Chapter 2

Five years passed in a comfortable, quiet rhythm.

I filled my days in the sun-drenched studio Liam had built for me, a space painted in a deep, vibrant cerulean blue of my own choosing. My art evolved, my canvases grew larger, and I even began to sell a few pieces under a pseudonym. I was happy, or something close to it. The lines between my role as a substitute and my own identity had started to blur. Liam and I settled into a peaceful coexistence. He was often away on business, but when he was home, he was a quiet, stable presence.

The foundation of our relationship remained transactional in my mind, but the imitation game had long since ended. I was just Ava now.

Then, one Tuesday, the rhythm broke. Liam was supposed to be home from a trip to Singapore. His flight had landed hours ago, but the house remained empty and silent. I called his phone, but it went straight to voicemail. An unfamiliar unease settled in my stomach.

I waited in the living room, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking away the minutes, then the hours. Eventually, exhaustion won, and I fell asleep on the sofa.

I was woken by a gentle touch on my cheek. Liam was kneeling beside me, his face illuminated by the soft moonlight. He looked tired, but his eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that was rare for him. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he whispered. "The meeting ran long."

In that quiet, intimate moment, with the house still and the world outside asleep, I knew I had to do it. The comfortable routine had become a cage, and Chloe's name, which I had heard whispered among the staff, was the key.

I sat up, pulling away from his touch.

"Liam," I said, my voice clear in the silence. "Let's get a divorce."

He froze. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar, chilling coldness. "We've been over this, Ava. I'm not discussing this."

"This time is different," I said, standing up to face him. "She's back. And she's not just at parties anymore. She's in our life. In my space."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" I challenged. "Chloe Miller. Your new 'secretary.' The one who told the housekeeping staff that my art studio was being 'repurposed' and had all of my canvases and supplies moved into storage. The one who is currently using my studio, my sanctuary, as her personal office."

The color drained from Liam's face. He looked genuinely, completely stunned. For a man who was always in control, the look of sheer bewilderment was startling.

"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"I went to my studio this afternoon. My key didn't work. The security guard told me Mr. Hayes had given orders that only his new secretary, Ms. Miller, was to have access."

A storm of fury gathered in Liam's eyes. It was a raw, unrestrained anger I had never seen directed at anyone but himself. He pulled out his phone, his fingers jabbing at the screen with brutal efficiency.

"Get Mark on the line. Now," he snarled into the phone. Mark was the head of his personal security and estate management.

A moment later, he was yelling. "Who the hell is Chloe Miller? And why is she in my house? Why is she in my wife's studio?"

I could hear the faint, panicked sputtering of the man on the other end.

Liam's voice dropped to an icy whip-crack. "She told you what? That she was an old friend I hired? Did you verify that with me? Did you? No? Then you're an idiot. Get her out of my house. Right now. I want her and everything she brought with her on the street in the next ten minutes. And Mark? You're fired."

He hung up without waiting for a reply and immediately dialed another number.

"It's me. I want you to do a full background check on a woman named Chloe Miller. Yes, that one. I want to know everything she's been doing for the past five years... And I want her blacklisted. From every industry. I don't want her to be able to get a job as a janitor in this city. Understood?"

He ended the call and stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. The silence was thick with his rage. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a crack in his armor. I saw vulnerability.

"Ava," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I am so sorry. I was in back-to-back meetings in Singapore for three days straight. My phone was off. I had no idea. I swear to you, I had no idea she was even in the country, let alone trying to pull a stunt like this."

He took a hesitant step towards me. "I never hired her. She must have lied to Mark, used our old connection to fool him."

I watched him, my mind processing this new information. His anger seemed genuine. His shock was undeniable. This wasn't the reaction of a man welcoming his old flame back into his life. This was the reaction of a man whose sanctuary had been violated.

I decided to push one last time, to test the foundation of this new reality.

"Do you still have feelings for her, Liam?" I asked, my voice soft.

He looked at me as if I had just struck him. The anger in his face melted away, replaced by a look of profound hurt.

"Feelings for her?" he repeated, his voice cracking. "Ava, she's a ghost. A memory of a foolish boy I used to be. You... you are my wife. You are the lady of this house. There is no one else."

He closed the distance between us, taking my hands in his. His were trembling slightly.

"I know I haven't been... a proper husband," he admitted, looking down at our joined hands. "I know our beginning was unconventional. But somewhere along the way, this stopped being a transaction for me. That studio... it's your space. No one has the right to enter it but you."

I looked into his eyes, searching for the lie, for the deception. I found none. All I saw was a sincerity that was so raw, so unexpected, it left me breathless.

In that moment, I made a decision. I would stop being a substitute. I would stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. I would try. I would be his wife, in truth and in name.

I squeezed his hands. "I believe you, Liam."

A wave of relief washed over his face, so palpable it was almost a physical thing. He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest. I could feel the frantic beating of his heart.

"Thank you," he whispered into my hair.

That night, for the first time in five years, we didn't just share a bed. We made love. There was a desperation in his touch, a hunger to erase the doubt and reaffirm his claim. And for the first time, I let myself respond, not as an actress playing a part, but as Ava. It felt like a new beginning, a fragile seed of hope planted in the rocky soil of our marriage.