Chapter 1

After seducing my husband, Brent Westwood, for three years and still being left untouched, I finally made up my mind—I was going to divorce him.

From the moment I saw him at that Westwood gala—silent, cold, untouchable—I was hooked. I tried everything to melt the ice: silk dresses, soft music, late-night talks, even love. But Brent gave me nothing, and not once did he come to our bedroom.

Then one night, I broke his only rule. I opened the locked door in the west wing—and found him there.

Shirt half open. Pants undone. One hand moving. The other holding a photograph.

Celeste. His stepsister.

He whispered her name like a secret, like a sin he didn’t want to stop.

That was the moment I died inside—and the moment I stopped begging because it was his time now to beg me to love him again.

--

After seducing my husband, Brent Westwood, for three years and still being left untouched, I finally made up my mind—I was going to divorce him.

I leaned back on the velvet chair in our bedroom, phone pressed to my ear. My voice was calm, but inside, I was shaking. Not with fear. With relief.

"I'm divorcing him," I said flatly. "I'll come home soon."

On the other end, my brother’s laugh rang loud and sharp. “About time, Layla. Come to Switzerland. I’ve already lined up a bunch of guys for you. Real men. Not like that emotionally-constipated mannequin you married.”

“Lucas…” I sighed.

“I warned you from the start,” he said, ignoring me. “You can’t tame someone like Brent. He’d rather whisper sweet nothings to a wall than touch a woman. You deserve better. Always have.”

“I thought I could make him fall for me,” I murmured. “I was wrong.”

I hung up before Lucas could say more. My fingers trembled as I dropped the phone onto the bed.

That’s when the memories came crashing in. The first time I saw Brent—at a Westwood gala—he stood in a corner, perfectly still, like a statue carved from marble. Men nodded with respect. Women stared with hunger. But he didn’t return anyone’s gaze. Not even mine.

My brother introduced me that night. Brent barely nodded. I smiled. He looked through me.

Still, I was drawn to him—obsessed, even. I told myself I could be the one to break through that wall of ice. So I tried. Subtle touches, long stares, late-night texts, silk dresses, fake laughter, honest affection. All of it, I gave to Brent. And I waited.

Three years later, he came to me. No ring. No speech. Just walked up one afternoon and said, “Let’s get married.”

I agreed without hesitation. I was foolish enough to think that meant he had finally fallen for me.

But after the wedding, Brent never came to our bedroom. Not once.

For months, I tried everything to pull him in—silk lingerie in his favorite color, slipping into his study at night just to bring him coffee in nothing but a robe. I memorized his schedule, cooked him breakfast every morning, massaged his shoulders after long meetings, hoping he’d just look at me the way a husband should. I’d light candles in our room, put on soft music, pretend to fall asleep in suggestive positions hoping he’d reach for me.

I even booked a weekend trip to the Maldives, thinking maybe a change of scenery would stir something in him. But he barely touched me.

He didn’t even notice when I cried in the shower, or how I stopped wearing perfume because he never cared to smell it.

Each time he walked past me like I wasn’t there, something inside me wilted a little more.

Then one night… I broke his only rule. There was a door in the west wing. Always locked. Always off-limits.

“Never go in there,” he said.

But I did. The room was dim. Cold. The faint scent of perfume clung to the air. Not mine.

That’s when I saw him.

Brent. Sitting in a velvet armchair, shirt half unbuttoned, trousers unzipped.

One hand… moving between his pants. The other held a photograph.

Celeste. His stepsister. His eyes were glassy, fixated. His lips parted in a shaky breath.

“Celeste…” he called softly, voice raw and needful.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stared.

It wasn’t that Brent lacked desire. He just didn’t desire me.

I left quietly and slept in the guest room that night. No tears. Just silence.

At dawn, I rose, showered, dressed, and walked out of the house. I just left to get fresh air and to prepare all the things I needed to leave him.

While I was having coffee, staring at the calm sea, he called. I didn’t answer. A few minutes later, another call. Then a text.

Brent: Where’s my navy suit? I have a meeting. You didn’t prep it. Where are you?

This time, I picked up the call.

“Layla,” Brent said curtly, already annoyed. “Where is my suit?”

I exhaled slowly. Then calmly said, “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

There was silence on the line.

“What?” he asked, voice tightening. “Are you having tantrums again? Not now! I’m busy so I need the suit—”

“I said, I don’t care. Why don’t you ask your stepsister?” I said, my tone light but deadly. “... since you only care for her.”

Then I ended the call.

Chapter 2

Brent left me missed calls and texts but I didn’t bother to read them all. I drove straight to the embassy after having my coffee. My entire family was already in Switzerland—my cousins, my aunts, and most importantly, Lucas. My brother. The only one who truly cares about me.

And me? I stayed here all this time. For Brent. For a man who wouldn’t even touch me.

I submitted the paperwork, sat through the dull conversations with officials, smiled politely, nodded when they told me processing would take a few days. Then I walked out into the California sun and didn’t feel a thing.

That night, I did something I hadn’t done in years. I called my friends.

There was an open beach bar I used to love. Loud music. Wild energy. Fire dancers and tequila shots. I used to live for it. But the moment I married Brent, I killed that part of myself.

I stopped being the life of the party and started being a wife who slept alone. Not tonight.

Two of my friends, Tasha and Myra, were down immediately.

"Layla?" Myra blinked when I stepped out of my car. "That dress is... see-through."

"It’s bold," Tasha added, mouth open. “Are you sure about wearing that? What about your husband?”

I smiled. "I’m tired. Of pretending. Of waiting. I want to feel alive again and I don’t care about that man anymore."

I headed straight for the music.

The lights pulsed over my skin. I let the beat wrap around my hips and moved like I used to—uninhibited, loud, unapologetic. Men surrounded me in minutes. Hands grazed my body. Chests brushed my back. Skin against skin. I laughed like it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t.

Not anymore.

Then someone grabbed my arm.

"Layla," Myra hissed, dragging me toward the bar. "You need to stop."

"Why?" I laughed. "Is there a rule I don’t know about?"

She looked over my shoulder. "Because Brent is here."

My whole body went still.

"What?"

Tasha pointed. "He’s been here since you walked in. Sitting there, near the bar counter. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you."

I turned. And there he was.

Brent. Leaning back against a bench, drink untouched, face unreadable.

But he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was locked on someone else.

I followed it. Celeste. His stepsister. She was laughing, flipping her hair, whispering in some guy’s ear. Her hand casually slipped a card into his pocket.

Brent stood up the second he saw it.

He crossed the sand in long, angry strides. His hand wrapped around Celeste’s wrist before the guy could even blink.

I moved closer, heart pounding. Close enough to hear.

“What are you doing?” Celeste snapped. “I was just talking with him and why are you even here? Did you follow me?”

Brent’s voice was low and sharp. “Who gave you permission to talk and flirt with that guy?”

Celeste yanked her arm free. “I’m not a baby. And since when do you care? You married that girl and disappeared. You didn’t check on me. You didn’t visit. You chose her, so stop pretending that you care!”

Brent’s jaw clenched. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice strained. “You think I didn’t care? I did, Celeste.”

“Stop.” Her eyes glistened, voice sharp. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have left me. You wouldn’t have married her.”

“I had to,” he replied. “I have a wife now. Things… they can’t be the same anymore.”

Celeste’s face twisted. Pain bloomed across her features, contorting into something darker, unrecognizable. “So I was right. It was all because of her. She’s the reason you stopped looking at me. She ruined everything.”

Brent took a step back. “Celeste—”

“No,” she spat. Her gaze snapped toward me. “If she didn’t exist, you’d still be mine.”

My breath caught. Something in her eyes shifted. A snap. A flicker of madness.

“She needs to die.”

Then it happened.

In one smooth, terrifying motion, Celeste lunged.

I barely saw her reach for it—a kitchen knife from the bar counter, tucked next to a basket of sliced limes and lemons.

Steel flashed.

Before I could react, before I could scream, she was on me.

The blade sank into my side. White-hot pain exploded through my body, sharp and consuming.

Murmurs echoed around us. A glass shattered. I stumbled backward, clutching the wound, blood already soaking through my dress… then everything went dark.

Chapter 3

I woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the hum of machines. The ceiling above me was too white, too bright. My body ached, my side throbbed, and every breath stung.

“Layla!” Myra’s voice cracked as she leaned over me, her eyes wide and teary. “Oh my god, you’re awake—thank god. We thought we lost you.”

Tasha stood behind her, clutching a cup of hospital coffee. She looked pale. “You lost a lot of blood. The knife cut deep… but no major organs were hit. The doctors stitched you up in time.”

My head was heavy, but my mind was clear. I blinked slowly. “Where’s Brent?”

Their silence was loud. Myra looked down. Tasha shifted uncomfortably.

“Where is he?” I repeated, a little stronger this time.

Myra finally spoke. “He didn’t come.”

I stared at her. “What?”

“He… went with Celeste,” Tasha said, voice flat. “Right after you passed out. Paramedics came, took you. He stayed behind—with her.”

“Stayed?” I croaked.

“He took her home,” Myra added, anger slipping into her voice. “And we thought maybe he just needed to process or something, but then… this.”

She pulled out her phone and turned the screen to me.

It was a photo. Brent and Celeste, sitting at an outdoor restaurant. She was laughing. He was feeding her something from his plate, his hand on hers. There was a shopping bag beside her chair. Designer.

“They reconciled,” Tasha said bitterly. “Brent spoiled her like nothing happened. We saw them ourselves.”

The photo blurred as my eyes welled up. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, grounding myself. I stared at the picture again. Celeste was smiling like she hadn’t stabbed me just hours ago. Brent looked… content.

I knew what I needed to do.

“Pass me my phone,” I said.

Myra hesitated. “Layla—”

“Please.”

She handed it over.

I called the police.

I gave them my full name, the hospital address, and filed an assault case. I told them what happened—that Celeste Westwood stabbed me with a kitchen knife at the bar. That it was unprovoked. That I had witnesses. That I had nearly died.

By the time I ended the call, my hand was shaking. But my voice was steady.

Later that night, the hospital room was quiet again. Myra and Tasha had gone home to rest. Nurses came and went. I stared at the IV drip, the slow tick of saline, and the dull beep of the heart monitor.

The door creaked open.

Brent.

He stepped inside with his usual perfect posture, his face unreadable.

For one moment, one pathetic heartbeat, I hoped he’d say he was sorry. That he’d ask if I was okay. That something had changed.

He didn’t.

Instead, his jaw was tight, his voice low and controlled.

“You filed a case against Celeste?”

I blinked at him. “She stabbed me.”

“She didn’t mean it,” he said sharply. “She was drunk. She wasn’t in the right mind. You know how she is—she has a temper.”

“She stabbed me, Brent.”

He looked at me like I was the problem. “You’re alive. You weren’t critically hurt. It could’ve been worse.”

I laughed, a bitter, strained sound. “That’s your response? I could’ve died.”

“She didn’t want to kill you,” he snapped. “She was upset.”

My body stiffened. “I am your wife.”

He exhaled slowly. “Even if you file a case, it won’t go anywhere. You know who our family is. I already grounded her. Took her cards. She won’t be going out for a while.”

“A credit card is not a punishment for attempted murder,” I spat.

Brent ran a hand through his hair. “Layla, don’t make this harder than it is. You need to rest. Heal.”

I tried to speak again, but he cut me off.

“I’m going abroad,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ll be gone for a few days. When I get back, I’ll bring you something. A gift. You’ll feel better.”

Then he turned and walked out.

Just like that.

He never asked how I felt. Never said sorry. Never cared.

I lay in that cold hospital bed, tears slipping silently down my cheeks. There was no warmth left. No hope.

Only the sharp, painful clarity that Brent Westwood never loved me—and never would.

Chapter 4

I spent the next few days in the hospital, hooked up to wires and machines that beeped at regular intervals. I stared at the ceiling for hours. Blank. Numb. But when I couldn’t take the silence anymore, I reached for my phone.

Notifications blinked to life. Celeste had posted.

Her Instagram was flooded—photos of luxury shopping bags, reels of her sipping champagne on a private jet. The caption: “Flying out for something special #RoyalAuction #PrincessDiana”

I blinked, stunned. The next video showed her standing in front of a glass case, dramatically clutching her chest as an auctioneer described a brooch once worn by Princess Diana.

Behind her? Brent. I watched the clip again. Brent. With Celeste. At a royal auction. Smiling. Whispering something that made her laugh like they were the only people in the world.

Meanwhile, I was lying in a hospital bed with stitches down my side and a pulse monitor beeping beside me like a ticking reminder of everything I had lost.

Another post. This time, a photo of the two of them holding hands—not romantically, but intimate nonetheless. The caption burned.

“My brother is the kindest man alive. Some people could never understand our bond. You protect me. Always. #Grateful #FamilyFirst”

My jaw tightened. I had chosen Brent over everything—my freedom, my friends, even myself. I had stayed loyal. Patient. Hopeful.

And now? He was giving all of himself to Celeste, while I rotted in silence.

Still, I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give them that.

I only needed my visa. Once it came through, I’d be gone. Out of this marriage. Out of their twisted lives.

A few days later, I was discharged.

To my surprise, Brent picked me up.

Celeste was already in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, voice loud and chipper. “Oh my god, Layla, you should’ve seen it. The auction was to die for. There were so many exclusive pieces. But that brooch—ugh, perfection. Brent almost got into a bidding war just for me.”

My stomach twisted. Brent handed me a small plastic bag as I slid into the passenger seat.

Inside was a keychain. Cheap. Souvenir-type. One of those airport ones with ‘Zurich’ written across a tin plate.

“I thought you liked collecting these,” he said without looking at me.

I stared at it. He had just bought Celeste an antique brooch worth tens of thousands. And I got… a keychain.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t even fake a smile.

The rest of the ride was quiet—except for Celeste, who kept chattering about her plans to redesign Diana’s gown for her final school project. “Brent’s going to help me get a studio,” she added smugly. “Isn’t that sweet?”

When we pulled into the driveway, Brent turned to me casually. “Celeste will be staying with us for a few days.”

I said nothing. Just got out of the car and walked straight to my room.

The second the door closed, I collapsed on the bed and shut my eyes. I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted sleep. But when I woke up a few hours later, something felt… off.

My head was lighter. My scalp was cold. I bolted to the mirror—and screamed.

My hair. My long, dark, carefully grown hair… was gone. Chopped in jagged pieces. Uneven. Butchered.

Heart pounding, I stumbled out of my room, down the stairs, searching for answers. And there she was.

Celeste, in the living room, surrounded by strands of hair—my hair—draped over mannequin heads.

She was stitching them into a wig.

“For school,” she said cheerfully, barely glancing up. “Real hair wigs are expensive. Thought I’d try something organic. Yours is perfect—so thick, so glossy.”

I snapped. The rage I’d buried all this time surged to the surface like a tidal wave. I marched forward and slapped her across the face.

Chapter 5

Her hand flew to her cheek, her eyes wide with shock—and then, like a mask peeling off, her expression shifted into something darker.

“Brent has never laid a hand on me,” she whispered. “I’ve been protected all my life. No one touches me. How dare you!”

She stepped back, heels clicking against the marble. Then, slowly and deliberately, she pulled out her phone.

“I’m gonna make you pay for it.”

Before I could process her words, the front doors opened. Two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped inside. I didn’t even know Brent kept them stationed at the house.

She ordered, “Hold her.”

“What—wait, stop!” I backed up, but the guards closed in fast. One grabbed my left arm. The other snatched my right. Their grips were tight, brutal, unyielding. I couldn’t move. “I am Brent’s wife! You don’t dare hurt me!”

Celeste laughed. “I’m his stepsister. And I’m pretty sure I’m more valuable than you are!”

The bodyguard hesitated a bit but when they followed Celeste's order, I knew that even the bodyguards knew that Celeste was more important than me.

Celeste stood in front of me now, arms crossed, her lip curled in disgust. “You thought one slap would settle things?” she said, tilting her head. “You humiliated me.”

Her hand shot out. Slap. The impact exploded across my cheek, sending a jolt of heat and pain through my skull. My head snapped to the side.

Slap. The other cheek this time. My jaw cracked. My ears rang.

She hit again. And again.

Her palm kept flying, switching sides, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing like thunderstorm. I lost count quickly. My skin burned. Then it broke. Blood trickled down my chin, and tears sprang to my eyes—not from emotion, but from sheer, sharp pain.

“Still think you're better than me?” she hissed between strikes. “Still think you can walk around like this is your house? You’re nothing, Layla. You were always nothing.”

My knees gave out, but the guards held me upright, forcing me to take it all.

My vision blurred, dark around the edges. Her face became a smear of rage, her voice a buzzing hum behind the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

By the time she stepped back, I was breathless and broken. My face throbbed like fire. My lips were split, swelling already.

She turned to the guards and casually asked, “How many?”

“One hundred, Miss Westwood,” one of them said without hesitation.

She smirked. “Good. That’s what happens when you lay a finger on me. No one touches me.”

I was still wheezing, chest rising and falling as I fought for air, when the door behind us opened again.

Brent. He stepped in and paused.

Took in the scene. Me—bloodied, restrained. Celeste—calm, unbothered.

His face didn’t change.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I could barely get the words out. “She cut my hair,” I managed, voice raspy. “Then she ordered them to hold me… and she slapped me. A hundred times. Ask them.”

Celeste didn’t flinch. “She hit me first,” she said with a shrug. “Besides—it’s just hair.”

I stared at him, desperate for anything. A sliver of concern. An ounce of protection. Something.

“She beat me, Brent. You’re really going to act like that’s nothing?”

He walked over, knelt slightly, and gently wiped a smear of blood off my chin with his sleeve like I was a child with jelly on my face.

“I’ll bring you to the hospital,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about it.”

I pulled away. “No. Don’t bother.”

“Layla—”

“I said no.” My voice didn’t crack this time. “I’ll go alone. You don’t care, so don’t bother.”

I turned, stumbling as I pulled free from the guards. No one moved. No one tried to stop me. My face burned, my body ached, and the taste of blood still coated my mouth.

I was halfway to the door when I heard his footsteps behind me.

For a second, I thought—maybe he’ll follow me.

Maybe he’d changed his mind.

Then Celeste’s voice cut through the hallway like a blade. “Brent,” she whined, cradling her hand. “My palm hurts. I think I bruised it. I slapped her too hard…”

I paused. My breath caught.

Brent didn’t even hesitate.

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see him walking toward her. He took her hand gently, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the center of her palm.

And I was again forgotten so I just walked outside. I flagged a taxi with a shaky hand, the taste of blood still in my mouth.

When I got in, the driver asked, “Hospital?”

I shook my head. “No,” I croaked. “Take me here instead.” I gave him Myra’s address.

Myra opened the door less than ten minutes later.

She winced. “Layla? What the heck—what happened to your face?!”

I didn’t explain. I didn’t have the strength. I dropped my bag inside the entryway and whispered, “Can I stay? Just until my visa arrives.”

She didn’t say a word. Just pulled me into a tight hug and let me cry against her shoulder.

The next few days blurred. Ice packs pressed to my cheeks. Warm soup. Quiet rooms. The hum of the news playing softly in the background while I stared at the wall.

I didn’t check my phone. I didn’t want to see more pictures of Brent and Celeste acting like everything was perfect. Like I hadn’t bled on their polished floors.

Then one day, a message buzzed in.

Brent: Why aren’t you at the hospital? I told you to go. Where are you?

I stared at the text. The audacity. Like I was just a name on his to-do list.

No anger. No apology. Just a reminder.

I didn’t reply. I blocked his number instead.

That same afternoon, I zipped up my bag. Checked my passport. Then I headed to the airport.

When the plane took off, I didn’t look back.

I was done breaking for people who only knew how to shatter me.

And this time—I wouldn’t be the one left behind.