with indifference, mine bursting with unfiltered pain. And then, without so much as a flicker of recognition, he sped off, leaving me stranded in the wreckage of my life. The world around me faded, the sirens and screams drowned out by the deafening silence of betrayal.

That same night, while the shadows danced around me in the bedroom, I stumbled upon something crumpled in the corner of our bed—a thong.

Red, lacy, and unmistakably not mine.

My heart tightened as I held it between my trembling fingers, the fabric a cruel confirmation of the truth I had tried to ignore. My marriage, once a sanctuary, had become a web of deceit—a lie that ensnared my heart in a suffocating grip.

In that moment, clarity washed over me like a tidal wave, pushing away the remnants of denial. I could feel the storm inside me churning, but I forced my voice to remain steady as I reached for my phone.

"Mr. Janathan, I've made up my mind," I said, my voice unwavering, even as fury and heartache roiled within. "I can start at your company."

"That's wonderful news! " His enthusiasm on the other end of the line was a stark contrast to the numbness that enveloped me.

The second I hung up, Milton emerged from the bathroom He used to take five-minute—quick, efficient, just like everything else in his life.

But lately, it was different. Half an hour, sometimes more. Always with his phone in hand, as if he couldn’t bear to be disconnected from whatever affair was consuming him.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked, eyes glued to his phone, his voice so casual it stung.