This Damn Toxic Love

They'd known each other for ten years and been married for three, and Arabella Wipere never thought her husband, Cornelius Douglas, was the type to cheat.

Until tonight.

In the club's most exclusive private room, she walked in beaming. "Honey, happy birthday—"

Cornelius wasn't there.

The room was empty except for a single woman seated at the far end of the long table. She bore a passing resemblance to Arabella, and her red dress was similar too, but she was more slender, more delicate—like a more polished version of her.

Arabella's eyes widened. "Mireille?"

"Arabella, you're here." Mireille Wipere showed no surprise. She stood and embraced her warmly. "It's been so long. I missed you so much while I was abroad."

"I didn't expect you to be here." Arabella hadn't processed what was happening. Her reply came out small and dazed.

She remembered how Mireille had slapped her twice at the airport the day she left the country.

They hadn't spoken in three years.

"I'm here to celebrate Cornelius's birthday." Mireille smiled playfully, as if none of that had ever happened. "Did he tell you?"

Arabella's heart, racing with excitement just moments ago, began sinking into a bottomless pit. "He didn't say anything..."

She thought Mireille meant the birthday celebration.

Then Mireille continued, "When are you two planning to get divorced?"

Arabella's breathing turned sharp. "What do you mean?"

"Oh... Cornelius didn't tell you?" Mireille covered her lips, giggling. The innocent expression was no different from when they were children.

Ten years ago, she'd laughed just like this as she said, "Arabella, even though your mother was the other woman, I'll still treat you like my real older sister."

They'd always been half-sisters—same mother, different fathers.

Mireille pulled out her phone and held the screen in front of Arabella's face. A chat conversation. Mireille's messages on the right, Cornelius's profile picture on the left, labeled 'Honey.'

The history went on and on. Daily messages, good mornings and good nights, little moments shared throughout the day. Pet names scattered everywhere like they cost nothing. Call logs—some lasting over ten hours.

"Cornelius and I have been in a long-distance relationship for over a year. Now we can finally be together." Mireille's tone was light, matter-of-fact. "You need to step aside."

Arabella couldn't speak. Her head swam.

But Mireille's voice kept drilling in. "The engagement was always between Cornelius and me. When I went abroad for treatment, you just married him in my place."

"Look at yourself—you grew up in some small town, you don't have a real job, you can't follow a single conversation in high society circles. Hasn't he told you? You're an embarrassment."

Arabella stumbled into a nearby chair.

Something was crushing her chest. She could barely breathe. Each gasp brought a sharp, stabbing pain, and her vision went dark.

Mireille looked down at her. "You've been a housewife for three years, thinking you've taken such good care of Cornelius, but he doesn't need that at all. Everything you do, the maids could do just as well."

"You've let your figure go. Your clothes are tacky. Even your makeup looks terrible. How could someone like you possibly deserve Cornelius? He's a gentleman—he won't kick you out himself. But surely you're not planning to cling to him like this?"

Each word drove into Arabella's heart like a blade. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. She held back her tears with everything she had.

In three years of marriage, Cornelius had never touched her. Never taken her to a single social event.

He'd never spoken a harsh word to her. But if this was what he truly thought, she wouldn't find it strange at all.

"If you have any self-respect left, leave on your own. Don't make this ugly." Mireille clasped her hand, voice sincere. "I've always thought of you as my real older sister. I don't want to see you get thrown out. But you can't keep holding on to what's mine."

Arabella fled.

She didn't remember how she got home. She only startled when she caught her tear-stained face in the entryway mirror.

She'd worn muted colors for three years. Today was the first time she'd bought an elegant wine-red dress, but it couldn't compare to Mireille's vivid red bodycon. She was rusty at makeup after so long, and her tears had streaked the foundation across her face in ugly tracks.

She lifted her hand and wiped at it. Her fingertips brushed over puffy undereye bags, bloodshot from exhaustion.

Even she couldn't stand to look at herself.

Arabella tore the dress off and went into the bathroom, desperate to wash away the humiliation.

She suddenly remembered—she'd left Cornelius's gift in the private room. That Patek Philippe had cost her entire three years of savings.

None of that mattered anymore.

When she'd first been acknowledged by the Wipere family, she attended her first high society dinner. Awkward as an ugly duckling, she'd accidentally eaten a decorative garnish, thinking it was an appetizer.

Muffled laughter rippled around the table. Just as she wanted to disappear, Cornelius did the exact same thing.

The mockery stopped. Everyone quietly followed suit.

In that moment, Arabella fell for him. Helplessly.

But Cornelius was one of Silverlight City's most prestigious elite—a business genius, heir to a massive corporate empire. How could she possibly deserve him? She buried her love in silence.

Until he fell into a coma after an accident and didn't wake for months. The Douglas family remembered the marriage arrangement and wanted Mireille to marry him, hoping she could bring him good fortune. But Mireille's old illness had relapsed. She had to go abroad for treatment.

So the marriage fell to Arabella.

Under her care, Cornelius woke. He gradually recovered and returned to lead the company.

And then Mireille came back.

Arabella stood under the showerhead, letting warm water wash the tears from her face.

For three years as Mrs. Douglas, she'd been living a stolen life. Someone as dazzling as Cornelius never belonged to her.

That kind gesture at the dinner table was only because he was well-mannered. It had nothing to do with her.

It was time to wake up.

When she came out of the shower, Cornelius was home.

His suit jacket was draped over his arm, his shirt revealing the firm lines of muscle beneath. Chiseled features, flawless. His slightly lowered brows gave him a cold edge, and his deep, icy eyes radiated an oppressive presence.

Arabella stood by the stairs, instinctively glancing behind him.

She hadn't expected him home so early after celebrating with Mireille.

She'd thought her tears had dried in the shower. Now her eyes burned again.

Usually she would greet him right away, help him hang up his clothes.

Today she didn't move. Didn't speak.

Cornelius glanced at her. Little doubt in his eyes—mostly his usual coldness, his face devoid of emotion.

No matter how she was, he was always indifferent.

His gaze withdrew quickly. When it came to her, he never looked twice.

"Happy birthday." Just as he was about to walk past her up the stairs, Arabella spoke quietly. Her voice trembled.

His steps didn't stop, but he caught the sadness in her tone. His eyes swept over her again, brows furrowing with impatience.

Every time she held back tears, he wore this exact expression.

"Upset again? I didn't mean to come home late. Urgent work at the company." Cold tone, though his words came slightly slower—his version of comfort.

"No." Arabella's throat felt unbearably tight. Even as she fought for control, her voice broke.

She just found herself pathetic. The truth was laid bare, yet he was still willing to make up an excuse, still saving her face, not piercing through this fragile pretense.

Cornelius let out a long breath—helplessness and irritation. It landed like a slap.

He had manners. He wouldn't kick her out himself. But she couldn't keep clinging to him, making him see her as a burden.

That would be too shameless.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs, she spoke up. Rough. Rushed.

"I'm ready. I can leave with nothing. When should we handle the paperwork?"