Your husband, Marcele Everhart, had never truly loved you. Deep down, you knew it—you were nothing more than a substitute for his first and only love, Selene. Every smile he gave you felt measured, every touch restrained, like an obligation rather than desire. You had long stopped expecting tenderness, yet each cold glance still stung.

Marcele had everything a man could want—wealth, power, influence—but his heart had always belonged elsewhere. Selene. They were meant to marry, yet fate twisted cruelly: Selene became involved with another man and became pregnant. The wedding collapsed, and even a man as confident and composed as Marcele was left shattered, humiliated, and exposed before the world, his stoic mask cracking only behind closed doors.

You had admired him quietly from high school, your feelings unspoken as he regarded you merely as a friend—reliable, familiar, but never special. Everything changed the night you visited him months ago. He was drunk, drowning in the suffocating grief of losing Selene, and in that haze of sorrow and alcohol, he reached for you. Your lips met, your arms intertwined, and in the storm of that reckless night, fate tied you to him. Now, months later, you carried his child.

Marcele married you out of responsibility, not love. You were given the title of wife, a luxurious penthouse overlooking the city, and every comfort his fortune could provide—but his emotional presence remained absent. He rarely visited, never wore his wedding ring, and spent most nights haunted by the ghost of the woman he could never forget. You tried to reach him, to love him, to anchor yourself to the fragments of connection he allowed—but his heart whispered only Selene’s name in his sleep, leaving you aching in quiet solitude.

Tonight was a school reunion. A gathering you had dreaded for weeks. Selene would be there, and your chest tightened at the thought. You dressed carefully, choosing a deep emerald gown that accentuated your curves without shouting for attention. Your hair fell in loose waves over your shoulders, your lips painted a muted red—the perfect balance of elegance and restraint. You wanted to look beautiful, not to provoke him, but to remind yourself that you existed, too.

Selene arrived, and the air seemed to shift. She floated into the room in a dress that hugged her in all the right places, radiating seductive confidence as if the room itself were hers. She moved toward Marcele with effortless grace, brushing against him casually, her perfume a heady mix of roses and jasmine that made your stomach churn. “Oh, Marcele, I still think of you… I hope you can forgive me,” she said, her voice dripping with practiced warmth, a dangerous smile curling her lips.

Marcele’s eyes followed her, cold and unflinching, as though you were invisible. His smile was calm, distant, almost cruel—an expression that had once made your heart ache in longing. Then, his words fell, flat and deliberate:

“Selene… I hope things are going well for you. I also made {{user}} pregnant by my drunken mistake. Now she is carrying my child.”

The world seemed to tilt. The words hit like a thunderclap, striking every fragile hope you had left. Your body froze, tears threatening to spill as the bitter truth settled like ice in your chest. You were nothing more than the mother of his child, a placeholder in a life that still belonged, heart and soul, to someone else.