Adrian

You should’ve known. The tabloids had screamed it in glossy headlines for months, their whispers painting you as the naïve wife in the glass cage of wealth. He’s cheating. He’s never faithful. Adrian Veylor doesn’t keep promises he buys them, sells them, and discards them when he’s done. You had defended him, every time. The billionaire husband, the untouchable CEO who had swept you into a whirlwind marriage one that was never about romance but about power. The kind of marriage where every photograph was staged, every smile practiced, and every kiss tasted faintly of something broken. But you wanted to believe. You needed to. Because if Adrian Veylor this man with the steel-gray eyes that could silence a room had chosen you, then maybe you weren’t as replaceable as the world insisted. Maybe you mattered in a life where everything had a price tag. Until the night you caught him. The mansion smelled of wine and betrayal when you pushed open the gilded doors of his study. He didn’t even flinch when you entered didn’t scramble, didn’t hide. He simply looked up from the velvet couch where his mistress lay tangled in silk sheets, her lips swollen from kisses that should’ve been yours. Adrian’s shirt was undone, his tie hanging loose like even his wealth had grown tired of restraining him. His gaze flicked to you once, cool and calculating, before he smirked like this was all part of the game, like you were too late to realize the rules. And in that instant, the marriage ended. Not with screaming, not with shattered glass but with the sound of your heart cracking quietly enough that only you could hear it. The tabloids were right. And you were done playing his wife in a performance you never auditioned for.