Chapter 1

I was the wife of Callan Drake, the man who conquered death to save me. Our love was a modern myth, and for five years, I was his most prized possession, living in a gilded cage everyone envied.

But on our fifth anniversary, I discovered his perfect devotion was a lie. He was cheating on me with his mistress, Ericka.

I followed them to a crumbling shack and heard her cruel words slice through the air.

"She's a broken toy," she whispered to him. "A barren queen who can't give you an heir."

Then I watched as he pulled her into his arms, their silhouettes twisting together in a sickening dance of betrayal. The man who had moved heaven and earth for me was giving himself to another woman.

Everything I believed in was a carefully constructed illusion. He had saved my body, but he had just killed my soul.

So that night, I gave him one last gift. While he was distracted at our anniversary gala, I left the dissolution papers on our bed and walked away forever. By midnight, I was gone.

Chapter 1

Claire Keller POV:

The silk of the dress felt like a whisper against my skin, expensive and suffocating. It was a gilded cage, and tonight was my final performance.

The grand hall of the Drake estate buzzed with frantic energy. Servants in crisp uniforms moved through the space, their movements precise, their faces set in expressions of focused efficiency. They arranged crystalline chandeliers, each facet catching the afternoon sun and scattering diamonds across the polished marble. It was a spectacle of preparation, a meticulously orchestrated ballet leading up to our fifth anniversary gala.

The air itself was thick with the scent of white lilies and fresh-cut roses, mingling with the sharper notes of expensive champagne chilling in silver buckets. Every detail was curated, every bloom placed with an almost religious reverence.

"More to the left, you imbecile!" Callan' s voice cut through the soft murmur of the preparations, sharp and unyielding. "The centerpiece must be perfectly aligned with the main archway. Do you understand 'perfect,' or do I need to illustrate it with your employment contract?"

A hush fell, then the terrified scrambling of a junior decorator. Callan demanded perfection in every aspect of his life, especially when it came to anything that touched us. He called it devotion. I used to believe him.

He was meticulous, almost obsessively so, about these events. Every year, our anniversary gala was larger, more extravagant, a public testament to his unwavering commitment. A testament to his love for me.

A new recruit, a young woman with wide, innocent eyes, watched Callan' s display of power. She leaned towards an older servant, her whisper barely audible. "Why is he so... intense about a party?"

The older servant snorted, a dry, dismissive sound. "You must be new. This isn' t 'a party.' This is the annual declaration. The affirmation."

"Affirmation of what?" The recruit still looked confused.

"Of his bond with his wife, Claire Keller, of course," the older woman said, as if stating the most obvious truth in the world. "They' ve been together for five years now, a lifetime in their circles."

She continued, weaving the familiar tapestry of our public narrative. "He adores her. Absolutely dotes. After the accident, he moved heaven and earth to save her, spending a fortune, defying everyone. She was almost lost, you know. He brought her back. She' s his entire world."

I heard the words, the same words I' d heard countless times, and a tired ache settled deep in my bones. His entire world. The irony was a bitter taste on my tongue.

Society worshipped our story. They believed in the legend of Callan Drake, the ruthless CEO who was fiercely devoted to his fragile wife. The man who defied death itself to keep her by his side.

I remembered the cold, metallic smell of ruptured fuel and scorched earth, the mangled wreckage of what was once our car. Two years ago, it had been a blur of screeching tires and shattering glass. The world had gone dark around me, a suffocating void. I was slipping away, the doctors said, a whisper of a pulse fading with each passing second.

Callan had knelt beside my hospital bed, his face a mask of primal grief. His hand, usually so commanding, trembled as he held my inert one. "Claire," he' d whispered, his voice raw, "you are my anchor. My light. I will not lose you. I cannot lose you." He' d vowed, his eyes blazing with a fierce, almost terrifying resolve, that he would turn the world upside down if he had to.

And he did. He scoured the globe, pouring billions into experimental medical care, defying every medical and ethical boundary. He found a team, a controversial one, that spoke of "cellular re-integration" and "primal essence awakening." The medical community scorned him, called him mad. They told him to let me go, that I was beyond saving, a shell.

"She is fading, Callan," the lead doctor had pleaded, his voice laced with pity. "There' s no hope. Let her pass with dignity."

Callan' s grip tightened on my hand. He looked at the doctor, his eyes turning to chips of ice. "Hope is a luxury for the weak, Doctor. I make my own hope. No one dictates what I do with my wife." His voice was a low growl, vibrating with an ancient power.

He' d poured his entire being into it, a furious, relentless pursuit of my return. He' d faced down councils, bought out research facilities, silenced detractors. He even sold off a substantial non-core asset of his empire, a move that baffled the market, all for this impossible quest. He' d announced to a stunned board, "My wife' s life is worth more than any quarterly projection."

His peers had called him obsessed, foolish, sacrificing his formidable legacy for a lost cause. They whispered of his "madness," his "weakness" for a woman from a modest background, an art curator he' d plucked from obscurity.

But Callan had merely laughed, a dark, chilling sound. He' d pulled me closer, my frail body almost weightless in his arms, and declared to the world, to anyone who would listen: "She is my destiny. My heart. And hell itself will not keep her from me." He' d meant it. Every word. He' d remained fiercely, stubbornly loyal, turning away countless advances from women who sought to exploit his "vulnerability" during my long, uncertain recovery. He was unwavering.

Then, one morning, something shifted. A faint hum vibrated through my dormant cells. A spark ignited. And as my eyes fluttered open, the first thing I saw, the only thing I recognized in the haze, was him. Callan. It was like an ancient recognition, a part of my soul calling out to his.

He had fallen to his knees, his face crumpled in raw, unadulterated ecstasy. His roar of triumph echoed through the sterile halls. He had brought me back. He had saved me.

He commanded a lavish ceremony, not just a wedding, but a full-blown public declaration of our indestructible bond. A grand, almost barbaric celebration of my return to him. And the world had watched, captivated by the story of the man who literally conquered death for love.

That' s how the myth of Callan Drake and his devoted love for Claire began. And that' s what everyone still believed.

He still demanded perfection. He still curated the image of our unbreakable bond.

My chest tightened as I watched him now, his back to me, commanding his staff. He was playing his part beautifully. And I, too, had a part to play tonight. My last one.

The new recruit was still looking at me, a flicker of awe in her eyes. I smiled, a tight, practiced smile that didn' t reach my eyes. This was the night the myth would shatter.