Chapter 1

After losing the baby, I finally gave Silas the one thing he had always craved: a trouble-free marriage.

No more interrogations when he stayed out all night. No more hysterical fits over the presence of his first love.

Even when I was discharged from the hospital, and the nurse asked for my husband's signature, I simply replied with chilling calm, "I don't have a husband."

My love for Silas died right alongside our unborn child.

By the time he finally realized the truth and begged me to come back, it would be far too late.

...

After a week in the hospital, I finally went home.

I had barely taken off my shoes when Silas strode out of the living room.

His brow was furrowed, his expression a tight knot of irritation mixed with an underlying panic and defensiveness that he couldn't even recognize.

"Aurora, why didn't you tell me you were having surgery in the hospital?" he demanded. "If the housekeeper hadn't told me you were discharged, I wouldn't have had a clue!"

I gave a faint, humorless smile. "I called you. Did you answer?"

Seven days ago, I had rushed home, my heart soaring as I clutched a positive pregnancy test. Instead of a celebration, I walked in to find Genevieve, his first love, freshly back in the country.

The same woman who had left him at the altar years ago, now back after divorcing an abusive husband.

She had sneered at me. "You're nothing but a placeholder. If I hadn't left, do you really think you'd have gotten this arranged marriage? All it takes is one word from me, and he'll come running back to my side."

I couldn't argue. Everything she said was the bloody truth.

Everyone in our circle knew Silas had worshipped the ground she walked on.

Her runaway-bride stunt had devastated him.

Blinded by my own foolish love, I had pushed for our families to arrange a marriage, stepping in to fill the void she left behind. I believed that five years of day-and-night devotion could thaw his frozen heart.

But a placeholder is just a placeholder.

Disgusted by Genevieve's triumphant gloating, I told her to get out.

But out of nowhere, sheer terror flashed in Genevieve's eyes. She clutched her head, let out a blood-curdling scream, and scrambled backward.

That was when Silas burst into the room.

He didn't even bother to ask what had happened. He assumed I was the one trying to hurt her.

He shoved me hard out of the way.

I lost my balance, my stomach crashing violently against the sharp corner of the mahogany coffee table.

A tearing agony ripped through my lower abdomen, followed by the terrifying rush of warm blood.

Through eyes blurred with cold sweat, I watched Silas scoop a "hyperventilating" Genevieve into his arms, his face etched with frantic worry, and carry her out the door.

He didn't spare me a single second of hesitation.

Later, lying in an expanding pool of my blood, I dialed his number.

It rang out. Ignored.

Seventeen times in a row.

When the line finally connected on the eighteenth try, it was Genevieve who answered.

"Silas is buying me a gift to help calm my nerves, Aurora. Did you need something?"

I passed out right there in the pool of blood.

By the time I woke up in the hospital, the doctor delivered the news. The baby was gone.

I spent seven days in that hospital bed. Silas didn't send a single text. Every ounce of his energy had been poured into comforting Genevieve.

Hearing my words now, Silas flinched slightly.

A flicker of defensive guilt crept into his voice. "I wasn't looking at my phone. Gen was having a PTSD episode—you know what her ex-husband put her through. Your arguing triggered a severe panic attack. I had to put my phone on silent so she could calm down."

He paused, his voice dropping slightly. "I'm sorry I missed your calls, but you have to understand the situation."

"It's fine," I said quietly. "I understand."

My tone was far too calm. My eyes were like stagnant water, devoid of a single ripple.

Silas stared at me, suddenly freezing up. His hands subconsciously clenched into fists at his sides.

"You're... not angry?" Confusion swirled in his eyes.

In the past, if he had neglected me even a fraction of this much, I would have blocked his path with red, teary eyes, crying and demanding to know if he cared about me at all.

I would have cared too much. I would have made a colossal scene.

But now? Not only was I not screaming, I hadn't shed a single tear. And to him, that felt... wrong. Completely off.

"I'm not angry." I bypassed him and headed for the stairs.

Silas grabbed my wrist.

"Aurora! Are you still throwing a tantrum because Gen is back? She has no one to rely on right now. Out of basic human decency and for the sake of our past, what's wrong with taking care of her a little? We have clear boundaries! Can you please stop making a mountain out of a molehill?"

"Silas..."

Genevieve's weak, trembling voice suddenly drifted from the top of the stairs.

"Please, don't fight because of me. It's all my fault. I never should have come back. I'll pack my things and leave right now, even if I have to sleep on the street..."

Silas's jaw clenched instantly. Those clear boundaries he swore by vanished into thin air. He dropped my wrist and took a long stride toward her.

"Don't talk nonsense, Gen. You aren't going anywhere."

He shot a glance back at me—a mix of placation and stern warning, as if bracing for me to rush up and tear into her like I would have in the past.

"I'm tired, and I want to rest," I said, meeting his gaze evenly. "Go take care of her."

Without giving them a second glance, I continued up the remaining stairs.

I walked right past the master bedroom. That bed might already be tainted with someone else's scent, and the thought disgusted me.

I stepped into the study at the end of the hall and opened my laptop. Sitting quietly in my inbox was an email from headquarters in Milan.

Before I met Silas, I was set to become the chief designer for the European division.

I had sacrificed all my pride and career prospects for him, only to prove one tragic truth: no matter how much of myself I burned away, it would never earn me even a fraction of his love.

With that thought fading into a cold resolve, I typed out a single line:

"I accept the transfer arrangement. I will be on the flight to Milan in three days."