My husband brought me new paintbrushes —always predicting my needs before I even notice them myself.
I'd only just realized this morning that mine were fraying.
I smile at how attentive he is…
until I remember the red lipstick mark on his collar.
It's strange how a single mark can burn through the illusion of a perfect life.
In a matter of hours, everything I thought I knew has changed.
I'm questioning my reality. I'm questioning my marriage.
"What's wrong, baby?" he asks, his voice soft, eyes impossibly sincere—too sincere, as he studies me.
"Nothing," I whisper.
But everything is wrong. The truth sits heavy in my chest. I need to protect myself—from the person I least expected to fear: my husband.
"I'm just tired. I spent all evening in the studio," I add, watching the faint frown crease his forehead.
"Come here."
He opens his arms, and I have no choice but to step into his hug—to feel his scent, the fine fabric of his shirt against my cheek, the steady beat of his heart that used to comfort me.
Now, it sounds like a countdown.
"How about a hot bath, dinner, and an early night?" he murmurs into my hair. "You've been pushing yourself too hard."
I nod against his chest, breathing in the lie.
Because I didn't spend the evening painting.
I spent the evening trying to find a way out of this marriage, only to realize I'm trapped.
There's nowhere to hide. His last girlfriend is missing, and he's the prime suspect, she tried to leave him.
A wave of dizziness washes over me. The hug that once felt warm is now cold.
"I already showered. I just need to sleep," I say.
My voice sounds fragile, foreign.
Maybe I'll say I'm sick tomorrow
Anything to keep my distance from him.
—
Everything started when I forgot one AirPod in the jeans I wore yesterday.
While searching through the dirty laundry, something red caught my attention. I pushed the white fabric aside—only to find my husband's shirt with a red lipstick mark on the collar.
Staring at that bold, unfamiliar crimson—nothing like my soft rose tint—I felt the ground tilt beneath me. My fingers went numb. My thoughts scattered like startled birds.
Who was she? When did it happen?
Last night, when he came home late?
Right after he texted me, "Don't wait for me for dinner"?
Is it a one-time thing? Or does he have a mistress? How could he?
Am I overreacting? There's no way he's cheating on me.
Men cheat, yes—but not my husband. There must be an explanation.
That's what I thought. Silly me.
When I went to his home office, hoping to check his computer for a meeting note or something in his agenda from last night, a faint vibration stopped me.
A phone.
At first, I thought he'd simply forgotten his. I even considered calling John, our driver, to take it to him.
But when I opened the drawer, my breath caught.
The phone case was red—bold and crimson, just like the lipstick.
His is black.
The screen lit up as soon as I touched it, surprising me. It wasn't locked.
Curiosity turned to dread as I started browsing.
And then I found the owner.
Eva Steel. My husband's ex-girlfriend.
But what was her phone doing here—if she was missing?
A strange feeling washed over me: nausea, dizziness, a pounding in my head. Fighting it, I opened her messages and searched for my husband's number.
It was saved under "My Love."
Their conversation stopped six months ago—the day he met me.
The last message from him read:
"You're trying to get yourself killed."
Killed? By who?
Scrolling further up, I found her last message, sent seven months ago:
"Kaiden, this is my goodbye. I know you killed him. You Volkovs are all the same—murderers. Leave me alone."
Kaiden?
Why is she calling my husband "Kaiden'?
And who are the Volkovs?
The messages after that were all from him—one every week. They ranged from longing to obsession.
"I miss you."
"I'm sorry, baby."
"When I find you, I'll lock you in a gilded cage."
"No matter how far you run, you're still my fiancée."
"I told you—I have nothing with her. I only have eyes for you."
"Don't you dare let anyone touch what's mine."
My hands trembled.
He wasn't just cheating. He was still in love with his ex. And now, he might be a murderer.
My fairy tale was collapsing before my eyes.
The need to run consumed me.
I started with nothing once—I can do it again.
But first, I needed to find out who Kaiden Volkov is.
According to the search engine, he's the heir of the Volkov family—the youngest CEO of the Volkov Group, worth over five billion dollars. Only twenty-seven. A prodigy, they say. Ruthless in the boardroom. A shark.
But the Volkovs have a dark history.
Rumor has it that the senior Volkov built his empire with mafia money—and that some of those connections are still very much alive.
That wasn't the most disturbing part, though.
The face that appeared beside the name was.
It was familiar.
Too familiar.
He told me his name was Kane Smith, an only child, estranged from his parents.
He said they couldn't attend his wedding because they were on a cruise, but promised to visit once they returned.
He said he worked as a CFO for a local company—nothing extravagant.
And yet, he and his wife live in a gated mansion with six bedrooms, though it's just the two of them.
A tennis court no one uses.
An Olympic-sized pool, because his wife loves to swim.
Armed security, because, according to him, the crime rate is high
A driver. A butler.
He dresses in tailored suits, wears custom watches, drives a luxury car, and showers his wife with jewelry most women only dream of.
His real name isn't Kane Smith.
It's Kaiden Volkov.
My husband.
My name is Luna Smith.
And this is the story of how I became Eva Steel's replacement.