Rain poured harder, washing over the street as if the sky wanted to drown the truth. I stood frozen, my dress clinging to my skin, my hair a tangled mess. A camera flashed, blinding me for a second, and my heart pounded so hard I could barely breathe.
When my vision cleared, I saw Ethan standing a few feet away, the umbrella in his hand forgotten. His sharp jaw was clenched, his eyes dark with something I couldn't name. Pain, anger, disbelief—it was all there.
And Lydia's hand was still gripping his arm.
That sight cut through me deeper than any headline could.
The news alert still echoed in my head: "Billionaire Ethan Blackwood's secret wife exposed!"
I never wanted this. I had begged for privacy, for silence, for peace.
But peace was gone.
"Ethan…" my voice cracked, barely a whisper under the thunder. "I didn't do this. I swear, I didn't—"
He turned toward me slowly, his eyes colder than I'd ever seen them. "Then who did, Emily? Who told the world about us?"
My chest tightened. "I don't know. Maybe someone from the company—"
"Convenient," he cut in, his voice sharp and hard. "Someone always does it for you, right?"
I flinched. He had never spoken to me like that.
Lydia glanced between us, frowning. "Ethan, let's go inside. The reporters are coming."
My breath caught. "Inside? You're taking her inside our house?"
The words came out too loud, raw and broken.
Lydia's lips curved slightly. "Your house? I thought that was his."
The jab burned. My hands trembled, but I didn't want to fight in front of her. I looked at Ethan instead, hoping to see something—anything—that told me this wasn't what it looked like.
But he said nothing. He just stared, and that silence was worse than shouting.
I stepped closer, the rain soaking through my shoes. "Ethan, please. You know I'd never—"
"Stop." His voice cracked like glass. "I don't know anything anymore."
My heart dropped.
The sound of reporters echoed from down the street—shouts, camera clicks, footsteps splashing through puddles.
Lydia moved closer to him, whispering, "You can't stand here, Ethan. They'll twist everything."
He hesitated, his eyes flicking back to me one last time.
That look—the emptiness in it—was enough to shatter me.
Then he turned away.
He walked inside, with Lydia beside him, leaving me standing in the rain.
My knees went weak. The cameras flashed again, and someone shouted, "Mrs. Blackwood, is it true your husband left you?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
My throat closed up. I turned and ran, ignoring the voices and the light that chased after me. The reporters followed for a while, but I lost them when I ducked into a narrow alley. The darkness swallowed me whole.
By the time I reached the small studio apartment I used when I needed space, I was shaking. My fingers fumbled with the key before I finally got the door open. I locked it, slid down against it, and let the tears fall quietly.
I remembered the night Ethan had asked me to marry him. It wasn't grand or public. It was quiet, just us on the balcony of his penthouse, the city lights flickering below. He had said, "Let's keep this between us for now. The world doesn't need to know what's ours."
And I agreed. I thought secrecy meant protection. I thought it was love.
Now, it just felt like shame.
My phone wouldn't stop buzzing—calls, messages, headlines. I ignored them all until one caught my eye.
It was from an unknown number.
You should've stayed hidden.
My fingers froze. The words sent a chill racing through my spine. I looked out the window, my breath fogging the glass. The streetlights blurred through the rain, turning everything ghostly and strange.
Someone had planned this. Someone wanted me ruined.
I wiped my tears with shaking hands and stared at my reflection in the glass. My eyes looked hollow, but a spark still burned behind them. "You want a war?" I whispered. "Fine."
Hours passed. I sat awake in silence, watching the storm fade. The world felt different now—sharper, colder.
Then my phone buzzed again. This time, it was from Ethan.
Meet me tomorrow. Noon. Blackwood Tower.
My heart raced. Maybe he wanted to fix things. Maybe he still believed me. I held onto that thought like it was air.
I didn't sleep that night. I replayed every moment—his look, his silence, Lydia's smirk. I tried to convince myself that the man I loved wouldn't throw me away over gossip.
By morning, I looked exhausted, but my eyes were steady. I put on a plain black dress, tied my hair into a bun, and took a deep breath. I wasn't going to cry again. Not for him. Not in front of anyone.
The elevator to the top floor of Blackwood Tower felt endless. Each mirror on the way up reflected a different version of me—nervous, determined, heartbroken.
When the doors opened, Ethan's assistant looked startled. "He's in a meeting," she said softly. "But you can wait."
I nodded and walked into his office. The air smelled the same—cedar and his cologne. It hit me like a memory I didn't want to relive.
I traced my fingers over the edge of his desk. Then I froze.
A folder was lying open. Inside were photos—my photos. Me leaving my studio. Me meeting a friend. Me walking alone in the park.
My breath caught. Someone had been following me.
I flipped through the photos with trembling hands until one made my stomach twist. It was me and Alex—my old classmate. The angle made it look intimate, but it wasn't. We'd just been catching up.
The caption under the photo read: "Wife's secret affair."
I felt sick.
The door opened behind me.
I turned, and Ethan walked in. His eyes were dark, his expression unreadable.
The file slipped from my fingers. "Ethan, where did you get these?"
His jaw tightened. "You tell me."
"It's not what it looks like," I said quickly. "He's just a friend, I swear."
"I trusted you," Ethan said quietly. "I defended you when my board questioned me. When the investors panicked. And this is what you were doing?"
My throat burned. "You think I'd betray you?"
He slammed his hand on the desk. The sound made me jump. "I don't know what to think anymore!"
Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "You're letting someone else write our story, Ethan. Don't you see that?"
He looked at me for a long moment, and something flickered in his eyes—doubt, maybe pain—but it disappeared just as fast. His voice was low when he finally spoke. "Maybe it's better if there's no story left."
I stared at him, unable to breathe. "What do you mean?"
Before he could answer, his phone rang. He answered it, his expression tightening.
"Yes," he said. "I understand. I'll handle it."
When he hung up, he looked at me again. "You should go. For your safety."
My safety. The words didn't make sense. "My safety? From what?"
He hesitated. I could see the war in his eyes, the things he wasn't saying. "Just leave for now. Please."
Something in his tone terrified me more than his anger did.
I turned to leave. My heart felt like glass about to break. Just as the elevator doors were closing, I heard his voice behind me—low, pained, barely audible.
"Emily… I never wanted you to get hurt."
The doors shut before I could respond.
Downstairs, my phone buzzed again. Another message from the same unknown number.
You should have listened. Next time, it won't just be your name on the news.
My breath hitched. I looked around the lobby, my pulse racing. The crowd moved like shadows, faces blurred, voices echoing. I felt eyes on me. Watching.
Someone was watching me.
I stepped toward the glass doors, scanning the street, but I didn't see anyone. Just rain. Just umbrellas.
Then my phone buzzed one last time. A photo this time.
It was Ethan. Standing with Lydia. In his office.
The caption read: "He's already chosen his side."
My hand trembled. The phone slipped from my grasp and shattered against the marble floor.
But I didn't even look down.
Because my heart had already shattered first.