Chapter 2

The secret of our marriage was built on a foundation of lies, a fact I had learned all too well. The day he proposed, he had laid out his conditions with a chilling clarity that should have been a red flag.

"Our marriage will be private," he had stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. "There will be no public announcement. To the world, we are not connected." He wanted a wife, but only within the walls of his mansion, a silent partner in a life that was not truly shared. At the time, I was so blinded by love that I agreed to everything. I thought his desire for privacy was just part of his personality. I believed my love and devotion would eventually melt his cold exterior.

I was a fool.

For three years, I played the part of the perfect, invisible wife. I managed his home, I organized his life, I waited up for him every night, but I was a ghost in my own marriage. He was polite, distant, and provided for me financially, but there was no affection, no intimacy, no real connection. We were two strangers living in the same house.

The final straw came a month ago. Emily Carter, having fully resettled in the city, had rejoined Mark's firm. His joy was palpable. He started coming home later, smelling of her perfume. He smiled more, but never at me. He was alive again, vibrant and full of energy, all for her.

One evening, driven by a desperate need for the truth, I ventured into a locked room in the west wing of the mansion. I had always been told it was for storage, that the key was lost. I found a spare key hidden in his study. What I saw inside shattered the last of my illusions.

The room wasn't for storage. It was a shrine to Emily. The walls were covered with portraits he had painted of her over the years. Emily laughing, Emily reading, Emily looking out a window. In the center of the room, on an easel, was a new, unfinished painting of her, a look of serene happiness on her face. It was a room filled with a love so profound it was suffocating. My marriage wasn't just a facade; it was a placeholder. I was keeping his bed warm until the real owner returned.

That night, I wept until I had no tears left. When the sun rose, my grief had hardened into a cold, unbreakable resolve. I would not spend one more day as a substitute for another woman. I would get my freedom.

Now, with his signature secured on that blank piece of paper, my plan was in motion. Back at Olivia' s apartment, we carefully positioned the paper in her printer. Olivia, my best and only true friend, held her breath as I aligned the text of the divorce agreement I had drafted. The words had to fall perfectly around his signature.

"Are you sure about this, Sarah?" Olivia asked, her brow furrowed with worry. "This is fraud. If he finds out..."

"He won' t," I said, my voice steady. "He is so consumed with Emily, he doesn' t see anything else. He doesn' t see me."

I pressed the print button. The machine whirred to life, pulling the paper through. It emerged seconds later, a legally binding document. The typed clauses of our separation agreement now sat neatly above the bold, black ink of his name: Mark Davis. It was done.

The next step was to erase myself from his house. I started that very evening. I began in my closet, packing away the clothes he had bought me, the jewelry he had gifted me on birthdays and anniversaries without a second thought. Each item was a painful reminder of a life that was never truly mine. I packed them into boxes, labeling them carefully.

Mark came home late, as he always did now. He walked past my room without a glance, his mind clearly elsewhere. I heard him on the phone, his voice animated and happy. I didn't need to guess who he was talking to.

A few days later, he found me in the library, packing up my books. He paused in the doorway, a rare flicker of curiosity on his face.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Just some spring cleaning," I replied calmly, not looking up from the box I was filling. "Getting rid of a few things I no longer need."

He seemed to accept the answer, his attention already drifting. He walked over to a small, ornate box on the mantelpiece. It was a music box I had cherished since childhood, a gift from my late mother. He picked it up, a strange expression on his face.

"This is an ugly little thing, isn't it?" he remarked, his tone casual. He hadn't even realized it was mine, that it held any sentimental value. To him, it was just another object in his house. "I should have the maids throw it out."

He placed it back on the mantelpiece, his back to me. The casual cruelty of his words didn't even register to him. For me, it was just another confirmation. I had to leave. He was not just neglectful; he was unintentionally erasing every part of me.

He turned back to me, his expression suddenly focused. "By the way, that paper I signed for you the other day. The one for your calligraphy practice. My assistant said it looked like a very expensive brand of legal paper. It seemed odd."

My blood ran cold. My heart hammered against my ribs. He was getting suspicious. I was caught.

Before I could formulate a reply, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, and his face instantly softened. "Emily," he said, his voice dropping to that familiar, gentle tone. "Is everything alright?... You' re at the hospital? What happened? I' m on my way."

He hung up and rushed past me without another word, his brief suspicion about the paper completely forgotten. He didn't even say goodbye. He just left, his world once again revolving entirely around Emily. I stood there, surrounded by boxes, a ghost in a house that was never my home. The fear subsided, replaced by a hollow emptiness. It was a constant, painful reminder. For Mark, I would always come second.