Married for three years, and my husband, Owen Vanderbilt, had never once touched me. So I slipped into a lace nightgown, painted convincing bruises onto my skin, and sent him a carefully staged photo of myself asleep in bed, taken from the perspective of a lover. The text was simple: “She’s incredible, man. You should divorce her. Give her to me.” I imagined Owen would be disgusted, furious. He would cast me aside like the cheap imitation of my sister he’d always treated me as. I thought, finally, this would be the end. 1 My older sister, Amelia, was in Europe, celebrating her own third wedding anniversary. When she asked what gift I wanted, I asked for an untraceable, prepaid SIM card from overseas. Holding that small piece of plastic in an empty, anonymous hotel room, I let out a long, tired breath. Then I changed into the delicate lace nightgown I’d bought specifically for this purpose. In the mirror, I carefully created a constellation of love bites across my collarbone and neck—the angry, possessive marks of a man lost to passion. I tore one of the thin straps of the nightgown, as if it had been ripped in a moment of frantic desire. Finally, I smeared my perfectly applied lipstick, giving it a just-kissed, blurry edge. I mussed up the other side of the bed to make it look slept in, then lay down and closed my eyes. The camera was on a timer, positioned to look like someone else was taking the picture. Three… two… one. The woman in the photo looked blissfully unguarded, lost in a deep, satisfied sleep after a night of passion. I stared at the image for a long time, my mind conjuring Owen’s reputation in the business world. They called him the smiling tiger, a ruthless capitalist who devoured his competition without a second thought. All I knew was the cold, indifferent mask he wore for me. His warmth, his affection—all of it was reserved for my sister. I was prepared for the worst. Even if he felt nothing for me, no man could tolerate such a blatant betrayal. He would retaliate, of course. But in the end, he would be so disgusted he would have no choice but to divorce me. And a divorce was all I wanted. I closed my eyes and hit send. The taunting message—“She’s incredible, man. You should divorce her. Give her to me.”—appeared on his screen, along with the photo. Delivered. 2 Two seconds later, a reply came. Owen: Who is this? I took my time changing, stretching out the silence, savoring the moment. Was he losing his mind? The golden boy, the man who had been perfect his entire life, was now at the mercy of an anonymous tormentor. At the mercy of me, the woman he’d held in the palm of his hand like a powerless doll for three years. It was a small, sweet taste of victory after an eternity of suffocation. As I slipped into my normal clothes, two more messages came through. Owen: Don't bother with a cheap AI face swap. State your purpose. Owen: I suggest you tell me everything right now. If you do, I might leave your body in one piece. I chuckled. Me: Not sure if it's AI, Mr. Vanderbilt? Why don't you ask your wife? The marks on my baby’s neck won't fade that quickly. (＾ｖ＾) I was bold because I knew he was in the middle of a crucial business negotiation overseas. He wouldn't be back for at least two weeks. Suddenly, my personal phone rang, jolting me. It was Owen. The ringing was frantic, insistent. I stared at the screen, letting it go to voicemail. It immediately started ringing again. He was truly furious. My heart hammered against my ribs. I was walking a tightrope over a canyon. Me: Stop calling, Mr. Vanderbilt. We went five rounds. Your wife is exhausted. The calls stopped. My phone fell into a dead, ominous silence. I switched back to the burner phone. Me: I’m not trying to break you up, Mr. Vanderbilt. Your wife and I are in love. Be a gentleman and let her go. It’s not a good look for a man like you to be cheated on so publicly. No reply. My hands trembled as I threw the torn nightgown into the trash can. I checked out of the hotel and drove back to our sterile, modernist mansion. The maids were cleaning, the house was quiet—as if nothing had happened. I showered and went to sleep. In the pale light of dawn, I was woken by the roar of an engine and the screech of tires outside my window. Before I could fully process it, there was a knock on my bedroom door. "Beth, open the door." His voice was deep and controlled, but a raw, frantic edge bled through. A bucket of ice water seemed to dump over my head. I was wide awake and freezing. It was Owen. 3 My mind raced. How could he be back? I was just a stand-in, a tool. Why would he drop everything for me? Another knock, three sharp raps, the sound of a man exercising immense self-control. "Beth," he said, his voice faster now. "I need to see you." I sat up, my mind a blank slate of panic. I had to be convincing. I took a deep breath, forcing a sleepy, annoyed tone into my voice. "Owen? I… I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be out in a minute." I scrambled into the en-suite, turned on the shower, and stared at my neck in the mirror. The marks I’d made with the rim of a bottle were a deep, angry purple. I had been too thorough. There was no way foundation could cover this. But I had to try. A guilty person’s first instinct is to hide the evidence. Owen was no fool; I had to play my part perfectly. I wet my hair to look like I’d just showered, then pulled on a black, high-necked dress that covered me from my wrists to my chin. I placed a small bandage over the one visible mark peeking above the collar. I practiced a look in the mirror: guilty, but trying desperately to appear nonchalant. It was perfect. He would be disgusted. He would demand a divorce and tell me to get out. I opened the door. He was sitting on the sofa, his brow furrowed, his eyes closed. He was pale, a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. His expensive watch was missing, as were his cufflinks. One hand clutched his phone, the other rested on the armrest, the knuckles raw and bleeding from four deep gashes. It looked like he’d punched something. Repeatedly. He hadn't even bothered to bandage them. "Owen," I said. "What are you doing back so soon?" He opened his eyes. His pupils were black holes. He rose from the sofa and walked toward me, his movements unnaturally slow for a man who had just flown across the world in a blind panic. I instinctively took a step back, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me forward. His eyes locked onto the bandage on my neck, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. "Did something happen?" I asked, my voice tight. He didn't answer. His fingers, cold as ice, hovered over the bandage. I braced myself for him to rip it off, to expose my lie and then, in a fury of humiliation, to tear up our sham of a marriage contract. I trembled, closing my eyes, waiting for the inevitable. But his fingers only rested gently on the bandage. "How did this happen?" he asked, his voice strangely calm. I feigned a flustered look. "I… I cut myself on a piece of paper last night." "A piece of paper," he repeated slowly, blinking. "What were you doing last night?" His fingertips slipped under the collar of my dress. One sharp tug and he would see everything. I swallowed hard. "I went out. For a deep conditioning treatment for my hair." His breathing grew heavy. He stared at me, and for a terrifying second, I thought he was going to devour me whole. His hand tightened on my collar, pulling me off balance until I was stumbling into his chest. I threw my hands up to stop him, but his other arm snaked around my waist, a band of steel, squeezing tighter and tighter, as if trying to crush the anger out of his system. My strength failed, my arms going limp against his chest. He moved closer, inch by agonizing inch. "Owen, no," I whispered, not knowing what he intended, only that it felt dangerous. My mind was white noise, my voice a pathetic, shaky plea. "Please, don't touch me." He froze. After a few seconds, he slowly withdrew his hand, clenching it into a fist. His face was a mask of grim fury. It was only then that I realized what I had said, what it must have sounded like to him: I'm scared of you. Don't touch me. Please. "I'm assigning you two bodyguards," he announced, his voice flat and detached. "They will accompany you whenever you leave the house. For your safety." Then he turned and walked away without another word. As the sound of his car engine faded, I stood in the silent room, completely bewildered. He wasn't going to punish me? How was that possible? 4 I was under constant surveillance. For five days, I couldn't get near the burner phone. Owen, for some inexplicable reason, wrapped up his overseas business in record time and returned. Once he was back, the security eased slightly. I finally had my chance. I sent a message from the burner. Me: A bit of an overreaction, isn’t it? So she cheated. Just get a divorce. You don't have to lock her up. He replied almost instantly. Owen: She didn't cheat. I trust her. Beth isn't the kind of person who would do something like that. I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. How could he possibly know what kind of person I was? He had never shown an ounce of interest in me. I pushed forward, adding fuel to the fire. Me: You don't know your wife as well as I do, Mr. Vanderbilt. Me: She has three moles. One on her ribs, one next to her navel, and one… lower. When I connect them with my finger, tracing a line down her skin, she shivers uncontrollably. Me: But you're her husband. You must have known that already, right? After three years of marriage? The last line was pure venom. He had never touched me. CRASH! A loud bang echoed from upstairs. From his study. I flinched, quickly hiding the phone. The crashing sound came again, several more times. Then I heard his footsteps on the stairs. "Have someone clean that up," he told the butler, his voice strained. "And order a new computer." His footsteps grew closer. I was certain he was coming to tear me apart. I dove under the covers, pretending to be asleep. The lock on my bedroom door had mysteriously broken after his return. He turned the handle. Seeing the dark room, he remained silent. But in the stillness, I could hear his ragged breathing, his frantic, uneven heartbeat. I wondered if he could hear mine. He walked to my bedside. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel his gaze, sharp and hot, fixed on my stomach, as if he were debating whether to confirm his suspicions. Don't move. Breathe steadily. Keep acting. I remained perfectly still. Suddenly, the mattress dipped beside me. He lay down on the bed. That cold, burning gaze never left me. I clenched my jaw. In for a penny, in for a pound. I had to push him further. As if in a pleasant dream, I turned over, snuggling into his side. He stiffened. The intense gaze on me softened. "Honey..." I murmured, as if talking in my sleep. Owen went completely rigid. I pressed my advantage, wrapping my arms around him, my voice a syrupy sweet whisper. "Honey, hold me." I expected him to be furious, to shake me awake. I had never called him that. He knew I was talking to someone else. But he didn't. He stared at me, his grip on my arm tightening until I was sure he would break it, his whole body trembling with rage. But when I let out a soft whimper of pain, he forced himself to relax his hold. He cupped the back of my head, pulling me closer. He kissed my hair. Then, his hand began to stroke my back, a clumsy, gentle gesture meant to soothe me back to sleep. "I'm here," he whispered, his voice rough. "Honey's holding you." I froze. This bizarre calm was a new level of insanity. Owen was a brilliant, logical man. He should have known from the first text that I was having an affair. He should have drafted divorce papers to avoid a scandal, forced me out with nothing. Instead, he denied it, again and again, with a frantic, stubborn desperation. And now he was trying to steal the sweet nothings meant for another man. What was he doing? Thinking I was asleep, he gently lifted the blanket. His finger traced a line along my ribs, searching for the moles. He found them, his fingertip cool against my skin. The touch was light, feather-soft, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me. I hadn't known—I had made it all up—that being touched there would feel like that. I shuddered violently, the pretense almost impossible to maintain. I tried to pull away, but he stopped, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me flush against his body. He held me so tightly I could feel the frantic, powerful thrum of his heart against my own ribs. "You're mine," he whispered into the darkness. "And I am yours." He was completely unhinged. He had abandoned all logic, all reason, and become something primal. A possessive beast. It was as if he believed that by trapping me in his den, he could make me his property. He had objectified me, objectified himself. We weren't two humans with fragile souls; we were two iron locks. And with a 'click,' we were bound together. In the darkness, I opened my eyes, staring at his face in the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window. He was truly, terrifyingly insane. I finally drifted off, my dreams filled with the memory of three years ago, of me begging him to let me go. "I don't owe you anything!" I had screamed. He had looked at me with those cold eyes and said, "Yes, you do. Your sister ran out on our wedding. You will spend the rest of your life paying her debt. I will never let you go." I woke up, and he was gone. The bed beside me was neat and cool, as if he had never been there at all.
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