My childhood friend, Terry, was a man of insatiable appetites. Every time we were together, it was an inferno, a storm of passion that left me breathless. He looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole. I once posted on an anonymous forum, asking, "Is this kind of intensity normal?" The comments flooded in. "Normal? Girl, you hit the jackpot!" and "Damn, talk about eating good!" Then my mother started breathing down my neck about marriage. So, one day, lying in the afterglow of our lovemaking, I casually suggested bringing him home to meet my parents. A slow, careless smile spread across Terry’s face. "Sylvie," he said, his voice husky with satisfaction, "I have a girlfriend." "She comes from a very old-money, traditional family. Her grandfather passed away, and their family has this... archaic three-year mourning period. I'm not allowed to touch her. That's where you came in." 1 It felt like I’d been plunged into an icy abyss. For a moment, I was sure I'd misheard him. But Terry wasn't finished. His voice was a lazy, contented drawl. "So, why the sudden urge to meet the parents? You always said you'd never get married. That's why I picked you to fill the gap. We're childhood friends. We know everything about each other. It was a perfect arrangement for three years." He sounded cheerful, almost relieved. "The good news is, her mourning period officially ends tomorrow. It's like I've finally seen the sun after a long storm. I won't be needing you to keep me company anymore." Not a shred of guilt. Not a hint of remorse. A sharp, searing pain shot through my heart. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging so deep into my palms that the skin turned white. I couldn’t feel a thing. I felt like a ghost, my voice hollow as I looked at him. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend?" "Because it wasn't necessary," he said with a shrug. "We were just convenient lovers, a three-year fling. Nothing more." He reached out to ruffle my hair, his tone softening into something he probably thought was kind. "Don't worry, Sylvie. I know how much you despise the 'other woman.' I would never, ever put you in that position." He was right. The one thing I despise most in this world is the 'other woman.' A home-wrecker had destroyed my family. When I was ten, my father’s affair came to light, and our home was never peaceful again. My parents screamed at each other daily, hurling the most venomous insults they could conjure, treating each other like mortal enemies they wished they could tear to shreds. Every time, as I huddled in a corner, trembling and crying, it was Terry who came to my rescue. He knew my deepest wounds better than anyone. "I told my girlfriend about you from the day we first slept together," he continued, as if that made everything okay. "I wouldn't just sleep with a random woman without her permission, would I? I'm a loyal guy. She knows you exist." He cupped my face in his hands, his dark, intoxicating eyes locking onto mine, reflecting only me. Everyone always said that a man with eyes like his could look at a stray dog with a soulful passion. And for three years, I had been completely mesmerized by them, foolishly believing he loved me. Now that the truth was out, our entire relationship felt like a sick, ugly joke. "So you see, Sylvie," he whispered, trying to soothe me, "you're really not the other woman." His gaze began to smolder again. His fingers slid from my cheek down to my bare shoulder, tracing a dangerously familiar path. "How about one more time? For old times' sake, Sylvie." Something inside me snapped. I shoved him away with all my might. I scrambled off the bed, stumbling and falling, my forehead cracking against the sharp corner of the nightstand with a loud, sickening thud. "Sylvie! Are you okay?" Terry shot up, reaching for me. A throbbing pain exploded from my forehead, but the agony in my heart was a thousand times worse. Clutching my head, my voice choked with tears. "Don't you dare come near me!" To my surprise, he stopped. He stood there, his lean, powerful torso bare, a look of confusion and irritation clouding his handsome features. I pulled myself up from the floor, threw on my clothes in a blind panic, and fled his apartment. 2 I arrived home in a daze. When I opened the door, my mother was sitting on the sofa like a perfect wax figure, her beautiful face a mask of indifference. Her eyes, when they landed on me, held no warmth at all. "Weren't you supposed to be bringing a boyfriend home for me to meet? Where is he?" I said nothing. Lately, she'd been relentless about me getting married. For years, she and my father had been locked in a bitter war of attrition, a toxic dance of mutual destruction. The only thing that kept her going was her iron-willed determination that the company would never fall into the hands of his mistress and illegitimate children. Even though I had already proven myself and secured a strong position within the company, she wasn't satisfied. She wanted the security of a strategic marriage alliance. I used to think I was so lucky that the man I loved was Terry. The Sterling and Blackwood families were social equals; our marriage would have been a perfect match, celebrated by all. That morning, backed into a corner by her incessant pressure, I had finally told her I had a boyfriend and would bring him home tonight. She had only given a cold, curt nod. And now, here I was, alone. The answer was obvious. "He's not my boyfriend anymore," I said, my voice unnervingly calm. She didn't seem surprised, nor did she ask for details. Instead, she handed me a stack of glossy portfolios. "These are the most eligible bachelors in our circle. Family, character, looks—they have it all. Pick one you can stand to look at." The day's events had drained every last ounce of my strength. I had no energy to argue with her. I pulled a file at random from the stack and handed it back. "This one." My mother glanced down at it. "Fine. I'll make the arrangements." My body felt like it was filled with lead as I dragged myself upstairs. A few minutes later, Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, knocked on my door with a jar of ointment. "Miss Sylvie, your mother asked me to help you with your forehead." Her voice was gentle. "She also told me to tell you… that there's no pain that time can't heal. Cry if you need to, laugh when you can, but don't torture yourself. In this world, only money and power are real. Love is just smoke." I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was pale and drawn. A grotesque, swollen red lump pulsed on my forehead. I looked like a pathetic clown. The tears I had been holding back all night finally broke free, streaming down my face in hot, silent rivers. Cry, I told myself. This is the last time you'll cry over him. Let everything that happened yesterday die with yesterday. Today is a new beginning. 3 In the weeks that followed, I blocked Terry on everything and threw myself into my work. It was surprisingly effective; I almost managed to forget he existed. Until I received a message from his girlfriend. She wanted to meet. My first instinct was to refuse. But a sliver of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at my conscience. You really shouldn't do things that weigh on you. Even though I was the victim in this twisted drama, even though I had unknowingly been involved with her and Terry for three years, I still felt a sense of shame toward this woman I had never met. We met at The Serene Garden, a restaurant built into an exquisite, traditional estate. I pushed open the door to the private room and saw her. She wore a simple, elegant silk dress in a muted color, her long, straight black hair pinned up with a single jade pin. Her face was a little pale, but it couldn't hide her delicate beauty. She was like a figure from an ancient painting, serene and timeless. She offered me a small smile. "Miss Sterling. I'm Clarissa. Please, have a seat." I sat opposite her in silence. Growing up, I'd seen my mother confront my father's mistresses countless times. Some encounters were simmering with restrained fury, others exploded into hysterical screaming matches. But none were ever like this. It was unnervingly calm. Clarissa rose and poured me a cup of tea, pushing it gently across the table. Her smile was warm. "This tea is exceptional. It leaves a wonderful fragrance. You should try it, Miss Sterling." I drank it like an automaton, then set the cup down. "Miss Crawford, I'm sorry," I said, my voice flat. "I never intended to come between you and Terry. When we were together, I believed he was single. I had no idea he had a girlfriend." A faint smile touched her lips. "It's alright. Terry told me everything from the start. I don't mind." So, Terry had been telling the truth. Their relationship had her blessing. The whole situation was so grotesque, so utterly absurd, it made my stomach turn. I felt like a monkey in a cage, toyed with by the two of them for their own amusement. "You may not mind, but I do!" I snapped, my composure finally cracking. "If you had just given me a heads-up three years ago, I would have kicked him to the curb instantly! I never would have wasted three years on him! What kind of sick mindset do you have, letting your boyfriend sleep with another woman? Do you have some kind of cuckold fetish?" Clarissa looked at me, her expression as placid as ever, her posture exuding the untouchable grace of a highborn lady from a forgotten era. "My family, the Crawfords, have been prominent since the Gilded Age. It was once common for a bride to bring her handmaidens into a marriage. You've simply been fulfilling a similar, modern-day role. Why should that be of any concern?" Her words struck me dumb. "Terry has… strong physical needs," she continued, "and with my grandfather's passing, I had to observe a period of abstinence. I couldn't bear to see him suffer. You were there to help him. Wasn't that mutually beneficial?" I stared at her, utterly shocked. I couldn't believe that in the twenty-first century, someone with such a twisted, archaic worldview still existed. Clarissa lowered her eyes and took a sip of her tea, her voice a soft, unhurried murmur. "Sylvie, Terry has told me a lot about you. You grew up together. Your home was broken, but his was warm and happy, so you were always there. His parents adore you. You've been in love with him since you were a child, dreaming of marrying into the Blackwood family and finally belonging somewhere—" "Get to the point," I cut in, my hands clenching under the table. "What do you want?" She smiled, dabbing her lips with a delicate handkerchief before letting out a soft cough. "Miss Sterling, let's make a deal. I have a heart condition, and my health isn't the best. I would like you to continue your physical relationship with Terry, to help him with his… needs. In exchange, the Crawford family will intervene on your behalf. We'll help you sideline your father, deal with his illegitimate children, and place the entirety of Sterling Industries firmly in your hands. What do you say?" I shot to my feet, my chair scraping harshly against the floor. "You're insane!" I turned and stormed out. But I didn't get more than two steps before my knees buckled. A searing heat, a maddening itch, began to uncoil deep inside me, and my whole body felt like it was on fire. I whipped my head around to face her, my voice a venomous hiss. "You drugged the tea?"
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