Chapter 1: The Lie That Changed Everything

Married for three years, Carter Whitman has never so much as touched me.

Sometimes, late at night, I’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how it was possible to share a bed with someone for so long and never even feel the brush of his hand. The emptiness from that was sharp—a hollow spot in my chest that got heavier with every silent morning and every cold, careful dinner. I hated it. The loneliness felt endless, echoing through the house. The only sound was the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, filling the quiet of our suburban home.

I slipped into a lace nightgown, dabbed on fake lipstick marks, and snapped a photo of myself pretending to sleep, angling the shot so it looked like Carter was the one behind the camera.

The nightgown was brand new, tags still tucked under the seam, delicate and sheer against my skin. I’d bought it just for this—never planning to wear it for him, but for the story I needed to sell. My hands shook as I set up the phone, angling it just right to catch the curve of my body and the mess of sheets beside me. The room smelled faintly of lavender and laundry soap. Weird, considering what I was about to do.

"Dude, your wife smells amazing. Just dump her already and let me have a shot, okay?"

I typed out the words with a kind of reckless courage I didn’t know I had. My thumb hovered over the send button for a long moment. God, what was I doing? My heart thudded in my chest, pounding out a wild, guilty rhythm. The words looked so crude and fake on my phone screen. It didn’t even sound like me. But that was the point. I swallowed hard, then hit send.

I figured once Carter got the anonymous message, he’d be disgusted, furious. Toss me aside like trash. Just his sister’s stand-in.

I pictured his face when he read it: the way his jaw would clench, that icy stare he reserved for people who crossed him in the boardroom. Still just a stand-in. Even after three years, I was still just a substitute, a shadow for someone else’s memory. Maybe now he’d finally set me free.

Maybe this time, he’d finally let me go.

It was strange, the hope that fluttered in my chest at the thought. Not relief. Not exactly. Just the hope of breathing easier—of being something more than a placeholder in someone else’s life. Maybe, after everything, I could finally start over.

Meanwhile, my sister was on vacation in Italy, celebrating her third wedding anniversary.

She’d sent me photos of sun-drenched piazzas, her arm looped through her husband’s, their smiles so wide it almost hurt to look. They looked so happy. Too happy. I tried not to compare, but it was impossible not to feel the sharp edge of envy, looking at her happiness from the other side of the world.

She wanted to know what I wanted as a gift. I told her I needed an anonymous prepaid international SIM card. She laughed, thinking I was about to go on some wild European adventure of my own. I brushed it off with a joke, and she didn’t push. The next day, the little plastic card arrived in an envelope. No questions asked. Sometimes, sisters just get it.

I sat alone in the empty hotel room. Let out a tired breath.

The room was too quiet, the hum of the air conditioner the only thing breaking the silence. The curtains were drawn tight against the city lights, casting everything in a soft, blue shadow. I caught my reflection in the glass—small, lost.

Then I pulled on the sheer lace nightgown I’d bought just for this mess.

The fabric was cool against my skin, making me shiver a little. Get it together. I ran my hands down my arms, feeling exposed, ridiculous, and yet determined. I glanced at my suitcase in the corner, its contents spilling out like the aftermath of a failed escape. Like I’d tried to run and failed.

Facing the mirror, I painted on the fake lipstick marks across my collarbone and neck.

I’d practiced this part, testing shades of red on my wrist until I found one that looked just right. A little smeared. Like something you’d try to scrub off the next morning. Bold, messy—the kind of mark that lingered after a night you’d try to forget. My hands were steady now, almost clinical as I pressed the color into my skin.

The marks were scattered, like someone couldn’t keep their hands off me.

I tilted my head, studying the effect. Messy, but on purpose. The pattern was messy but intentional. I pressed a finger to one, feeling the sticky gloss.

One strap of the nightgown was torn, like someone got carried away.

I’d used a pair of nail scissors, snipping just enough to make it believable. Overkill, maybe. The fabric hung off my shoulder, exposing more skin than I was used to. I felt a flush creep up my neck, embarrassment and adrenaline mixing in my veins. God, this was embarrassing.

Last step: I smudged my lipstick.

The color bled across my mouth. Messy. Raw. I barely recognized myself. I stared at my reflection, trying to see what Carter might see: a woman who’d crossed a line, who’d chosen someone else.

I sat on the bed and made a mess of the other half. Like someone else had been there.

I punched the pillow, twisted the sheets, leaving an imprint like a ghost. The mattress sagged where I pressed my hand. No one would believe it, but that was the point.

I closed my eyes. Bone tired.

Too many nights alone. Too much pretending. It was a bone-deep weariness, the kind that settles in your bones after too many nights spent alone. My body felt heavy, every muscle aching with the effort of pretending.

I set the camera to his angle. Timer on.

I propped the phone on the nightstand, using a stack of books to get the right angle. The timer beeped softly, a countdown to the moment everything would change. No going back now.

Three, two, one.

The shutter clicked. I tried to relax my face, let my mouth fall open a little, breathing slow and even. Safe. Wanted. It hurt to even imagine. I imagined what it would be like to fall asleep in someone’s arms, safe and wanted. The thought made my chest ache.

She looked spent. Like someone who’d just been loved, and then left.

I studied the picture, searching for flaws. The lighting was soft, the marks convincing. For a moment, I almost believed it myself. I wondered if Carter would, too. Probably not.

I stared at it for a long time.

The silence in the room pressed in around me. I scrolled back and forth between the photo and my own reflection, searching for the woman I used to be. She was gone. Maybe I was, too. My heart hammered, a warning drumbeat in my ears.

I couldn’t help but recall Carter Whitman’s infamous reputation in the business world: a smiling wolf, a ruthless dealmaker who never let anyone get the upper hand. But what I knew best was his perpetually cold, unfeeling face.

He was everywhere in the news. Nowhere at home. His name was always in the papers, photos of him shaking hands with senators, closing deals that made headlines. But at home, he was a ghost—polite, distant, untouchable. His eyes never lingered, his voice never softened, not for me. I was just a fixture in the background, like the art on the walls.

Handsome, sure. But never for me.

I’d seen the way he looked at her, even after she married someone else. There was a gentleness in him then, a warmth I’d never tasted. I’d always wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that gaze, even just once. I’d never get it. Not once.

I braced myself. For the worst.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, curling into myself. I’d survived worse. I could survive this. Whatever happened next, I told myself, I could survive it.

He’d never put up with a wife who cheated. Even if Carter felt nothing for me, he’d probably retaliate. But in the end, he’d throw me away in disgust and anger—and finally divorce me.

I imagined the confrontation: cold words, maybe a slammed door. He’d never yell. He didn’t need to. The contempt would be sharp enough to cut. I’d pack my bags, leave the keys on the counter, and walk out into a world that didn’t know my name.

That’s all I wanted. Just a way out.

It sounded simple, but it was the hardest thing I’d ever wished for. Freedom, at any cost.

I closed my eyes and hit send.

The phone buzzed in my hand, the message whooshing off into the void. My pulse raced. I couldn’t breathe. Anticipation and dread warring in my chest.

On screen, it looked so casual:

"Dude, your wife smells amazing. Just dump her already and let me have a shot, okay?"

Photo sent.

It went through.

The little checkmark appeared instantly. I stared at it, my breath caught in my throat. My palms were slick with sweat.

Barely two seconds later, he replied.

The screen lit up with Carter’s name, his response sharp and immediate. He didn’t hesitate. I flinched, startled by how quickly he’d seen it. My stomach twisted into knots.

Carter: "Who is this?"

All business. No warmth. His words were clipped, all business. I could almost hear the steel in his voice, the way he could cut down a room with a single glance. My hands shook as I read it again.

I took my time. Let him wait.

I took my time, letting the silence stretch. The nightgown fell to the floor, pooling around my feet. Jeans. Sweater. Armor. I slipped into jeans and a sweater, grounding myself in the comfort of cotton and denim. Each movement felt deliberate, a tiny rebellion against the storm I’d just set in motion.

Was he furious? I hoped so.

I pictured him pacing in some sleek hotel suite, his phone gripped tight, fury simmering just below the surface. For once. For once, he was the one off-balance, and I was the one pulling the strings. It felt dangerous, exhilarating.

I’d never had the upper hand before. The golden boy, flawless since childhood, now had his emotions played with—by me, someone always under his thumb.

Power. Just for a second. For three years, I’d been the one holding my breath, waiting for his approval. Now, I had the power, if only for a moment. The thought made me smile, bitter and triumphant.

Finally, a win. After three years of repression and pain, I finally felt a sliver of satisfaction today.

I held onto it. It was small, fleeting, but real. I savored it, letting it settle in my chest like a secret.

My phone buzzed. Again and again. I changed into regular clothes, and during that time, Carter sent two more messages.

My phone buzzed again and again, his impatience bleeding through the screen. I ignored them, letting him stew. It was petty, but I needed this.

"Don’t bother with those cheap AI filters. State your purpose."

"I suggest you come clean yourself, or I’ll make sure you have nothing left."

Classic Carter. Always in control. The threats were classic Carter—cold, calculated, a warning shot across the bow. He’d always been a man who valued control above all else.

I actually sneered.

A laugh slipped out, sharp and bitter. He was rattled. I liked it. For once, he didn’t have all the answers.

"Hey Mr. Whitman, AI filter or not, why not just ask your wife? You’d know, right? The lipstick marks on my girl’s neck won’t fade that fast."

He was supposed to be overseas for two more weeks. I dared to say this because I knew Carter was overseas, closing a major deal. He wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks.

For once, he couldn’t do anything about it. I pictured him thousands of miles away, surrounded by city lights and strangers, powerless to do anything but type angry messages into his phone. It was a small comfort.

Then my phone rang.

The ringtone sliced through the silence, startling me. I jumped, nearly dropping the phone.

Carter’s name flashed on the screen.

His name flashed on the screen, the familiar photo glaring up at me. My heart jumped.

I let it ring.

I watched the screen go dark, my reflection ghostly in the glass. I couldn’t do it. My hand hovered over the answer button, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up.

He called again. And again.

He wouldn’t stop. Call after call, each one more insistent than the last. The relentless buzzing filled the room, echoing off the walls.

He was furious. Really furious. I realized—this time, he was truly furious.

I’d never seen him like this. I’d never seen him lose control before. The realization sent a jolt of fear down my spine.

This was dangerous. My heart pounded wildly, like I was walking a tightrope, playing a truly dangerous game.

I was in deep. Every second felt stretched thin, the air charged with the threat of consequences. I was in over my head, and I knew it.

I texted: "Mr. Whitman, stop calling. We went at it five times—your wife’s so tired, she’s out cold."

I hit send, my hands trembling. Too late to back out. The lie tasted sour in my mouth, but I forced myself to keep going. There was no turning back now.

The calls finally stopped.

Relief and dread, all at once. The silence that followed was even louder. I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders sagging with relief and dread.

Nothing. Not a sound. My phone went dead silent.

Or maybe he was plotting. For a moment, I wondered if he’d given up, or if he was planning something worse.

"Didn’t mean to break you up, Mr. Whitman. Your wife and I really love each other. You’re generous, so please divorce her soon and let us be together. Otherwise, if word gets out you’ve been cheated on, your reputation will take a hit." I sent, using the anonymous SIM, making it sound casual, taunting.

I waited. Daring him to answer. I watched the message send, the words burning on the screen. It was a final push, a dare.

Carter never replied again.

Just silence. I stared at the phone, waiting for something—anything. But nothing came. The silence felt heavy, suffocating.

I threw the nightgown in the trash and left. Feeling uneasy, I tossed the torn lace nightgown in the trash, checked out, and went back to the house.

I hid the evidence. Walked home like a ghost. I wrapped the nightgown in a towel, hiding it deep in the trash can outside the hotel. The walk back to the house felt endless, every step weighed down by anxiety. The city was waking up, but I felt numb, moving through the motions on autopilot.

Back home, the housekeeper was already cleaning.

Normal life. Like nothing had happened. The smell of lemon cleaner drifted down the hallway, sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. She greeted me with a smile, oblivious to the chaos swirling inside me. The normalcy was jarring.

Too peaceful. Everything was perfectly normal, so peaceful it was like nothing had happened.

Pretending I belonged. The house was neat, every cushion in place, the coffee brewing just like always. I stood in the entryway, letting the calm wash over me, pretending for a moment that I belonged here.

I showered. Went to bed.

Sleep swallowed me whole. The water was hot, stinging my skin. I scrubbed away the last traces of lipstick, watching the red swirl down the drain. When I crawled into bed, exhaustion pulled me under like a tide.

Dawn. Tires screeching outside. Early in the morning, when the sky was just turning pale, I vaguely heard the roar of an engine and the screech of tires outside the window.

Heart pounding. Something was wrong. The sound jolted me awake, adrenaline flooding my veins. I sat up, heart racing, straining to hear over the thump of my pulse. The world outside was tinted blue and gray, the streetlights still glowing faintly.

A knock at the door. Startled, I opened my eyes in a panic. At the same time, someone knocked on my bedroom door.

Who could it be? The knock was sharp, insistent. My breath caught, every muscle tensing. I clutched the sheets, mind racing with possibilities.