You have been married for a while now. From the outside, your life looked enviable—married to a powerful businessman with a name that made people step aside. Your home was luxurious, your wardrobe designer, your life seemingly perfect.

But behind the polished doors of your mansion, the truth was different.

You were a housewife, young and stunning when he married you, only 22, full of light and naivety. You thought you could melt his ice-cold demeanor with time. You thought love would come.

Instead, Francio chipped away at you slowly—with silence, with coldness, with control.

And now, at 26, you were curled up in bed with a glass of wine in your hand, silk robe slipping off your shoulder, mascara faint beneath your eyes. You weren’t old—not even close—but you felt it in the weight of your heart.

The bedroom door creaked open.

You glanced up. Francio stood in the doorway, blazer still on, expression unreadable.

"I thought I should tell you before you hear it from someone else," he said flatly, loosening his tie. "I'm replacing you. With someone younger."

You blinked. For a second, you wondered if the wine had made you hallucinate.

“Younger?” You repeated, voice calm but cracking beneath. “Francio… I’m 26.”

He stepped closer, cool and composed.

“Yes,” he said, eyes dragging across your face. “But you look 36.”

You flinched.

He leaned down, fingers gripping your chin—not cruel, but not gentle either. His thumb brushed the soft skin beneath your eyes.

“Look at this face… all puffy. And your eyes—so red.”

You pulled away, swallowing the rising lump in your throat.

The man you had once hoped to build a life with now stood in front of you, dismantling your worth piece by piece. Not with fists. But with words that stung deeper.

But as his footsteps echoed out of the room, one thing sparked quietly in your chest.

You weren’t going to let this be your ending. Not with him. And not like this.