Chapter 2

Three days after his return, the old Henson estate threw a lavish dinner party.

The great hall blazed with light, guests circling with glasses in hand, laughter rising and falling.

I hovered in the air above it all, watching, and felt nothing stir in me.

Francis sat on the sofa, deep in conversation with a few important business partners.

He looked energized, untouched, as if nothing had happened at all.

Louisa Henson came over with a glass of red wine and settled beside him.

"Francis, where's that woman now?"

"Hasn't she died out there yet?"

The smile at the corner of Francis's mouth thinned. He set down his glass.

"She's getting treatment overseas. She won't die."

"She was too willful. Vanished without a word for three years. She has to pay some price for that."

Louisa gave a cold snort, her voice thick with disgust.

"I told you from the start she wasn't good enough for you. That cold face all day long, like the whole world owed her something."

"Brenda's so much better. Considerate, sensible, and she can actually help you in your work."

Right on cue, Brenda came over carrying a plate of fruit, a meek smile on her face.

"Ma'am, please don't say that. My sister just has a strong personality."

"When she's well and comes home, I'll be sure to apologize to her properly."

Francis pulled Brenda's hand and drew her down to sit beside him.

"You did nothing wrong. You don't need to apologize to her."

"These three years were her own doing. She has no one to blame but herself."

After the party ended, Brenda followed Francis back to our marital home.

She walked into the master bedroom like she knew it by heart and pulled open the wardrobe.

She took out my favorite silk nightgown.

She changed into it right in front of Francis and spun once before the mirror.

"Mr. Henson, do I look good in this?"

Francis stood in the doorway, watching Brenda in the mirror, his gaze gone slightly distant.

He walked over and slid an arm around her waist.

"Beautiful. From now on, anything in this room, you take whatever you want."

Brenda laughed sweetly, pulled out her phone, and snapped a photo of herself in my nightgown.

She deliberately framed the wedding photo into the background, then posted it to her social media feed.

Francis saw it and said nothing.

Early the next morning, the housekeeper hurried in and handed Francis a document.

"Sir, this came from the young mistress's lawyer."

Francis frowned and tore open the envelope.

Inside was an asset-protection notice, demanding confirmation of whether I was alive or dead and the state of my marriage.

Brenda watched from the side, and her expression shifted just slightly.

She waited until Francis stepped away to take a call, then lifted the document out of his reach.

"Mr. Henson, my sister's lawyer really does love to meddle."

"She's still resting abroad. How could she be sending something like this?"

"Let me handle it. I'll have the legal department deal with them."

Francis hung up and nodded.

"Fine, you take care of it."

"Tell that lawyer, if she wants a divorce, she can keep dreaming."

Brenda walked out of the study with the document and immediately dialed an overseas number.

"Shut that lawyer up. Forge an authorization letter in Carly Fox's name."

"Change every contact address of hers to that hospital your camp recommends."

The mercenary leader's voice came through the line.

"Miss Summers, this is going to cost you double."

"That woman is stone dead. If anyone digs it up, we're all finished."

Brenda gritted her teeth.

"You'll get your money. Just do it clean."

She hung up, went back to the study, and stood meekly behind Francis.

He was staring at his computer screen when he suddenly spoke.

"Brenda, what's the word from the medical point?"

"Why hasn't Carly called me this whole time?"

Brenda's chest went tight, but she let a wronged look cross her face.

"Mr. Henson, the doctor over there says my sister was badly hurt. She's still unconscious."

"And... the mercenaries said she woke up once."

"The first thing she said was that she never wants to see you again in this life."

The hand holding the fountain pen clenched all at once, knuckles going white.

"Doesn't want to see me?"

"Who does she think she is?"

He gave a cold laugh and slammed the pen down on the desk.

"Then let her stay out there. If she's got the nerve, she can spend the rest of her life never coming back."

But that night, while sorting through a drawer in the study, Francis came across the old passport I'd left behind three years ago.

A slip of paper, gone slightly yellow, fell out of the passport's inner lining.

It was the unsent draft of a divorce agreement.

It carried only my signature, the strokes clean and decisive.

Francis stared hard at that name, his face darkening to something terrible.

He dialed his assistant.

"Look into it. Find out exactly how Carly left the country three years ago."