Chapter 2

Shaking with rage, I typed a single question mark in the middle of their celebration and hit send.

The group chat went dead silent instantly.

A few seconds later, the message about "turning trash into magic" was quickly deleted.

Then, my phone started ringing. It was Julian.

I picked up but didn't say a word, waiting for his performance.

On the other end, Julian’s voice carried no hint of apology. It was as calm and gentle as ever.

"Chloe, don't do this in front of my students. It looks bad."

I almost laughed at his twisted logic.

"I did what, exactly?" I asked, my voice sharp with fury.

"I just want to know why my work—the files in my encrypted folder—became 'old archives' in other people’s mouths?"

He sighed. It was that familiar, patronizing sigh he always used whenever we had a disagreement over the last five years.

"Chloe, those are things from five years ago. The industry moves fast. You've been out of the game for too long, so you're getting overly sensitive. I get it."

He labeled my anger as "sensitivity" and the theft of my professional dignity as "being out of the game."

"Luna only had good intentions," he continued, his tone finally carrying a hint of irritation.

"She wanted to help you organize those scattered files into a modern system so we could apply for a joint patent later. Now you've terrified her with that text. She thinks she messed up, and she's crying her eyes out."

My heart sank into an icy abyss.

So, Luna’s tears mattered more than my intellectual property and dignity.

And they were already planning to patent my work under their names.

"Julian," I said, my voice shockingly calm.

"Let's get a divorce. You can keep the house and the studio. Enjoy them with your muse."

Through the phone, I heard him whispering to someone else.

"Shh, it's okay, don't cry. Chloe isn't targeting you. She's just... been away from projects for too long. She's anxious."

Once he finished soothing his muse, he spoke back into the phone, his tone returning to his usual arrogant self.

"Chloe, stop talking nonsense. Come home right now. Luna is waiting to apologize to you."

He even let out a soft, mocking chuckle, completely dismissing my mention of a divorce.

"We are legally married, Chloe. You can't just walk away. Besides, what's mine is yours, and what's yours is mine, right?"

That sentence was the final straw. It obliterated every last shred of warmth I had left for him.

I hung up immediately.

"Sir, could you roll down the window, please?" I asked the driver.

The cold night wind rushed in, instantly ruining the neat, perfect bun I had styled before leaving the house.

The tidy, respectable look of "Mrs. Julian Vance" unraveled in the wind.

For the first time in five years, I felt incredibly light.

The cab driver, who had clearly heard the whole conversation, sighed as he looked at me through the mirror.

"Lady, sorry if I'm speaking out of turn, but your husband is gaslighting you. If anyone treated my wife like that, I'd throw hands."

I forced a small smile but said nothing.

Memories of years ago flooded my mind.

We were in grad school back then. I had stayed up for three days straight to finish a design proposal, nearly fainting in the studio.

Julian had picked me up without a word and carried me on his back across the entire campus to the clinic.

On that chilly autumn night, he wrapped his only jacket around me, shivering in his thin shirt until his lips turned blue.

He pressed a cup of warm water into my hands, his eyes shining with intense devotion.

"Chloe, as long as you're okay, nothing else matters."

When did he change?

It started when he began advising grad students, specifically after Luna joined his lab.

He started telling me my designs were "too artistic," "not commercial," and "too ahead of their time to be practical."

Like a frog in warming water, he slowly chipped away at my self-confidence and stripped me of my worth.

He made me believe I was truly out of touch, convincing me that my only value was staying home, cooking his meals, and playing the supportive wife.