Chapter 3

Vincent said, "Get in." The dim underground parking garage echoed with his voice—cold, sharp. The tenderness he always showed me had completely vanished. He shoved Madison roughly into the back seat. Then, he climbed in after her and slammed the door shut. Neither of them came out again. I stayed just a short distance away, hidden in the shadows, clutching my phone. I connected it to the car's internal surveillance feed. As the live footage and audio came through, I slowly began wheeling myself back toward the building, inch by inch. … "I thought you were mad at me today. Yet, here you are," Vincent said as he leaned over her, his voice laced with amusement. "I missed you. I knew you had to be with Alison today, but I still felt so abandoned. You promised you'd take me to the beach… and then you just vanished all afternoon." Madison pouted, tears shimmering in her wide eyes. She looked like she was crying, but her fingers dug greedily into the bare skin of his back. Red scratches, still fresh, lined his body—marks from the night before. The night they had spent together hadn't just been passionate. It had been ruthless. "Madison, stop crying. Take it off. Now," Vincent ordered, voice low and commanding. She looked up at him like he hung the moon. One piece of clothing at a time, she obeyed. I didn't return to my room right away. Instead, I sat in a dark, empty corridor like a thief, clutching my phone and spying on them through the hidden camera. It wasn't long before their breathing turned ragged, their voices melting into moans. Vincent gripped her tightly, kissing her like he couldn't get enough. "I love you, Vincent. I'd suffer anything for you," she whispered. "I love you, too, you silly girl. So damn much." I hit record. Then, I rolled myself back to the hospital room, slipped off my earbuds, and stopped listening. I had heard enough. … Later that night, the doctor, Laura Sutton, came by on rounds. She frowned at the half-lit room and the empty visitor chair. "Where's your husband? He was here earlier, right? Why did he leave so soon?" she asked. I gave her a tired smile and asked quietly, "Dr. Sutton, I've changed my mind. I don't want to have the baby anymore. How soon can I be discharged?" She hesitated for a moment, gave me a date, then turned and walked out without another word. Vincent never came back that night. … By morning, the door creaked open. He stood there, rumpled and exhausted, his shirt misbuttoned and the faint smell of perfume clinging to his collar. "Ali, I'm sorry. Something urgent came up at the company. After I finished, I didn't want to wake you, so I stopped by the house first." By now, lying came as naturally to him as breathing. Staring at the man who had once felt like he was a part of my very soul, I could almost hear my heart drop—like it had been shoved off a cliff built from years of love, crashing into an endless, merciless void. "Oh, right, I brought you some clean clothes. Why don't you change into something fresh?" He pulled out a bag and offered a casual apology as he continued, "You had a new dress, right? I accidentally ruined it, so I threw it out. Buy a new one when you're free. I'll cover it." I smiled and nodded. "Sure." Vincent wasn't willing to go to the office, yet his phone kept buzzing with call after call. … After being woken up for the fifth time by his ringer, I finally opened my eyes and murmured, "You should go in. Don't worry about me." Only then did he let out a sigh of relief, leaned down to kiss my forehead, and left reluctantly. Once he left, I stayed in bed and made a call. A few minutes later, every detail about Madison appeared in my inbox. Her Instagram handle was "Princess Maddy", with the bio reading, "Every day with my Vince". She had hundreds of posts detailing her "life in love"—trips abroad, designer handbags, and heels. The innocent intern who had once stood before me—in her denim skirt, white blouse, and sneakers—hid a completely different side behind the scenes, surrounded by luxury brands and dressed like a pampered sugar baby in tight designer dresses. In every photo she posted with Vincent, their faces were covered with emoji stickers. The two of them had been posting about their secret romance for over half a year. Over five hundred posts, every single one about her and the wealthy boyfriend she was "in love" with. She even had a decent following—over a hundred thousand. The earliest post? It was dated on my birthday. "He was drunk, so I stole a kiss. He didn't push me away. He said I was cute." That same night, Vincent had come home and pulled me into bed, whispering over and over that we should try again. That he wanted a child with me. My lips twitched bitterly as I scrolled to her latest update. There it was. The dress he said he had ruined and thrown away—she was wearing it. It wasn't just any dress. It was a gift from Vincent after I had spent half a year recovering from a miscarriage—the second one. To me, it was a symbol of grief, of loss, of healing. It was meant to be the one thing I kept as a memory of the child who never made it. I had never even worn it—not even once. Not just because it was the most expensive piece of clothing I owned, but because of what it represented. I had stored it at the back of my closet, hidden, safe. There was no way he found it by accident or casually "ruined" it. I opened the surveillance footage from last night—the in-car camera. I skipped ahead to the end. Vincent's voice was low and calm as he drove Madison, whose torn dress was barely hanging on, back to the villa. "Why can't I come in?" she pouted. "Alison's sharp. Don't make a scene." Madison's eyes welled up with tears, clearly upset, until Vincent pulled out my most precious dress for her. She obviously knew what that dress meant. Suddenly, her mood brightened. Still, in her black stockings, she lifted one foot and teasingly brushed it along Vincent's jawline, her voice sultry. "Then, help me put it on." "You were real quick to take it off last night. Lost your patience now?"