Chapter 1

I'd been married to Dylan Harper for three years, and he'd cycled through six mistresses during that time.

Every time he found someone new, he'd make me personally paint the two of them in intimate poses, then hang it on the most prominent wall in our house.

Everyone in our social circle said I was the most tolerant wife they'd ever seen.

But no one knew—I'd fought back once.

The first time, my art exhibition mysteriously caught fire, and ten years of my life's work turned to ashes.

The second time, he allowed his mistress to push me down the stairs.

I lost our three-month-old baby.

Now, my grandmother was the only person I had left to depend on.

So when Dylan called and asked me to deliver ultra-thin condoms to him, I smiled and agreed without hesitation.

I personally placed that box of condoms in his mistress's hand and said, "Call me if you need more."

I'd just reached the door when Dylan's low voice came from behind me.

"Violet."

My steps faltered.

Without turning around, I already knew what expression he wore right now.

Lazy, casual, with a hint of amusement.

I slowly turned around.

The private room's lighting was deliberately dim and suggestive.

Dylan was half-reclined on the sofa, his shirt casually unbuttoned.

Sitting on his lap was his latest mistress, Melody Shaw.

She wore a skirt that couldn't possibly be any shorter, draped over him.

Her fingers were restlessly tracing circles on his chest.

Seeing me turn around, Melody not only didn't restrain herself—she deliberately pressed closer into Dylan's embrace, marking her territory.

Dylan's gaze landed on my face.

With scrutiny and curiosity, as if he couldn't believe I could be this calm.

"What," he began, his tone indifferent, "being sarcastic? Throwing a tantrum?"

I slowly curved my lips into a smile.

A perfectly appropriate smile.

"No," I said. "Mr. Harper, don't misunderstand."

"I just want you two to enjoy yourselves."

At those words, Dylan stared at me, his dark eyes intense, as if trying to find a crack in my expression.

But Melody on top of him wasn't pleased.

She directly wrapped her arms around Dylan's neck.

"Dylan," she cooed, "you were so eager just a moment ago. Why are you only looking at her now?"

As she spoke, she turned to glance at me.

Her eyes were full of naked provocation.

She might as well have written "you're in the way" directly on her face.

But I only pressed my lips together lightly.

Without a word, I wisely turned and left.

When I reached the door, I even thoughtfully helped them close the private room door gently.

Shutting out the sordid scene inside.

And shutting out the last trace of emotion I shouldn't have had.

By the time I got home, it was already dark.

I'd just changed my shoes when my phone buzzed.

A message from Dylan.

"Perform well at the family dinner tonight and put Grandpa's mind at ease, okay?"

"I know you're jealous. That limited edition Chanel piece you had your eye on—I'll have someone deliver it to the house soon."

I paused for a few seconds, then typed back two words: "Thank you."

Dylan was always like this.

He made a habit of slapping you, then offering a sweet treat.

In the past, I couldn't accept it.

I always felt his compensation was an insult.

Those clothes, jewelry, handbags—I didn't want to use any of them.

I threw them all into the depths of my closet, out of sight, out of mind.

But now it was different.

I no longer loved him.

So these things were just gifts.

Naturally, I accepted them all.

Besides, this time Dylan was truly wrong.

I really hadn't been sarcastic.

I wasn't angry either.

I didn't even feel the slightest ripple of emotion.

Because as long as I could protect Grandma and let her spend her remaining years in peace and stability, I wouldn't complain even if I had to do more than just deliver condoms—even if I had to help them put the damn things on myself.