His Wife In Secret, Her Love In Vain

On the third anniversary of my secret marriage to Ethan Faulkner, a video of him passionately kissing his first love at the airport went viral. He had a thing about germs. He never kissed me. Not once. But in that video, Ethan had his arms wrapped around that woman's slender waist, head bowed, kissing her with a tenderness and abandon I had never seen from him. That woman's name was Clara Sutton. Ethan's first love. The forbidden memory he kept locked away in the deepest part of his heart, never to be touched. Staring at Clara's face. A face that looked so much like mine. I finally understood. I was nothing more than a replacement. Since the woman he truly loved had come back, it was time for this counterfeit version to make her exit. Leah's POV In the third year of my secret marriage to Ethan Faulkner, I finally understood. I was nothing more than a perfect, flawless replacement. Today was our third wedding anniversary. The food on the dining table, all of Ethan's favorites, had long gone cold. The clock on the wall pointed to one in the morning. I sat on the couch, my phone screen glowing, showing a piece of gossip that had just exploded onto the trending page. #Billionaire Ethan Faulkner spotted at airport late night - rumored first love returns to New York# The photos were crystal clear. In the VIP arrivals corridor, Ethan Faulkner, who was always cold and imperious, was carrying a woman's handbag. Something I had never once seen him do. Standing at his side was a woman in sunglasses with a graceful figure. She was holding his arm intimately. And Ethan didn't pull away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly toward her, his expression soft in a way I had never seen from him in public. An indulgence he had never once shown me. That woman was Clara Sutton. Ethan's first love. The forbidden memory buried in the deepest corner of his heart. My eyes locked onto the necklace around Clara's neck in the photo. A sapphire pendant. Teardrop-cut, surrounded by scattered diamonds. Distinctive. Extravagant. Without thinking, I reached up and touched my own neck. There was an identical necklace resting there. Ethan had clasped it around my neck on my birthday last year. He had just wrapped up an international merger, flown back to New York overnight, the corners of his eyes still red with exhaustion. He'd taken the necklace from a velvet box, his fingertips tracing gently along the back of my neck, and said in a low voice, "Leah, I drew the design myself and had it custom-made by an artisan in Italy. There's only one like it in the entire world. It belongs only to you." I believed him. I thought that I, this stubborn little stone, had finally melted through Ethan Faulkner's glacier. These three years, he had been attentive to me. So good to me that I'd let myself believe I was truly, deeply loved. When I casually mentioned feeling cold in the winter, he had the entire courtyard of the villa fitted with underfloor heating. When I stayed up late working on design sketches, he would cancel his morning meetings and make hot soup for me in the kitchen himself. When he found out I loved maple trees, he bought an entire street on Long Island and had it lined with them. Just so he could take me to walk through the falling leaves in autumn. But now, staring at the necklace around Clara's neck in that photo, I felt cold all over. A chill that settled into my bones. One of a kind in the entire world. Designed by his own hand. It was nothing but a token of love he had designed for Clara years ago. One he never got to give her, because she had chased her dreams of art and left him behind. So the necklace found its way onto my neck instead, repackaged as his "exclusive devotion" to me. All along, every kind thing he had done for me, every tender gesture he had offered. It was never really for me. He was using me to heal a wound that had never closed, to make up for a regret that had never left him. Click. The sound of the front door opening. I lifted my head and watched Ethan walk in, carrying the cold of the night air with him. He shrugged off his suit jacket and handed it to the butler who stepped forward to meet him. He tugged at his tie and let his gaze settle on me. "Why are you still up?" His voice was low, carrying a trace of exhaustion he probably didn't even realize was there. Still devastatingly easy to listen to. I stood up, but I didn't walk over to grab his slippers the way I always had. I looked at him steadily and asked, my voice calm, "Where were you?" Ethan paused. Something flickered in his eyes, but his tone stayed level. "Something came up at work. Had to stay late." A lie. My heart clenched like a fist had closed around it. So tight I could barely breathe. I stepped closer to him and caught a trace of perfume clinging to his clothes. Not the cool, cedar-and-pine scent he always wore. This was rose. Heavy, aggressive, impossible to ignore. Clara's signature scent. "Is that right?" I pulled the corners of my mouth into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Ethan, today is our wedding anniversary."

Leah's POV Ethan's brow creased slightly. Like he was only just remembering. A flicker of guilt passed through his eyes. He reached out to pull me into his arms. "Sorry, Leah. Everything happened so fast. Let me make it up to you tomorrow. Whatever you want. That townhouse on the Upper East Side? Or that yacht you were looking at?" In his eyes, my hurt feelings could always be settled with money. I used to think it was his way of showing affection. Domineering, maybe, but still love. Now I could see it for what it actually was. A way of brushing me off. I stepped out of reach. Ethan's arm stiffened mid-air. His expression darkened. "Leah, don't do this." "I'm not doing anything." I took another step back, meeting his eyes directly. "Ethan. Clara's back, isn't she?" The air went still. Ethan's gaze turned sharp and cold. The pressure in the room dropped. "Who told you?" "It was all over the news. Did I really need someone to tell me?" I set my phone down on the coffee table. "And the necklace. She's wearing the same one, isn't she? Ethan, for three years you watched me wear this around my neck. Whose face were you actually seeing?" Ethan stared at me. His jaw tightened. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice flat and cold. "It's just a necklace. If you want more, I'll have ten different ones sent over tomorrow. Clara just got back to New York, she ran into some trouble, and I went to pick her up. That's all. Stop making a scene." Making a scene. I closed my eyes and swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat. When I opened them again, my expression had gone quiet. Empty. "Alright," I said. "I understand." I turned and walked toward the stairs. My steps were steady. Unhesitating. The next morning, I was woken up by my phone buzzing. Ethan was already gone. The other side of the bed was cold. He hadn't slept in our room at all. I picked up the phone. It was an email from one of Milan's most prestigious design institutes. "Dear Ms. Leah, regarding the enrollment position you previously applied for, we would like to reconfirm your intentions. If you have changed your mind and wish to proceed, please respond and complete the enrollment process within fifteen days." There was only one spot like this in the entire world. Three months ago, I had received the acceptance letter. But at the time, Ethan had been hospitalized with a severe stomach condition, and I'd been too worried to leave. I had stayed by his bedside day and night, and without a second thought, I had turned down this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I thought Ethan was my whole world. Looking back now, that felt almost funny. I leaned against the headboard and stared at the email for a long time, my finger hovering over the screen. Then I typed out a reply: "I accept. I will arrive on the first day of enrollment, fifteen days from now." I hit send. I watched the confirmation appear on the screen and let out a long, slow breath. Like I was finally releasing three years of swallowed grief and quiet resentment all at once. Fifteen days. In fifteen days, I would leave this place. This place that had never really been mine. For good. I came downstairs to find Ethan already sitting in the dining room with his coffee. He glanced up when he saw me and gestured to the seat across from him. "Have breakfast. We're going somewhere after." I pulled out the chair and sat down without asking where. I just quietly drank my milk. Ethan looked at me. His brow furrowed slightly. I knew what he was thinking. Usually I'd be chattering away over breakfast, telling him something funny that happened at work, or asking about his schedule for the day. Today I was unusually quiet. Still in a way that didn't feel normal. "Are you still upset about last night?" Ethan set down his coffee cup, softening his tone a little. "Clara just got back to New York and she's not familiar with how things work here yet. It's natural for a friend to help out. You're my wife, Leah. Try to be a little more understanding." Friend. My wife. I laughed at that. Inwardly, where it didn't show. "I know," I said, not looking up. Ethan didn't seem satisfied with my response, but he let it go.

Leah's POV After breakfast, the car took us to one of the most exclusive private members' clubs in the city. When we pushed open the door to the private room, it was already full. Friends from Ethan's circle. I had been to a few of these gatherings before. They were always polite enough to me, but there was always a faint undercurrent of distance. The kind that comes with looking down at someone from a height. I had always assumed it was because my background was ordinary. That I just didn't fit into this world. But today, I saw Clara Sutton sitting at the center of the group, and I finally understood. Clara was dressed in a white couture gown, her makeup immaculate, her smile warm and composed. People had gathered around her, talking over each other to get her attention. "Clara, you're finally back! Ethan has missed you so much these past few years!" "It really wasn't the same without you. Our get-togethers felt so flat." The moment our door opened, the room went quiet. Every pair of eyes turned toward Ethan and me. The atmosphere shifted into something sharp-edged. Clara rose from her seat. Her gaze swept over me briefly, then landed on Ethan, full of warmth. "Ethan, you're here. And this must be Ms. Leah?" Not Mrs. Faulkner. Ms. Leah. Ethan's friends exchanged small, knowing glances. Ethan guided me over and we sat down on the couch. "Yeah. This is Leah." A brief introduction. Nothing more. I sat beside him, quiet, like someone watching from the outside as the rest of them laughed and talked. Someone stirred the pot on purpose. "So Clara, I heard you're back to stay? Does that mean you and Ethan are going to-" They dragged out the question, letting the implication hang in the air, their expression sly. Ethan didn't shut it down. He just picked up his glass and took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. Clara covered a laugh with her hand. "Don't be ridiculous. Ethan is a married man now. I came back for my art exhibition, that's all." Then she turned to look at me, and there was something in her eyes. A flicker of challenge she almost managed to hide. "Ms. Leah, I heard you studied design? I'd love for you to come see my work sometime. Feel free to share your thoughts." "She doesn't really know much about that." I hadn't even opened my mouth. Ethan had already answered for me. His tone was offhand. Casual. But it landed like a slap across my face. A few poorly-suppressed laughs filtered through the room. Someone muttered, just loud enough to reach my ears: "She's just a stand-in. What would she know about art? Being a passable imitation is already a stretch." My fingers curled hard. My nails pressed into my palm. I turned to look at Ethan. He was leaning back against the cushions, turning his lighter over in his fingers. Completely unbothered by what had just been said. Not even flinching. Or maybe he just didn't care whether I was hurt or not. I suddenly felt like none of this was worth my time anymore. I let my hand relax and stood up. "I'll be right back. I just need to use the restroom." Without acknowledging anyone's looks, I walked out of the room. Leaning against the sink in the restroom, I stared at the pale face looking back at me from the mirror and laughed. Quietly, at myself. Leah, what exactly are you still waiting for? These fifteen days. Let them be one long, slow funeral for three years of foolish, one-sided love.

Leah's POV On my way out of the restroom, I ran into Clara in the hallway. She had clearly been waiting there for me. Clara was leaning against the wall, a slim cigarette held loosely between her fingers, her whole posture exuding an easy kind of arrogance. When she saw me, she exhaled a slow curl of smoke and smiled. "Feel like talking, Ms. Leah?" I stopped. I looked at her, my expression calm. "I can't think of anything we'd have to talk about." "No?" Clara pushed off the wall and walked toward me, her eyes moving over me without any attempt to disguise it. "You really do look like me. Just enough. No wonder Ethan kept you around for three years." She stepped closer, dropping her voice, her tone thick with the satisfaction of someone who had already won. "Tell me.In those three years, how many times did he actually touch you? When he looked at you, was it your name he was saying in his head or mine?" Something sharp hit me right in the chest. The truth was, even though Ethan and I were married, the physical side of our marriage had been nearly nonexistent. The few times anything happened. When he'd been drinking, or when he was in a dark place. It felt less like intimacy and more like him losing control of something he was fighting to hold back. Those times, he'd bury his face in the curve of my neck, and say something, over and over, barely a murmur. I had never been able to make out the words. I had told myself he was saying my name. Now I knew better. He had been saying Clara. She watched the color leave my face and smiled, satisfied. "Leah." Her voice was cold and silky. "Know your place. A stand-in is a stand-in. When the real one comes back, the copy steps aside. What are you holding onto by keeping the Faulkner name? You're only humiliating yourself." I looked at Clara's triumphant face and felt something unexpected rise inside me. Amusement. I actually laughed. "You've got one thing wrong." My voice was cool and even, without a single tremor. "That title? If you want it, it's yours to take. All you need is for Ethan to offer it." Before she could find her footing again, I walked past her and back into the room. The energy inside was still buzzing. I walked in, picked up my bag from the couch, and turned to Ethan. "I'm not feeling great. I'm going to head home." Ethan's brow furrowed. "You were fine a minute ago. What's going on?" He started to stand, about to say he'd take me himself, when Clara walked back in through the door. "Oh!" She had barely made it to the coffee table when she let out a startled cry. The wine glass slipped from her fingers without warning. Deep red wine splashed across me. Soaking straight through my white dress, the stain blooming wide and vivid. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to. I twisted my ankle, I just..." Clara's voice broke immediately, her eyes going red, her whole face crumpling into something devastatingly helpless. Ethan's expression changed in an instant. He crossed the room in three quick strides. I thought he was coming to help me. He shoved past me and caught Clara by the arm. "Are you hurt? Is your ankle okay?" His voice was full of urgency, full of worry. The force of it knocked me off balance. My lower back slammed into the corner of the coffee table. The pain was immediate and searing. I sucked in a sharp breath. No one noticed. Every eye in the room was on Clara. "Clara, are you alright?" "Someone get ice, now!" After Ethan had checked that Clara was uninjured, he finally turned back to me. His gaze was cold. "Leah, why were you standing so close? Didn't you see Clara coming? Apologize to her." I stood there with one hand pressed to my lower back, staring at him. Clara had thrown wine on me. I was the one who was hurt. And he was telling me to apologize.

Leah's POV "Ethan, please don't blame Leah. It was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going." Clara tugged gently at his sleeve, her voice soft and pleading. "You're too kind." Ethan patted her hand, then turned back to me, his tone harder this time. "Leah. Apologize. Don't make me say it again." The room was completely silent. Everyone was watching. Waiting to see how the stand-in would handle being put in her place by the real thing. I looked at Ethan's face, the face I had looked at for three years. I felt like I was looking at a stranger. This was the man I had loved for three years. For him, I had let go of my dreams. Dulled my own edges. Walked away from my career to run his household. Made myself smaller so I could fit into his life. And this was what I got in return. A public humiliation. "Fine." I didn't cry. I didn't fight back. I stood up straight, looked at Clara, and said, in a voice as steady as still water, "I'm sorry, Clara. I shouldn't have been standing there. I was in your way." Then I turned and walked out of the room without looking at Ethan once. My back was straight. My steps didn't waver. Twelve days until I leave. I started packing. There wasn't much, really. Over three years, Ethan had filled an entire walk-in closet with designer bags and fine jewelry. I wasn't taking any of it. I packed a few old clothes I had bought myself, and my professional books. That was it. Then I went around the room and erased myself from it. The matching electric toothbrushes on the bathroom counter. I dropped mine into the trash. On the nightstand, the only photo of us together. I took it out of the frame, cut it into pieces, and washed them down the drain. Then there was the safe in Ethan's study. That safe held the most sensitive files for his company. Ethan had once taken my hand and guided it to the scanner himself, recording my fingerprint. He'd said: "Leah, you're the only person I trust." Now I opened the settings and deleted my fingerprint without hesitation. When I was done, I stood in the middle of the half-emptied room and felt nothing. Not sadness. Just lightness. Like I had set down something very heavy that I had been carrying for far too long. Ethan came home at ten that night. He seemed to be in a decent mood. He was carrying a limited-edition Hermès bag. "What are you doing?" He came up behind me while I was tidying the bookshelf and asked casually. "Just organizing a few things." I didn't turn around. Ethan set the bag on the desk and wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Are you still upset about earlier? I pushed too hard with the whole apology thing. Clara doesn't handle stress well, I panicked. I'm sorry." He paused and softened his voice. "Didn't you mention this bag once? I had it flown in from Paris. Do you like it?" Hit and then soothe. That was always how he operated. Before, I always let it work. Because I couldn't stand to watch him be the one to back down. But now I just felt sick. I stepped out of his arms and glanced at the bag. It was the exact style I had mentioned once, in passing. So what? An apology that comes this late is worth less than nothing. "Thanks. Just leave it there." My voice was flat. No surprise, no warmth. Ethan's expression tightened. He noticed. He looked around the room and spotted the bathroom counter. "Where's your toothbrush?" "It broke. I threw it away." "And the photo by the bed?" "I knocked the frame over and it broke. I tossed it." "I'll have someone get new toothbrushes tomorrow, and reprint the photo." He sounded slightly put out, but tamped it down. "Don't bother." I turned to face him. "Ethan, I canceled my supplemental credit card." He blinked. "Why?" "I don't really spend much. It felt wasteful to keep it open." My voice was perfectly even. Ethan studied my face for a moment, searching for something. But my expression gave him nothing. No anger, no hurt. Just a smooth, still surface. He decided I was sulking and let out a short, dismissive laugh. "Fine. Come find me when you're done being dramatic." He disappeared into the bathroom. I stood there listening to the sound of the shower running, then walked to the desk, picked up the Hermès bag, and shoved it into the very bottom corner of the walk-in closet. I didn't want anything from him. I just wanted him to never be able to find me again.

Leah's POV The next afternoon, I came home and stopped dead in the doorway of the courtyard. The garden was a wreck. Several groundskeepers were swinging shovels, tearing out the Juliet roses I had planted with my own hands. Roots and all. Those roses had taken me two years. Two years of research, careful cultivation, trial and error. Ethan had once told me I was like those roses, delicate but resilient. They were supposed to be a symbol of what we had. But now they were being tossed onto the ground like garbage. Petals broken and scattered, roots still clotted with soil. "What are you doing?" My voice came out unsteady. The butler walked over, looking uncomfortable. "Ma'am, Mr. Faulkner gave the order. He said Ms. Sutton has been having trouble sleeping. The doctor recommended lavender to help her relax, so Mr. Faulkner asked us to remove the roses and replace them with lavender imported from France." The breath knocked out of me. For Clara's sleep, he had destroyed two years of my work without a second thought. Just then, a black car rolled into the driveway. Ethan stepped out. He saw me standing in the middle of the ruined garden, my face white. He walked over, his tone matter-of-fact. "You're home. Clara's insomnia has flared up again. The rose scent is too strong for her. I had them switched out for lavender. If you like flowers that much, I'll buy you a place out in the countryside tomorrow, just for your roses." I looked at him. My eyes were dry. There was nothing left in them. Just a vast, quiet blankness. "It's fine." My voice came out barely above a whisper, thin as smoke. "They wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway." Just like my love for him. Already torn out by the roots. Already dead. Eight days until I leave. My stomach gave out. I had been feeling a dull ache there for a few days, but I hadn't thought much of it. Assumed it was just stress or something I'd eaten. Then, late that night, the pain hit without warning. Violent. Like something was twisting and tearing inside me all at once. I fell off the bed. I ended up curled on the floor, drenched in cold sweat, my body shaking. I pressed my teeth together and fumbled for my phone on the nightstand with trembling hands. I called Ethan. It rang for a long time before he picked up. "Yeah?" His voice was clipped. Impatient. "Ethan." My voice was barely a sound. "My stomach hurts. I need you to come home. I need to go to the hospital." A beat of silence. Then Clara's voice came through. "Ethan, please don't go. I'm scared. Stay with me." And Ethan's tone shifted. Instantly. Completely. Into something gentle and warm. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." Then he turned back to me, his voice cold. "Leah. Clara had a rough night. I can't leave. Take something for the pain, or have the driver take you to the hospital. And stop pulling this kind of thing. Trying to compete for attention. It's beneath you." He hung up. I lay there listening to the silence after the call ended, and I closed my eyes. Competing for attention. To him, me lying on the floor in agony was nothing but a tactic to steal his focus from Clara. I didn't call back. Fighting through the pain, I dialed 911 myself. The ambulance came. At the hospital, the ER doctor's face went serious after the examination. "Acute gastric perforation. She needs surgery immediately. Where's her family? We need a family member to sign." I was lying on the gurney, my face the color of ash, cold sweat sliding down my temples. I opened my eyes, looked at the doctor, and smiled. The kind that looks worse than crying. "Doctor, there's no family. I'll sign for myself." The doctor looked at me for a moment. Something shifted in his expression. "Alright. She'll sign herself. Let's get her prepped."

Leah's POV The surgery lasted three hours. When they wheeled me out of the operating room, the anesthesia was still wearing off. Everything felt heavy and blurred. Even lifting my eyelids took effort. I was brought back to the recovery room. The walls were bare white. The silence was complete. Some time later. I wasn't sure how long. A nurse came in to change my dressings. She took one look at me, alone in that room, and sighed. There was something protective in her voice when she spoke. "You poor thing. Your husband should be ashamed of himself. A surgery this serious and he can't even show up? Not even once?" I stared at the ceiling above me, my eyes unmoving. My dry lips barely parted. "He's dead." The nurse choked. Her face froze. She let out an awkward half-smile, clearly unsure what to say, and finished the dressing change in silence before slipping out. I stayed in that hospital for three days. For three days, my phone was completely quiet. No call from Ethan. No text. Not even the most basic, perfunctory message to check if I was alive. It was as if I had ceased to exist. Me, and the child I had just lost, both of us erased from his world entirely. On the fourth day, I pushed myself upright and checked out. The nurse offered to call a car for me. I shook my head. I walked out of the hospital on my own, slowly, one step at a time, carrying a body that had just been through surgery and hadn't fully come back to itself yet. The midday sun was harsh. It hit my skin and I felt nothing but cold. A cold that came from somewhere deep inside, the kind that couldn't be warmed. I found a bench on the sidewalk and sat down. My hands were shaking as I opened my social media app and pulled up Ethan's profile. His most recent post was from last night. The photo showed soft, romantic lighting. Clara was seated at a grand piano in an elegant gown, playing. Ethan stood behind her, slightly leaned in, his expression tender. Watching her with a warmth in his eyes I had never once seen him direct at me. The caption was short. Lost and found. For the rest of my life. It's you. I stared at that photo for a long time. Long enough for the screen to dim. Long enough for my vision to go blurry. Then I closed out of his page, went to my blocked list, and added his name. From this point on, his future belonged to Clara. Mine had nothing to do with him. I went back to the villa and finished packing. There wasn't much left. Everything worth discarding had already been discarded. Everything worth deleting had already been deleted. I had one suitcase. A few old clothes, and my acceptance letter. The butler saw me coming downstairs with the suitcase and startled. "Ma'am, where are you going? Does Mr. Faulkner know?" I stopped and looked at this man who had looked after me for three years. I smiled, gently. "I'm leaving. And please don't call me ma'am anymore. This house will have a new lady soon enough." He stood there, not knowing what to say. I didn't say anything else either. I picked up my suitcase and walked out the front door without looking back. Three days until I leave. I wasn't going to wait another three days in this house. I would check into a hotel tonight and go straight to the airport from there. I was done with this place where I had buried three years of my life and my love.

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