Married for three years, Vance Sterling had never once touched me. Wearing a sheer lace nightgown, I faked hickeys on my skin and sent him a picture of my sleeping face, taken from a "third-party" perspective. "Bro, she smells incredible. Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her, alright?" I guessed that Vance, receiving this anonymous text, would be disgusted and furious, throwing me—his wife who was merely a stand-in for my sister—away like trash. I thought that, this time, I could finally divorce him. 1 My older sister was vacationing in Europe, celebrating her third wedding anniversary. When she asked what I wanted as a souvenir, I asked for an unregistered, prepaid foreign SIM card. Pinching the tiny SIM card between my fingers, I stood in the middle of the empty hotel room and let out an exhausted breath. Then, I slipped into the sheer, lace nightgown I had bought specifically for this plan. Standing in front of the mirror, I pinched the skin on my collarbone and neck, forging a trail of suggestive hickeys. The bruises were scattered and vivid, looking exactly as if a man, completely consumed by desire, had ruthlessly and forcefully claimed me. I even tore one of the delicate lace straps of the nightgown, making it look like it had been ripped by a "man's" rough hands. Finally, I looked in the mirror and intentionally smudged my red lipstick. I sat on the bed and ruffled the other side of the sheets, creating the undeniable impression that someone else had been sleeping there. Then, I closed my eyes, feigning a deep slumber. I set the camera on a tripod, angled perfectly to mimic another person's point of view, and set the timer. Three, two, one. In the photo, the woman looked as though she had just experienced an intense, passionate encounter, falling into an unguarded, exhausted sleep. I stared at the picture for a long time. My mind couldn't help but drift to Vance Sterling's infamous reputation in the corporate world. A smiling tiger. A ruthless capitalist who swallowed his enemies whole and spat out their bones. But the version of him I knew best was simply the man with the eternally cold, emotionless face. He was breathtakingly handsome, but all of his affection had been reserved solely for my sister. I was prepared for the worst. Even if Vance had absolutely no feelings for me, the male ego could rarely tolerate a wife's betrayal. He would very likely retaliate against me. But ultimately, he would be overwhelmed by disgust and anger. He would discard me and sign the divorce papers. As long as I could get a divorce, that was all that mattered. I closed my eyes and hit send. On the screen, the text message carried a deliberately arrogant, taunting tone: "Bro, she smells incredible. Hurry up and divorce her so I can have her, alright?" Attached was the photo. Message Sent. 2 Less than two seconds later. I received a reply. Vance: "Who is this?" I took my time changing back into my regular clothes. With a somewhat malicious sense of satisfaction, I intentionally dragged out my response time. Was he exploding with rage right now? Was he dying to track down this anonymous guy and skin him alive? Vance Sterling, the golden boy, the man who had been utterly flawless and in complete control his entire life, was finally having his emotions hijacked by someone else. And by me, of all people—the girl he had always kept firmly under his thumb. Three years of suffocation and misery finally yielded a tiny sliver of vindication today. By the time I finished changing, Vance had sent two more messages. "Don't try to use some cheap deepfake. State your purpose." "I suggest you come clean on your own. If you do, I might leave you in one piece." I let out a cold laugh and typed back. "Mr. Sterling, why don't you just ask your wife if it's a deepfake?" "The hickeys on my baby's neck aren't going to fade anytime soon (＾ｖ＾)." The reason I dared to be so brazen was that I knew Vance was currently overseas, negotiating a massive acquisition. He wouldn't be back for at least half a month. Suddenly, my actual cell phone started ringing. I jumped in shock. The caller ID flashed aggressively on the screen. It was Vance. I pursed my lips, staring at the phone in dead silence until the call went to voicemail. But almost immediately, the screen lit up again. Vance was calling back, relentless. I realized then that this time, he was genuinely furious. My heart hammered against my ribs. I felt like I was walking on a tightrope, playing an incredibly dangerous game of Russian roulette. I switched back to the burner phone and sent: "Mr. Sterling, stop calling her. We went at it five times. Your wife is exhausted and sleeping." The phone calls instantly stopped. My actual phone fell into a deathly silence. I sent one last message from the burner SIM: "I didn't mean to break your marriage up, Mr. Sterling. But your wife and I are truly in love. Be the bigger man, finalize the divorce, and let me have her. Otherwise, word's going to get out that your wife is making a cuck out of you, and your reputation will be dragged through the mud." Vance never replied again. Feeling a lingering sense of dread, I threw the torn lace nightgown into the hotel trash can, checked out, and took a cab back to our mansion. The maids were casually vacuuming and dusting. Everything was perfectly normal. The house was so peaceful it was as if nothing had happened at all. I washed up and went to sleep. Early the next morning, as the sky was just beginning to turn a pale gray, I was jolted awake by the deafening roar of a car engine and the harsh screech of tires braking violently outside my window. Before I could even process the panic, three sharp knocks hammered against my bedroom door. "Harper, open the door." The voice was dark and icy. The tone was restrained to the absolute limit, exposing only the faintest tremor of frantic anxiety beneath the surface. I was instantly, entirely awake. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, freezing me to the bone. It was Vance. 3 I was in total disarray. How could he be back?! To him, I was nothing more than an insignificant, disposable stand-in! The knocking sounded again. Exactly three taps. The epitome of forced self-control. He spoke a little faster this time: "Harper, I want to see you." I sat up in bed. Don't panic. Don't give yourself away. I took a deep breath, rubbed my eyes, and feigned a groggy, sleep-heavy voice. "Vance, I... I need to use the restroom, and I'm going to take a shower. Give me a minute." I sprinted into the master bathroom, turned on the showerhead, and stared in horror at the fake hickeys on my neck. I had made them by suctioning the mouth of a glass bottle against my skin yesterday. To make them look real, I had gone hard. Forget about them fading overnight—even heavy foundation wouldn't be able to completely hide them! But I couldn't just leave them totally exposed. Because someone who was actually cheating would instinctively try to lie and cover them up. Vance was sharp as a tack. If I was going to put on a show, I had to play the part perfectly. I wet my hair to make it look like I had just stepped out of the shower and threw on a black, long-sleeved turtleneck dress that covered me completely. For the half-hickey that peeked out above the collar, I carefully covered it with a bandage. I looked in the mirror and practiced my expression—a flawless mix of guilty panic and forced composure. This should be disgusting enough. Vance would undoubtedly be repulsed, demand a divorce without hesitation, and tell me to get out of his sight. I unlocked the bedroom door. Vance was sitting on the sofa in the adjoining sitting room, his brows furrowed deeply, his eyes closed. He looked pale. A faint shadow of stubble dusted his jawline. He had forgotten his watch, and his tailored suit jacket was missing its cufflinks. One hand was gripping his phone like a vice, while the other rested on the armrest. Across his knuckles were four deep, bloody cuts. It looked as if he had punched a wall. More than once. But he seemed completely oblivious to it. He hadn't even bothered to bandage them. "Vance, why are you back so soon?" Vance opened his eyes and looked at me. His pupils were so dark they looked like endless abysses. He pushed himself off the sofa. The man who had been frantically knocking just moments ago now walked toward me with agonizing slowness. I instinctively took a step back, but Vance caught my arm and pulled me right back to him. He lowered his gaze to my neck, his pupils shrinking a fraction of an inch. I forced a stiff smile. "Did something happen with the acquisition?" He didn't answer. He simply raised his cold hand, pressing his index and middle fingers lightly against the edge of the bandage on my neck. It felt like, at any second, he was going to rip it off brutally, tearing away all my lies, before exploding in humiliated fury and shredding our hypocritical marriage contract. I began to tremble, squeezing my eyes shut, waiting for the execution. But his fingers just rested gently against the bandage. Vance asked calmly, "How did you get this?" I intentionally averted my eyes. "I... I accidentally scraped it on the edge of a book." "A book..." Vance blinked, moving in slow motion. "What were you doing last night?" His fingertips slipped just slightly past the collar of my dress. If he pulled down just a centimeter more, he would see the trail of bruises hidden beneath the fabric. I swallowed hard. "I went out to the salon to get a hair treatment last night." Vance's breathing grew heavy. He stared at me expressionlessly. In that split second, I had the terrifying illusion that he was going to devour me alive. His fingers hooked into my collar. Feeling the pull, I stumbled forward, almost falling against his chest. I hastily threw my hands up, bracing them against his torso to keep my distance. His large hand wrapped around my lower back, gripping me like an iron band. He tightened his hold millimeter by millimeter, as if using the physical pressure to vent his suppressed, boiling rage. I was no match for his strength. Even my arms, bracing against him, were beginning to give out. Vance leaned in, closing the distance inch by inch. "M-Mr. Sterling, don't." I stammered, my voice shaking. I didn't know what he was planning to do, but my instincts were screaming that I was in danger. My mind went completely blank. My voice quivered as I blindly begged for mercy. Three seconds passed. Incredibly, he slowly withdrew his hand from my collar, clenching it into a tight fist. His face turned rigid, his jaw set in stone. Only then did I process the words that had just tumbled out of my mouth— "I'm scared. Don't touch me. Please." "I'm going to assign two bodyguards to you. Whenever you leave the house, they will follow you to ensure your safety," Vance announced flatly. Then, without hesitation, he turned on his heel and walked out. It wasn't until I heard the familiar roar of his engine fading down the driveway that I snapped out of my daze. He wasn't going to investigate?! How was that even possible?! 4 I was put under strict surveillance. I barely had a window of opportunity to pull out the burner phone. Whatever Vance had been doing overseas, he had somehow managed to wrap up a multi-week business trip in just five days and rushed straight back. A few days after his return, the surveillance on me finally loosened slightly. I seized the chance, grabbed the burner phone, and sent a text. "Bro, you're a sore loser. If she cheated, just divorce her. Why lock your wife up?" Vance replied almost instantly: "She didn't cheat. I trust her. Harper is not the kind of person who would do something like that." I stared blankly at the screen. What did that mean? It was true that I had resorted to this stupid fake-affair plan because I couldn't actually bring myself to cheat on him. But how did Vance know what kind of person I was? He had always, always been incredibly cold and distant toward me. Throwing caution to the wind, I typed furiously, adding fuel to the fire: "Mr. Sterling, you don't know your wife better than I do." "She has three little moles. One on her ribs, one by her belly button, and another on... Every time I trace a line connecting them with my finger, it drives her crazy. She shivers uncontrollably." "But you're her husband. You've been married for three years, so you must have known that already, right?" That last sentence was weaponized irony, because in three years of marriage, Vance had never once touched me. Smash! Just as the message delivered, a deafening crash echoed from upstairs. The sound came from Vance's home office. I flinched, my heart leaping into my throat, and frantically hid the burner phone under my mattress. The smashing sounds echoed a few more times. Then, I heard Vance's heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Sounding utterly exhausted, he instructed the butler, "Have someone clean up the office. Order a replacement for the computer." The footsteps drew closer to my door. I was shaking with terror, half-convinced that I was the next thing he was going to smash to pieces. Like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand, I dove under my duvet and pretended to be dead asleep. My bedroom door lock had mysteriously broken the day he returned. Vance turned the handle quietly. Seeing the room pitch-black, he didn't say a word. In the dead silence, his ragged, heavy breathing and his erratic heartbeat were incredibly loud. It made me wonder if he could hear my heart pounding out of my chest, too. He walked closer. Closer. I squeezed my eyes shut. Vance didn't shake me awake. He didn't fly into a murderous rage and strangle me for an explanation. He just stood by my bed. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel an intense, piercing, burning gaze practically nailing itself to my stomach, as if he was agonizing over whether to pull the blankets back and check. Don't shake. Keep your breathing steady. Keep acting! I remained perfectly still. Suddenly, the mattress dipped beside me. Vance slowly lay down next to me on top of the covers. That freezing yet scalding gaze remained glued to my body. I gritted my teeth. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I was going to light this powder keg once and for all! Acting as if I was lost in a sweet dream, I groggily rolled over and nuzzled my head right into his chest. Vance froze. That fierce, searing gaze suddenly softened. "Hubby..." I mumbled in my sleep. Vance went completely rigid. Refusing to back down, I wrapped both my arms around his waist and used the sweetest, most sickeningly affectionate voice I could muster. "Hubby, hold me." I fully expected him to explode. I thought he might actually slap me awake. Because I had never called him "hubby" before. He would know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the person I was calling out to in my "dream" was someone else. But instead— He glared down at me in the dark, gripping my arm so tightly he was shaking with rage. Yet the second I let out a soft whimper of pain, he forced himself to loosen his grip. Vance cupped the back of my head and pulled me even tighter against his chest. He pressed a kiss into my hair. Then, he began stroking my back, from top to bottom, with a clumsy but gentle, soothing rhythm. In a low, gravelly voice, he whispered, "Yeah. Hubby's got you." I completely froze. This bizarre, eerie calmness of his was absolute madness. Vance Sterling was a brilliantly strategic, calculating man. The second he received that first text, he should have deduced I was having an affair. To prevent a public scandal, he should have had his lawyers draft divorce papers immediately and kicked me out with nothing. Yet, time and time again, he denied it. He aggressively, insanely, stubbornly refused to believe I had slept with another man. And now, he was literally brainwashing himself, stealing words of affection meant for another man and hoarding them for himself. What on earth was he doing? Thinking I had drifted into a deeper sleep after my murmuring stopped, Vance soundlessly lifted the duvet. He pressed his finger against my ribcage, right where the mole was, and slowly traced a line downward. Just a light, cool touch of his fingertip. It was so sudden, and so fast, that before I could even process what was happening, my body violently recoiled, shivering out of control. I had completely made that text up! I had no idea that someone actually tracing those moles would send a jolt of electricity straight through my spine! I trembled pathetically, completely unable to keep up the "deep sleep" act. I immediately tried to roll away and escape. Vance stopped tracing. Instead, he wrapped both his arms around me, pulling me flush against his body, forcing me to face him. His grip was ironclad, unyielding, locking us together so tightly I could feel the frantic, powerful thud of his heart against my own ribs. Chaotic. Frantic. Powerful. He whispered softly into the dark, "You are mine. I am yours." He had completely lost his mind. He had abandoned all his cold logic, all his rational risk-benefit analysis, and turned into an absolute beast. Barbaric, direct, and uncompromisingly possessive. It was as if he had dragged me back to his den, and now, I belonged nowhere else. He objectified me, and he objectified himself. We were no longer humans with fragile skin and sensitive souls. We were two lifeless padlocks. Click. Locked together. And he could stubbornly believe it: I was his, and he was mine. He really had lost his mind. I opened my eyes in the darkness, trapped between his burning chest and his arms, staring complicatedly at Vance's sleeping face. Eventually, my eyelids grew heavy, and I fell asleep. In my dreams, I was back three years ago, crying and begging Vance to let me go. He just watched me coldly. Until I screamed, "I don't owe you anything! You have no right to lock me up!" He had stepped back, stayed silent for a full minute, and finally looked up. "You do owe me. Your sister eloped and broke our engagement. So you will pay me back with the rest of your life. I am never letting you go." I had collapsed on the floor, touching my face—a face so similar to my sister's—finally realizing the truth. He refused to let me go because he was using me as a substitute for her. That was how I spent the last three years. Suffocating and miserable. When I opened my eyes the next morning, Vance was already gone. The sheets beside me were smooth and cold, as if no one had ever been there.
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