Chapter 1

The rain in the Scottish Highlands was freezing, driving into my rain jacket like countless ice picks.

Ten minutes ago, on this remote hiking trail, I was attacked. A burly man in a black ski mask lunged from the bushes, tackling me hard into the mud. His rough palm clamped tightly over my mouth, while his other hand violently tore at my collar.

Muddy water flooded my nose. Suffocation and terror coiled around my heart like a venomous snake. I fought back desperately, my fingers scraping against sharp gravel until they bled, but I couldn't budge his massive weight off me.

Just as I thought I was going to die out here in the middle of nowhere, two familiar voices ripped through the rain.

"Let her go! Get the hell away from her!"

It was William. My fiancé of six years, and the youngest CEO of a charity foundation in London. Sounds of a fierce struggle followed. The attacker seemed to be beaten back, stumbling away into the deep woods.

"Chloe! Oh my god, Chloe, are you okay?" My sister, Vivian, rushed over, pulling my muddy, shivering body into her arms. Her voice was thick with tears as she frantically wrapped her coat around my half-bare shoulders.

William dropped to his knees beside me. His long, elegant hands—hands that usually held wine glasses—were now caked in mud. He cupped my face, his eyes red with heartbreak. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry I'm late. You're safe now. I've got you. Nobody is going to hurt you."

I leaned against William's warm chest, trembling uncontrollably, tears and rain streaming down my face. This was the man who once lost a whole night's sleep just because I nicked my finger chopping vegetables. Seeing him risk everything for me, I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world.

Until Vivian turned her head and glanced at a black waterproof bag hidden behind a nearby rock.

She thought I was still in shock. She thought I wasn't listening. And most of all, she thought I wouldn't understand. Lowering her voice, she spoke quickly in fluent French to William:

"Les angles de caméra sont parfaits. L'acteur a bien fait son travail. (The camera angles are perfect. The actor did a great job.)"

William gently patted my back. With his lips pressed against my ear, he replied in the same hushed French:

"Assure-toi que la vidéo est en haute définition. C'est notre billet pour les BAFTA. (Make sure the footage is in HD. This is our ticket to the BAFTAs.)"

Boom.

In that instant, it felt like my brain was struck by lightning. All the blood in my body rushed backward, freezing into ice.

My stomach churned violently. A wave of nausea—ten thousand times more suffocating than being pinned in the mud by a thug—surged up my throat.

They assumed I didn't speak French. In their eyes, I was just the Asian orphan sponsored by Vivian's family, a regular office worker scraping by at the bottom of London's corporate ladder. I wasn't supposed to understand the elegant language of their high society, or appreciate their sophisticated art.

But what they didn't know was that for the past year, I had been secretly teaching myself French. It was supposed to be a surprise for William for our honeymoon in Paris three months from now. I had spent every day on the crowded subway with my headphones on, practicing my pronunciation. I could even understand long sentences on the French news.

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that the first time my French actually paid off, it would be to understand the ultimate betrayal by the two people I loved most in the world.

"Il a demandé plus d'argent pour avoir déchiré ses vêtements. (He asked for more money for tearing her clothes,)" Vivian continued coldly in French, a hint of impatience in her voice. "Donne-lui ce qu'il veut, mais dis-lui de disparaître. (Give him what he wants, but tell him to get lost.)"

"Je m'en occupe. L'essentiel est que cette campagne de charité atteigne les 10 millions de livres. (I'll handle it. The bottom line is that this charity campaign hits ten million pounds,)" William's voice remained as gentle as ever. He even leaned down and pressed a kiss to my mud-streaked forehead.

His lips were warm, but my heart felt like it had been ripped wide open. Howling freezing winds poured in, tearing my soul to shreds.

So, this attack that nearly destroyed me was just a show.

A bloody, self-directed play designed to provide the climax for Vivian's documentary on women's safety, and to raise ten million pounds for William's charity!

They had used my terror, my innocence, my dignity, and even my physical safety as stepping stones for a BAFTA and a massive payday.

"Chloe, don't be afraid. Let's go home. I'll find the best therapist for you," William cooed in English, his eyes full of a sickening "devotion."

I bit my lip so hard that the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I didn't cry. I didn't confront them. I didn't even push him away. I just acted like a true victim, burying my face deep into his coat and forcing my body to keep trembling in fear.

In that darkness, my eyes were wide open. The despair in them faded away, slowly replaced by a cold, dead-calm clarity.

William, Vivian... since you both love acting so much.

I'll play along, right up until the day I ruin you both.