At four in the morning, San Francisco was still cloaked in darkness. A faint line of dawn slipped through the crack in the guest room curtains. Luna lay awake, eyes wide open, having not slept a single minute.
From across the hall came the occasional sound of Ethan turning in bed—yet between them stretched a distance wider than the corridor itself, like two separate worlds.
She reached for her phone. On the screen was Mia's reply from the middle of the night: "Okay. I'll pick you up at eight. Don't overthink. Try to rest."
But how could she rest? Her mind kept replaying Ethan's tender tone on the phone with Chloe, Chloe's smug expression flaunting that Patek Philippe watch, the way Ethan had shoved her aside and slammed the door in her face. Each scene jabbed at her chest like needles.
She got up and walked slowly to the window. Outside, the garden lay in darkness. The sprinklers hissed softly, scattering droplets that glittered faintly in the weak light of dawn—like her so-called "perfect" marriage: glossy on the surface, but riddled with cracks beneath.
A soft knock broke her thoughts. Knock, knock, knock.
Luna stiffened. Who could it be at this hour? She opened the door a crack.
Clara, the Mexican housekeeper, stood there holding a steaming cup of milk. Her expression was cautious, full of concern.
Clara was fifty, quiet and efficient, employed in the Ward household for three years. She wasn't talkative, but she had always looked after Luna—chatting lightly when Luna was cheerful, silently tidying up when Luna was low, occasionally offering a warm drink without asking questions.
"Ma'am, you didn't sleep, did you?" Clara's English carried a faint accent, her voice hushed. "I saw your light on all night. I made some hot milk for you. Drink—it'll warm you."
A wave of warmth rushed through Luna. She stepped aside to let Clara in, took the cup, and whispered, "Thank you, Clara." The milk slid down her throat, soothing some of the cold ache in her chest, loosening the nerves stretched tight all night.
Clara studied the dark circles beneath her eyes, the redness around them. She hesitated for a long time before speaking. "Ma'am, I… I don't know if I should say this."
Luna's grip on the cup paused. She looked up at Clara. "Go ahead. It's okay." Deep down, she sensed Clara might know something.
Clara closed the door softly, then pulled a red lipstick from her pocket and held it out. "Ma'am, have you seen this before?"
It was a YSL lipstick, bright crimson. On the casing clung tiny velvet fibers—the exact material of Chloe's red velvet gown from the night before.
Luna's breath caught. She took it, fingers brushing the cold tube. Her heart seized. She remembered clearly—at the celebration party last night, Chloe had pulled out this exact lipstick to reapply. She even had the odd habit of twisting out a long piece of it.
"Where did you find this?" Luna's voice shook.
"Last Wednesday. Mr. Ward said he was working late at the office. When I cleaned the study, I found it wedged in the sofa cushions." Clara lowered her head. "At first I thought it was yours. But I realized all your lipsticks are light shades, never this kind of red. So I kept it. Last night, when I saw that blonde lady with him using the same lipstick, and the fibers on her dress matching this… I knew it wasn't yours."
Last Wednesday. Luna's mind spun. Ethan had indeed said he was working late. She had even prepared supper and asked the driver to take it to him—only for the driver to return saying Ethan wasn't at the office at all, that the secretary claimed he'd gone to meet a client.
So "working late" and "meeting clients" had been lies.
"And…" Clara looked as though it cost her greatly to continue. "Ma'am, have you ever checked the dashcam?"
Luna blinked. "The dashcam? No… why?" She had never thought to look. It felt like mistrust.
"Last Saturday, when Mr. Ward came back, I was cleaning the car. I accidentally hit the dashcam button. I heard a woman's voice. She was arguing with him." Clara lowered her voice further. "I didn't dare listen long, but I caught words like: 'When are you divorcing your wife? You promised me.' I panicked and shut it off. I didn't tell you… until now."
Divorce. You promised me.
The words exploded in Luna's head like thunder.
Ethan hadn't just cheated—he had already promised Chloe he would leave her.
Her months of patience, of pretending, had all been for nothing.
Her hand trembled as she set the cup down. "Clara, thank you. If not for you, I'd still be lying to myself."
Clara sighed. "I know it's not my place. But I've watched you give everything to this family, while he…" She shook her head. "You don't deserve this."
When Clara left, Luna sat on the bed, clutching the lipstick. Memories surged: taking nutrition courses to cook for Ethan, attending social events she had no interest in, giving up her curatorial career so he could focus on building his empire.
And this was her reward—betrayal and lies.
She stood abruptly and walked to his study—the most private room in the house. The scent of Ethan's cedar cologne hit her instantly. The shelves overflowed with tech books and trophies. His laptop was open on the desk, project reports glowing on the screen.
She went straight to the bottom drawer. Ethan had a habit of storing dashcam memory cards there. Sure enough, a neat stack lay inside, labeled by date.
She slid out last Saturday's card and inserted it into her own laptop.
The video played: Ethan leaving the villa, one hand on the wheel, phone pressed to his ear, voice light, teasing. "Chloe, I told Luna I'm working late. Let's hit that new Italian place tonight."
Chloe's voice purred back: "Fine. But when are you divorcing her? I don't want to sneak around anymore."
Ethan paused, then answered carelessly, "Soon. After this project wraps, I'll talk to her. Just wait a little longer."
"I've already waited six months!" Chloe's voice rose. "Are you lying to me? Do you even plan to leave her?"
"How could I lie?" Ethan's voice softened, coaxing. "I haven't loved her in years. The only reason I keep her around is she's still useful—for the house, for appearances. But you—you're the one I care about."
The footage shifted to them at the restaurant: Ethan pouring her wine, cutting her steak, his eyes brimming with tenderness—tenderness Luna hadn't seen in years. Then the two of them driving to a hotel, Chloe's laughter filling the car, Ethan whispering softly in her ear.
Luna slammed the laptop shut, tears spilling uncontrollably.
So he had already planned divorce. So she was nothing but a tool. So their five-year marriage had been a lie from the start.
"Ma'am? Are you okay?" Clara's voice came from the door, worried by the noise.
Luna wiped her face and rose. Her eyes no longer clouded with confusion but sharpened with icy resolve. "Clara, thank you. From today on, I won't let myself be humiliated again."
She tucked the lipstick and memory card into her bag—the proof of Ethan's betrayal. In the living room, her eyes fell on their wedding portrait. Smiling faces. Ethan's arm around her waist. Love glowing in his eyes.
A lie. All of it.
She dragged a chair over, climbed up, and ripped the portrait down. She hurled it into the trash. The frame clattered loudly, waking Ethan.
He stumbled out in his pajamas, frowning. "Luna, what the hell are you doing?"
She turned calmly, eyes locked on his. "Ethan, I want a divorce. I have proof of your affair. The dashcam, the earring, the lipstick. It's all there."
His face went white. He staggered back. "You… how did you get the dashcam? You went through my stuff?"
"'Went through?'" Luna laughed bitterly. "I confirmed how long you've been lying to me. You thought I'd never find out? That I'd just stay blind? You were wrong."
She pulled out her phone, playing the recording aloud. Ethan's own voice filled the room. He lunged to grab it.
"Luna, stop this! Let's talk. Don't make decisions in anger. Can't we think about it carefully?"
"Carefully?" She dodged, glaring at him. "I gave you countless chances. You betrayed me, mocked me, and thought I'd still sit quietly beside you? That ends today."
The doorbell rang. Mia.
Luna grabbed her suitcase and looked Ethan in the eye. "My lawyer will contact you. I'll take back what's mine. Consider yourself warned."
She opened the door. Mia stood there holding breakfast, worry etched across her face. "Luna, are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Luna gave a faint smile, tinged with relief. "Let's go. To L.A."
Ethan stood frozen, watching her leave with Mia, their car disappearing down the drive. Panic gnawed at him. He had always believed Luna would remain obedient, bound by the life of wealth. Even if she knew, he thought she'd endure.
He was wrong. He had underestimated her pride, her strength.
He picked up the shattered wedding photo from the trash. Luna's smile still glowed, but he knew—it would never shine for him again.
He pulled out his phone, hesitating to call Chloe. But the words wouldn't come. What he had lost wasn't just a wife. It was the only woman who had once loved him enough to give up everything.
Meanwhile, in Mia's car, Luna watched the city blur past. The pain lingered, but relief outweighed it. She texted Noah: "I left Ethan. Heading to L.A. We'll discuss divorce details when you arrive."
Noah's reply came quickly: "Good. I'm on the first flight to L.A., landing at ten. Don't worry—you're not alone."
Warmth stirred in Luna's chest. She knew the road ahead would be rough: the divorce settlement, Ethan's retaliation, the challenge of starting over. But she wasn't afraid. She had Mia's support, Noah's help, and above all—her own courage.
The car merged onto the highway. Golden sunlight spilled across the road ahead.
Luna opened her laptop and pulled up the old "Exhibition Plans" folder. She began revising the Monet exhibition proposal she had abandoned five years ago.
This time, she would live for herself.
Mia glanced at her in the rearview mirror, smiling softly. She turned on Luna's favorite English song. The melody filled the car, brimming with hope.
Luna hummed along, her eyes shining with a long-lost light—the light of Luna Chen, an independent, confident woman chasing her own dreams.
Behind them, San Francisco faded.
And Luna knew she would never return to that golden cage. Her future would be written by her own hand. And this was only the beginning.