Chapter 1

I married my sister’s broke boyfriend.

Everyone in our social circle laughed at me. They said I was an idiot for throwing away my chance at a high-society marriage just to pick up Vivian’s trash.

For three years, I stayed by his side. We struggled through the dirt, and I watched him climb from a nobody to the city’s hottest new tech mogul.

But then, the rumors started. Flirty influencers began buzzing around him, and I found a bright red lipstick stain inside his suit pocket.

Without a word, I handed him the divorce papers.

But Liam ripped them into shreds. With bloodshot eyes, he pinned me against the wall, his voice shaking: "Tell me the truth, Clara—"

"Did you only marry me because my face looks exactly like your dead first love?"

My phone screen lit up just as I was balancing this month’s household accounts.

Liam’s name popped up with a single text:

“Late business dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.”

My finger hovered over the clear button on my calculator, unable to press down.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky was pitch black. A heavy rain was about to fall, making the air stifling.

This penthouse was located in the most expensive tech district in the city. The soundproofing was too good. It was so quiet that I could hear my own shallow, anxious breathing.

How many times had he stayed out late this month? Five? Six?

It didn’t use to be like this.

Three years ago, I took all the savings I had—money I’d spent years scraping together to open a small flower shop—and pushed the check across the table to Liam.

He stared at me, his dark eyes deep and unreadable, like an endless cold abyss.

"Clara," he called my name, his voice flat and emotionless. "Think carefully. If you stay with me, you’ll be eating dirt for a long time."

I looked down, avoiding his eyes, my fingers curling tightly under the cold wooden table.

"I couldn’t just watch your startup go under," I said, my voice dry.

At that time, he had just been kicked out of our house by my status-obsessed father, Arthur.

Along with Liam’s pride, Arthur had crushed his years of hard work, stealing his tech project right before it could launch.

My half-sister, Vivian, was supposed to be the tragic heroine of their love story.

But after crying a few dramatic tears about "having no choice," she quickly moved on. My father set her up with a billionaire heir, and she didn't look back.

Then came the "accident." A setup where Liam and I were caught in the same bed by the paparazzi.

Vivian cried like a victim. My father went ballistic, pointing his finger at my face, calling me a shameless slut who seduced her sister’s man.

I stood tall, taking the insults in silence.

The result? I, Clara Miller—the neglected, forgotten older daughter—was forced to marry the broke boyfriend who had nothing left but his pride and a ruined project.

The wedding was pathetic.

No one from my family showed up.

On Liam's side, there were only a few struggling friends.

When he slipped the simple silver band onto my finger, his hands were freezing. His eyes were even colder.

There was no hug. No kiss.

The officiant awkwardly tried to laugh it off, saying, "The groom must be nervous!"

But I knew he wasn’t nervous.

It was a mix of humiliation, resentment, and a cold acceptance of his fate.

He needed money. He needed seed funding. And I had handed it to him, along with the title of his wife.

Even if that title was born from a trap and built on a lie.

Our marriage ran like a clock.

He basically lived at the office, working day and night. I quit my easy but dead-end receptionist job and got a high-paying, exhausting corporate gig to pay for our rent and groceries.

We shared the same bed, but we slept on opposite sides, leaving a massive, cold gap between us.

For the first six months, he barely touched me.

On the rare occasions he did, it felt like he was just fulfilling a duty. He was distant and overly polite.

In the dark, I would keep my eyes open, listening to his steady breathing, feeling entirely empty inside.

When did things start to change?

Probably after his company secured its first major round of venture capital.

He still came home late, but he smelled less of cheap alcohol.

The exhaustion on his face was replaced by a sharp, commanding edge.

The way he looked at me changed, too. It was no longer pure ice. Sometimes, he would study me, trying to figure me out.

Then, he started giving me money. A lot of it.

He gave me black cards with no limit. Personal shoppers from luxury brands would text me, saying Mr. Vance had ordered the latest collection for me.

We moved into a massive house—this very penthouse.

He got me a private chauffeur, so I didn't have to squeeze onto the subway anymore.

Materially, he gave me a life of luxury that my father had never allowed me to have.

But we spoke even less.

At dinner, the only sound was the clinking of forks against plates.

"Busy day?" I would ask.

"Fine."

"Is the new project going well?"

"Yes."

And then, silence.

He didn't need my meager salary anymore, so I quit my job. I became the perfect "Mrs. Vance."

I spent my days in a hollow, professionally cleaned penthouse.

I balanced bills we had more than enough money to pay, and I attended charity galas with other high-society wives.

At those parties, I was always the quiet one who didn't fit in.

They talked about diamonds, yacht trips, and vacations in Europe.

Eventually, the gossip would crawl back to Liam.

"You're so lucky, Clara. Liam is so young and successful, and he spoils you so much."

"Right? I heard he just bought that prime real estate downtown. Incredible."

"But... Clara, can I give you some advice?" someone would whisper, leaning in with fake sympathy. "My husband saw Liam at a private lounge last week. There was a very pretty secretary next to him. She was practically throwing herself at him..."

My fingers would tighten around my delicate teacup, but I forced a calm smile.

"Is that so? He's busy. He has a lot of dinners. It's normal for his assistant to be there."

Was it normal?

I didn’t know.

All I knew was that the scent of cologne on Liam's shirts would occasionally change to brands I didn't recognize.

And once, I found a tissue in his suit pocket. It had a bright red lipstick smudge on it.

He started coming home in the middle of the night more and more.

Sometimes, beneath the smell of whiskey, there was a sweet, feminine perfume that didn’t belong to me.

I had been "Mrs. Vance" for three years.

I watched him rise from a broke kid to the man he was today.

He stood at the top of the world now, surrounded by applause, money, and endless temptation.

And me? I was just a pawn on his chessboard from the very beginning. A temporary, useless piece.

Now that he had won the game, was it time for me to leave?

A sharp, stabbing pain bloomed in my chest.

My phone buzzed again. It was a celebrity gossip alert. The headline was loud:

“Tech Billionaire Liam Vance Spotted with Mystery Woman at Late-Night Lounge. New Romance?”

I didn’t click it.

I didn’t even look at the blurry photo of the woman.

It didn’t matter anymore.

Whoever she was, it didn’t matter.

For three years, I had played my part perfectly. I had been the loyal wife.

I had guarded a cold home and a hopeless marriage.

I thought time would change things.

I thought, eventually, he would stop seeing me as "Vivian's sister" and finally see me—Clara.

But I was wrong.

Some things are broken from the start.

A substitute is just a substitute.

I turned off my phone, stood up, and walked to the window.

The glass reflected my pale, hollow face.

Outside, the rain finally poured, heavy drops slamming against the glass, tearing down like tears.

Let’s end this.

This three-year, one-sided show was finally over.