Chapter 6

Elena POV

The night of the gala, I showed up.

I wore the outfit he picked out for me and sat quietly in the chair he directed me to.

Ethan adjusted the light shawl over my shoulders and had someone place a warm glass of water by my hand. "Your health is delicate, don't push yourself. Stay right here, don't wander off. Once I'm done greeting guests, I'll come sit with you."

With that, he walked away, spending the entire night by another woman's side.

Sitting in the corner cradling the warm cup, I watched the center of the main hall.

Right in front of everyone, Ethan’s mother slid a multi-generational heirloom ring onto Madelyn’s finger, holding her hand and announcing to the crowd, "From this day on, you are part of the Miller family, and the family affairs will rely on your care."

Guests crowded around with congratulations.

"I hear Madelyn is expecting? What wonderful news for the Millers!"

"Elena has occupied the position of Mrs. Miller for years with that sickly body. It's about time she stepped aside."

"Exactly. She couldn't even give him an heir. The moment Madelyn arrives, a son is on the way."

The voices weren't quiet. It felt as though they were meant for my ears.

I lifted my coffee cup, my hands steady, my eyes cast down, simply blowing at the foam on top.

Ever since I married into this family, I always told myself that once my health improved, that ring would eventually be passed to me—a physical proof that this family accepted me.

The proof I had waited years for was placed onto another woman's finger tonight.

And I, the legal wife, was abandoned in a corner chair, without a single person coming over to say a word to me.

Suddenly, the host's voice rang through the microphone: "Next, please welcome Mr. Miller to present a token of his heart to his beloved wife tonight!"

The chandeliers dimmed, leaving a single spotlight on him.

He stepped to the center of the stage holding the microphone, his gaze sweeping the room.

"My wife’s health has been delicate all these years, and I’ve stayed by her side through it all. People say Ethan Miller built a successful empire, but I know deep down that without her, I wouldn't be standing here today."

He paused, his voice softening. "She is the most important person in my heart. No one compares."

Applause erupted across the hall, punctuated by cheers.

"Mr. Miller really is one of a kind!" someone shouted.

"Now that's a true marriage!"

Sitting outside the light, watching that seemingly devoted man on the stage, a tiny, fleeting part of me actually believed I was the one held close to his heart.

I knew it was pathetic, but for that split second, it felt real. Cradling the cup of water, my eyes grew hot.

I thought that even if he had an entire life outside, at least this crowded room heard those words. At least these years hadn't been an absolute waste.

Until he stepped off the stage, carried the bouquet used during the speech, and walked over to the other side of the room.

The cup in my hand froze midair.

I watched with my own eyes as he placed the bouquet into Madelyn’s arms, leaned down to her ear, and repeated the exact words—*the most important person, no one compares*—word for word, down to the exact same inflection.

The guests on that side burst into applause as well, offering congratulations, praising how well he treated Madelyn, calling them a perfect match.

In a single evening, before two rooms full of guests, he handed out the exact same romance to two different women.

Sitting in my chair, my fingernails dug so hard into the armrest that my knuckles went white, a suffocating weight crushing my chest.

That fleeting warmth from moments ago became something I never wanted to remember for the rest of my life.

The dignity I held onto before this crowd was merely a line he could recite once and immediately recite again. I treated it as a treasure; he treated it as a script.

I didn't cause a scene.

I stood up, hailed a cab, and went home alone.

Back at the house, I took the tin box from the nightstand, took out all three hundred handwritten notes, and spread them across the floor.

Sitting on the floor, I tore them to pieces one by one, then lit a fire in the bronze basin out in the courtyard.

The flames curled around each scrap, turning the cards he had written, the sweet words I had treasured for years, into piles of ash.

I burned them slowly, leaving not a single one behind.

I had read these three hundred cards countless times. On nights when sickness kept me awake, I would pull one out to read, telling myself I could hold on a little longer.

Tonight, I realized every single card was a lie. Everything that had kept me alive until today was built on deceit.

When the last card burned, I realized my cheeks were wet. I wiped them dry, refusing to let out a sob.

The box was empty. I closed the lid and set it back on the nightstand.

I counted the days once more. The gala was over; the remaining tasks would be settled one by one, and then I would leave.