A villa nestled halfway up the mountain. Serene. Elegant. Every corner breathed tranquility.
Just like the image Aiden projected to the world.
Cold. Ascetic. Untouchable.
Who would ever guess that this saint played dirtier than anyone behind closed doors?
I sat on the sofa, staring at the calligraphy hanging on the wall—brushstrokes Aiden had painted himself.
"Inner Peace."
The irony was suffocating.
Aiden and I had been secretly married for three years.
He was the one who'd proposed.
Back then, he'd braved a downpour just to buy me chestnut cake, coming home soaked to the bone.
He'd fumbled through making me brown sugar tea when my period cramps hit, clumsy but trying.
He'd said: "Miranda, I might not be able to give you the grandest wedding in the world. But I can give you all of my love."
I believed him.
I thought I was special.
I thought I was the only one who'd ever pulled him down from his pedestal.
Now I see the truth. I was nothing but a diversion in his boring life. A docile, obedient maid who came whenever he called.
No—not even a maid.
At least a maid wouldn't have a champagne glass hurled at her feet in public, wouldn't be spat at as "a blind little nobody."
Three in the morning.