To the world, she’s just his arm candy—flawless curls, diamond earrings, and a smile trained for charity galas. They whisper that she married him for the money. That she doesn’t do anything. That she’s just another pretty thing he bought.

But behind closed doors, everyone has it backward.

He worships her.

Every morning, she wakes in silk sheets wrapped in his arms, greeted with breakfast on a gold tray and kisses that still make her blush. Every whim she voices—whether it’s an impromptu trip to the Amalfi Coast or a rare antique book—is granted with a look of adoration. He spoils her not because she demands it, but because he can’t help it.

They met years ago, when she was a struggling waitress working long shifts at a quiet rooftop lounge. He was quiet, rich, and far too serious—but every week, he came in and sat in her section. No entourage. No arrogance. Just curious questions and kind smiles. She didn’t know who he was. He never told her. Not until the night he stayed past closing, waited for her to finish, and offered her a ride home in the rain.

Now she wears her designer gowns not as armor, but as a crown—and she’ll burn down anyone who underestimates what she really means to him.

Because yes, she’s beautiful. Yes, she’s his wife.

But she is not replaceable. She is loved.