Chapter 2 Too Perfect

After giving her statement, Helena finally left the police station. The sky had long since turned dark, and the streetlamps were glowing like distant embers against the night.

The cool air brushed her face. She reached for her phone. Several missed calls from Bryson lit up the screen.

Since she hadn't answered his calls, he had sent her messages.

"I was in a meeting this afternoon. The signal was blocked, so I wasn't able to answer your calls. Is everything okay?"

"By the way, I have a business dinner tonight. I'll be back late. I promise you, there won't be any women there."

"Rest early, okay? Don't wait up for me."

Helena stared at the words on the screen. The messages seemed thoughtful and reassuring, but she felt nothing but a profound chill settle in her heart.

Bryson did not return home until the middle of the night.

Helena lay awake, her eyes open, listening as his unsteady footsteps dragged across the floor. He reeked of alcohol. The sharp smell clung to him as he stumbled inside. But even through the haze of liquor, she caught something else.

A faint scent of perfume that was not hers.

"Helena..." Bryson staggered over to the bed. He pulled back the covers to hold her and murmured, "I've missed you..."

Helena said nothing. She lay still, listening to his uneven breathing. Minutes passed slowly. She waited until his body went slack and his breathing became steady before she sat up. She reached over, took his phone from beside him, and unlocked it without a sound.

She scrolled through all his social accounts and searched. Messages, call logs, social apps. However, she could not find a single suspicious message.

His contacts were filled with coworkers, business partners, and familiar friends. And there, among them, her own number was still saved as "Honey."

It was his only pinned contact.

Everything was impossibly perfect.

Just like her two-year marriage, it looked perfect on the surface, polished to the point of seeming unreal.

From the outside, it was like an exquisitely decorated cake covered in thick frosting. It looked smooth and sweet. But the deeper one cut, the more one found what was hidden underneath-something rotten.

If that was the case, she wanted neither the cake nor the marriage.

The next morning, when Helena woke up, she went downstairs to the dining room. Bryson was in the kitchen making breakfast, wearing an apron like a devoted husband. His broad shoulders and lean physique were, for anyone else, quite pleasing to the eye.

Helena stared at his back, her gaze steady and unblinking.

The Davies family could certainly afford maids. But ever since Helena had been poisoned years ago as the result of a business conflict that involved the Davies, Bryson had insisted on cooking for her himself. He had said it was safer that way and that he could not trust anyone else with what she ate.

In fact, he had learned to cook entirely for her sake. At first, he had been awkward, clumsy with knives and pans, and burning simple dishes. He then spent hours in the kitchen every day, perfecting meals and adjusting flavors until everything was just right.

A privileged heir from Daxwell's elite circles, standing over a stove each day, all so his wife could eat meals that were clean and safe. In less than two months, he had gone from a kitchen novice to a great chef.

If it were in the past, Helena would have been moved by his gestures. Now, she only watched, and the warmth that had once been in her eyes was gone.

The next moment, Bryson's phone rang.

Helena had never been in the habit of checking his phone. She had never wanted to be that kind of woman. However, the look of unease that crossed Bryson's face as he stepped out of the kitchen to get his phone did not escape her notice. His jaw tightened for a second before he smoothed his expression again.

Without a word, Helena turned away. She went to get water as if she hadn't noticed anything at all.

By the time she returned, the breakfast Bryson had prepared was already laid out neatly on the table.

But instead of sitting down to have a meal with her, he hurriedly grabbed his suit jacket from the coat rack and said, "Something came up at the company. It's urgent. I have to go now. Eat up, alright?"

Helena looked at him and replied evenly, "Go ahead."

The words were colder than usual. In the past, she might have asked him what was wrong with concern in her eyes. But Bryson seemed too preoccupied to notice. His mind was already elsewhere. Without another word, he opened the door and left.

The silence that followed was heavy. Helena didn't move for a moment, staring at the untouched breakfast. The plates were still warm, the meal carefully prepared, but she didn't have any appetite at all. She only took a sip of the water she had just poured. Then, she picked up her phone and dialed a number.

When the line connected, she spoke in a clear voice. "I'll participate in the research project you've mentioned before."

The voice on the other end sounded pleasantly surprised. There was a brief pause, as if the person wanted to be sure they had heard her correctly. Once they were sure they hadn't misheard, they began explaining the details of the project. They talked about timelines, expectations, and the scope of the work. After a while, the voice on the other end softened. "Helena, you told me before you were getting married and wanted to be a housewife, and that's why you gave up all your career pursuits. Have you finally had a change of heart?"

At that, Helena's grip tightened around the phone, and her eyes grew cold.

Her home had been full of cracks for years. It was only because she had chosen to forgive Bryson again and again that she had managed to keep living in peace. Now, every time she thought of what she had seen in Bryson's office, it felt like tearing open her wound.

The person on the phone was her former university mentor, someone who had once guided her with patience and belief. They were returning to the country soon and preparing to assemble a team for a new development project.

Still, before leaving for the project, Helena had one important thing left to do.

That evening, she dressed herself inconspicuously, choosing plain clothes and a simple coat. Then, she went to a private auction near the docks.

She stepped inside with steady resolve. She was there to bid on one of her father's belongings.

Her parents had both died in a car accident when she was fifteen. Not long after their passing, the Jones family's assets were seized and auctioned off by the courts. It had felt like being stripped twice: first, of the people she loved, then, of everything they had left behind. Over the years, she had worked hard. She built her own life piece by piece, earning her place and name. And with her earnings, she had gradually managed to buy back the items that had once been her parents'.

She had carefully investigated this auction. One of the lots was an emerald sculpture her father had bought to cheer her up when she was a child.

The sculpture was a piece of high-quality carved gemstone. It was rare and meticulously crafted, the kind of object meant to last for generations.

She could still remember the day her father brought it home. She could see his smile as clearly as if it were yesterday. For a moment, she closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath. When she opened them again, the resolve in them was firm. She had to win the bid today, no matter what it cost. She could not let that piece of her father slip away from her.

Helena found a seat toward the middle, close enough to the stage. Then, she picked up the auction catalog and slowly flipped through its pages.

Unexpectedly, a familiar voice came from beside her.