Chapter 2I Hardly Know Him

Over the next few days, I quietly compiled evidence of his infidelity, determined to dismantle his reputation.

But the deeper I dug, the colder my heart became.

Three months ago, on my birthday, I had sat alone in our dark apartment waiting for him until dawn. That entire night, he had been setting off fireworks on a private beach with Gina.

Two months ago, I had sat alone in a hospital corridor, holding a positive pregnancy test and trying desperately to reach him. He had ignored my calls because he was busy buying heating pads and preparing tea for Gina’s menstrual cramps.

One month ago, when the fake mistress scandal broke and the stress caused me to miscarry in a cold hospital room, he was in Iceland, watching the northern lights with Gina.

I ran to the bathroom, vomiting until my throat tasted like copper. Only when my stomach was completely empty did the numbness in my chest offer a brief reprieve.

The following morning, I sent the entire folder of evidence to a prominent investigative journalist.

Back at the apartment, I forced myself to sit at the desk and draft a divorce agreement.

My eyes grew misty as I typed. We had been childhood sweethearts, quietly harboring feelings for each other for years. We had promised that once he graduated from his university in Europe, we would finally build a life together.

In the beginning, he would wait outside my office for hours, regardless of how late my shift ended. When I fell ill, he postponed a multi-million-dollar merger just to spend six hours simmering fish soup to bring to my bedside. On the night of my promotion, he had purchased a flawless diamond at an auction and knelt before me.

I had insisted on keeping our marriage private because I did not want people accusing me of marrying for money.

I never expected that my desire for privacy would provide the perfect cover for his betrayal.

I eventually fell asleep at the desk, exhausted.

By the time I woke up, the internet had exploded. But when I opened the trending news, my vision blurred.

The evidence I had sent had been entirely manipulated. Instead of exposing his affair, the headlines presented a forged confession, claiming I was apologizing for being a mistress.

They had used advanced voice-cloning technology to replicate my voice, and an AI generator to copy my handwriting.

The digital mob turned on me with renewed ferocity. My photos were doctored with offensive captions and circulated across every platform. My personal accounts were deactivated, and my phone number was leaked online.

Vicious messages and threatening calls flooded my inbox. Strangers demanded to know my nightly rates.

I let out a hollow laugh.

This was Mark's retaliation.

In the past, whenever I faced minor criticism online, he would use his family's PR firm to scrub the internet clean within minutes. Now, he had used those same resources to build my personal purgatory.

The front door clicked open, and Mark walked in.

Rage eclipsed my judgment. I grabbed a glass mug and hurled it at his head. "Mark! I am not a mistress! She is! Sign the papers!"

He ducked, the glass shattering against the wall. Before I could move, his hand clamped around my throat, pinning me against the wall.

Oxygen left my lungs, and my eyes watered from the pain, but his grip did not loosen. Just before I lost consciousness, he let go, leaving me to slide down the drywall, gasping.

"Have you calmed down?" Mark asked, straightening his cuffs. "If you pull another stunt like that, the consequences will be far worse."

"Alice, a little jealousy is fine, but this behavior is getting tedious. Stop trying to use these dramatic schemes to win back my attention."

"You love me too much to actually leave, and I need a wife who understands the family dynamics. This arrangement suits both of us perfectly."

He glanced at the divorce papers on the desk and let out a dry chuckle. "Do you honestly think you can survive a divorce? You have no career left. Who will support you if you leave me?"

"Behave yourself, and once I've had my fun, I will clear your name."

I coughed violently, my throat burning. He ignored my pain entirely.

"Gina has been crying for days because of the stress. I am throwing a grand wedding ceremony to reassure her, and she expects you to apologize to her in person before she will forgive you."

He turned toward the door. "Whether you show up is up to you. But if Gina remains unhappy, I will make sure your life becomes even more uncomfortable."

After the door clicked shut, my chest heaved with a mixture of laughter and tears.

That evening, a new headline dominated the social media channels: "The Prodigal Son Returns! Fairfax Heir Spends Millions on a Lavish Wedding to Honor His Wife!"

The comments section was filled with venom directed at me, with users criticizing my upbringing and mocking my mother's passing.

I sat on the kitchen floor, clutching the trash can, feeling an absolute detachment take over. The residual warmth I held for the boy who had once knelt in the rain to slide a ring onto my finger vanished completely.

My phone vibrated, displaying an unknown number: "I received the files you sent. When are you free to discuss this?"