Panic seized me. He was back? But how? I was nothing to him, just a pale imitation of the
woman he truly loved.
The knocking came again, three sharp raps. “Avery, I need to see you.”
I sat up, forcing myself to stay calm. Don’t panic. Don’t blow your cover.
I took a deep breath, feigning sleepy confusion. “Ethan? I… I need to use the restroom and
shower. Give me a minute.”
I rushed into the bathroom, turned on the
shower, and stared at the hickeys. I’d used a
bottle cap to create them, pressing hard for
realism. They weren’t fading; makeup wouldn’t
cover them.
But I had to try. A cheating wife’s first instinct
is to lie, to cover up. Ethan was sharp; I had to
commit to the act.
I wet my hair, pretending to have showered, and
changed into a high–necked black dress,
covering my arms completely. I carefully placed
a band–aid over the hickey peeking from the
neckline. I practiced a look of guilt and forced
composure in the mirror. Disgusting, right? He’d
be so revolted he’d demand a divorce, tell me
to get out.
I opened the door.
Ethan sat on the sofa, brow furrowed, eyes
closed. He looked pale, with a faint stubble
shadowing his jaw. He wasn’t wearing his
watch, and the matching cufflinks were missing
from his suit. One hand clutched his phone; the
other rested on the armrest, knuckles raw and
scraped. He’d punched something, repeatedly.
He didn’t seem to notice or care; there wasn’t
even a band–aid.
“Ethan, what are you doing back?”
He opened his eyes, pupils dark and intense. He pushed himself off the sofa and walked towards
me, his movements slow and deliberate, a stark
く
contrast to his earlier frantic arrival. I
instinctively stepped back, but he caught my
arm and pulled me closer. His gaze fell to my
neck, his pupils contracting.
I forced a smile. “Did something happen?”
He didn’t answer. He raised his hand, two
fingers outstretched, hovering over the band-
aid. It seemed like he would rip it off, exposing
my lies, and then, fueled by rage and
humiliation, rip apart our sham of a marriage.
I trembled, bracing for the inevitable.
But his fingers just rested lightly on the band-
aid.
“What happened here?” he asked quietly.
I averted my gaze. “I… I just scratched myself
on a page corner last night.”
“A page corner…” He blinked slowly. “What
were you doing last night?”
His fingers slipped inside the neckline. One tug
and he’d see the hickeys. I swallowed. “I went
out for a hair treatment.”
His breath hitched. He stared at me,
expressionless. For a moment, I thought he
might devour me whole. His fingers tightened
on the fabric, and I stumbled forward, almost
into his arms. I put my hands up against his
chest, keeping him at bay. His hand snaked
around my waist, tightening like a vise, his
suppressed fury finding an outlet in the
pressure of his grip.
I couldn’t fight him; my arms grew weak. He
leaned closer.
“Ethan, please don’t,” I whispered, not knowing
what he intended but sensing danger.
My mind went blank. I stammered, pleading
incoherently, “I’m scared. Don’t touch me.
Please.”
After a few seconds, he retracted his hand,
clenching it into a fist. His face turned ashen,
his lips a thin line.
く
I realized what I’d just said “I’m scared. Don’t
touch me.”
“I’ll arrange for two bodyguards. They’ll
accompany you everywhere from now on, for
your safety,” he said flatly, turning and walking
away.
I only came to my senses when I heard the
familiar roar of his car engine.
He wasn’t going to pursue it? How was that
possible?
