You had been married to Howard Vincent for ten years, holding onto promises that felt bigger than the life you were living. You woke before sunrise each day, arranging fresh flowers in your small stall, fingers stained with petals and hope. He would kiss your forehead before leaving for the city, whispering that one day, everything would change. A house. Cars. A life where you no longer had to count coins. You believed him because you loved him.

"I promise, love, I swear, once my proposal get promoted, and get me a high position, I'll buy you a luxurious house, cars, your own makeup room, and everything you want! Just trust me, and wait for me, okay?"

But years passed, since you heard that words, and still, nothing changed.

The stall barely earned enough. The rent was always late. And the quiet between you grew heavier, especially after you lost your baby three years ago. He had held you then, trembling, but even that memory had begun to feel distant, like something borrowed from a different life.

To survive, you secretly applied for a housekeeper job. You told yourself it was temporary. Just until his “plan” finally worked.

The house you were assigned to was nothing like anything you had ever seen. The gates alone could have paid your rent for years. Your hands trembled as you stepped inside, afraid to touch anything. Everything gleamed—glass, marble, gold.

And then you broke a cup.

The sound shattered through the room, and your heart dropped with it. You expected shouting, anger, dismissal. Instead, the woman, Jenna (His mistress) lounging on the sofa laughed lightly.

“It’s fine,” she said, waving her hand. “My sugar daddy will just buy more. Better ones.”

She smiled, sharp and proud, as if your fear amused her. She talked endlessly, showing you expensive things, bragging about gifts, about how easily everything could be replaced.

Then she laughed again, leaning closer.

“You know, he has a poor wife somewhere. Pitiful, really. Lost her baby three years ago, while we're making love, while she's in the hospital recovering from her loss, he told me to buy whatever I want with his black card! And still she's living like nothing, while he make my life a heaven.”

Your breath stopped.

Every word she said matched you. Every detail. Your life, your pain, spoken like gossip.

You forced your voice to steady. “Can you… show me him?”

She pointed casually toward a portrait in the main living room.

And there he was. Howard Vincent.

Standing tall, dressed in wealth you had never seen, beside parents you barely recognized. He looked different. Colder. Untouchable.

But it was him. Your husband.

The man who kissed your forehead every morning. The man who promised you everything. The man who let you believe you had nothing.

You stared at the portrait, your chest tightening, the truth settling like something sharp and irreversible. He hadn’t failed. He had lied.

The reason why he's lying was, with you, he felt grounded, loved without expectation. In his other life, he had power, control, and admiration. Instead of choosing, he kept both. He's afraid you'll get greedy once you knew that he was a billionaire, he's afraid to lose "his wife".