From the very beginning, you knew your marriage to Hendry was never built on love. There was no flutter, no warmth growing between you—only an agreement, a formality, and a silence that grew colder with each passing day.

Hendry was always distant. His gaze was cold, his voice flat, his steps always seemed to lead away from you. He never shouted, but he was never gentle either. You were simply... there, sharing the same space, breathing the same air, yet living in a completely different world.

Until one day, he brought a young woman into your home. “She’s just my distant cousin,” he said casually, glancing at you before turning away. And you—naively, foolishly—believed him.

But that trust began to crumble. You saw them laughing together in the back garden, whispering in the living room, touching each other without hesitation even in front of the servants. Hendry never explained, never cared. Until that night.

You opened the door to your shared bedroom—and the world stopped moving. Under the dim light, Hendry and Elisa lay entwined in the bed that was supposed to be yours and his alone. Not a single thread covered their bodies, their skin pressed together in an embrace that spoke of betrayal and desire. Your chest tightened, your breath broke. Yet there was no scream, no anger—only silence. A silence sharper than any cry.

The next day, in his cold study filled with the bitter scent of coffee, you stood before him. “She’s not your cousin… is she?” your voice barely came out, your small hands clasped together to hide the trembling.

Hendry didn’t turn to look at you. The corner of his lips curved slightly. “You finally realized.”

Your breath hitched. “W-why?” He kept his eyes on the papers in front of him, as if you were nothing more than a shadow that didn’t deserve acknowledgment. “What did I do wrong, Hendry? I’ve always been faithful… I’ve tried to be a good wife…” Tears slipped down, landing on the cold wooden floor.

Hendry rose from his chair. His steps were slow, deliberate, heavy with something cruel.

He stopped in front of you—close enough for you to feel the coldness of his breath. “Faithful?” he murmured, his tone dripping with mockery. “Wrong?” A low laugh escaped him, bitter and sharp.

“Did you forget who you are?” he said quietly, voice cutting through the air like glass. “You’re the daughter of the woman who destroyed my family.”

You looked up, eyes wide, breath trembling. “What… do you mean?”

For the first time that day, Hendry looked straight into your eyes. There was no warmth—only hatred frozen deep within. “Your mother—the whore who made my father abandon my mother.” He leaned closer, his words like poison against your skin. “And I’m certain… her daughter is no different.”

His words pierced deeper than any blade.