My Husband Loves Someone Else

"Men are visual creatures. Just slip on this lingerie and lie in bed—there's no way he'll be able to resist!"

Elena Reed stood in front of the full-length mirror, her cheeks warming as her best friend's words echoed in her mind.

She wore a red silk nightgown that was a far cry from her usual modest style. The sheer fabric clung to her curves, revealing just enough to be dangerously seductive.

It had been exactly one month since that drunken, wild night.

That night, Kian had shed all his usual coldness. His voice had been so tender it didn't sound like him at all. He'd called her name, murmuring in that low, hoarse voice, begging her to help him… and then everything spiraled out of control.

Losing her virginity had hurt. But it was a pain she'd welcomed.

Before dawn, Elena had fled—terrified he'd wake up and be disgusted by her.

But to her surprise, Kian had become more attentive afterward.

He remembered she took her coffee without sugar. When she painted late into the night, he'd have the staff bring her warm milk. When her fingers ached from an old injury, he personally went to the pharmacy to buy ointment.

Two nights ago at dinner, Kian had suddenly said, "There's a charity gala in three days. Get ready—I'm taking you with me."

It was the first time in three years he'd offered to bring her to a formal event.

Elena had been overjoyed. After all these years of devotion, her efforts were finally paying off. She was finally getting through to him.

The door swung open.

Kian Lancaster appeared in the doorway, his tall frame impeccable in a tailored charcoal suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and long legs. The sharp angles of his face looked even more striking under the light. When his gaze swept over her provocative nightgown, he paused mid-step.

"Still awake?" He walked into the room, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Elena lifted her face, carefully reaching for his arm. "Kian, I want to talk to you."

Before she could finish, Kian smoothly withdrew his hand, his expression cooling. "I'm tired. Whatever it is can wait."

Elena froze. "I—"

She tried to continue, but Kian cut her off coldly. "Go change. That doesn't suit you."

Without another word, he brushed past her into the bathroom.

Elena stood rooted to the spot, a chill spreading through her body. Shame settled over her like a heavy blanket.

After his shower, Kian went to his study.

Elena waited until well past midnight. He never came back to the bedroom.

She'd worked so hard to gather her courage—she couldn't just give up. Throwing on a robe, she headed for the study.

The hallway was dark except for a faint glow seeping from under the study door.

Elena approached quietly and raised her hand to knock. Then she heard it—a low, strangled groan from inside. The sound was hoarse, raw with desire. A sound she'd never heard before.

"Chloe…"

Elena's body went rigid. Her breath caught in her throat.

Chloe Hart was Kian's first love.

She couldn't believe it. Her husband, the man she'd thought was practically frigid, was in there pleasuring himself while moaning another woman's name.

"Chloe…" Another muffled groan, followed by ragged breathing.

It sounded like he'd finished.

Elena stepped back. Her heel caught the edge of a decorative stand against the wall.

The study fell silent. A moment later, the door was wrenched open.

Kian stood in the doorway, his robe hanging open at the collar, his face flushed, his chest still rising and falling.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was ice-cold.

Elena's mouth opened, but no words came out.

"I…" Her voice shook. "I wanted some water."

Kian frowned slightly and stepped aside. "Go ahead."

She moved mechanically toward the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of cold water.

The glass was freezing, numbing her fingertips. She tried to twist off the cap, but her fingers wouldn't cooperate. The slightest pressure sent sharp pain shooting through them.

"Let me."

Kian walked over, took the bottle from her, opened it, and handed it back.

Elena accepted it and took a sip.

"Thanks." She set the bottle on the counter and turned to leave.

Behind her, Kian's voice stopped her. "I'll have Dr. Clark come by tomorrow to look at your hand."

Always her hand.

For three years, this had been the only way he'd ever cared for her.

Elena didn't turn around. "No need. I'll go to the hospital myself tomorrow."

She went straight back to the bedroom.

Only after she'd closed the door did she have the courage to look at her trembling fingers—pale at the tips, the joints slightly deformed from years of rehabilitation.

These hands had once created art that left her professors in awe. These hands had painted entire worlds on canvas.

These same hands had clawed through rubble during an earthquake three years ago, pulling him back from death's door.

She remembered that day. Aftershocks kept coming. Everyone begged her to give up. She didn't listen. Her nails tore off. Her flesh was raw and bleeding. When she couldn't use her fingers anymore, she used her knuckles. When the pain made her pass out, she woke up and kept digging.

Two days and two nights.

When Elena finally dragged Kian—his face covered in blood—out of the ruins, he opened his eyes. The first thing he said was, "Your hands…"

Then he passed out.

When he woke up later, the first thing he did was call a doctor for her hands.

After that, Kian married her.

No wedding. No ring.

Kian had said, "Elena, I owe you my life. In this marriage, I'll take care of you forever. But I can't give you anything more than that."

Elena had said, "Okay."

Because she loved him.

From the moment she'd first seen him speak in a lecture hall during college, she'd fallen for him. Even after his family lost everything and he had to claw his way back up, becoming cold and ruthless in the process, she still loved him.

So Elena had accepted this marriage built only on obligation. She naively believed that one day, he would see how good she was for him.

Too bad it took her three years to realize—some hearts are harder than stone. No amount of warmth will ever soften them.

The next morning, when Elena woke, the other side of the bed was empty.

Maggie knocked and entered, carrying a bowl of seafood soup.

"Mr. Lancaster said you weren't feeling well last night. He asked me to bring you something warm for your stomach."

The moment the smell of seafood hit her, Elena couldn't help but retch.

Maggie's expression shifted. "Mrs. Lancaster… could you be pregnant?"