It was quiet at Harrington’s mansion when the clock struck midnight. The only sound echoing was the soft rustling of curtains brushing among themselves and light footsteps trying to reach their destination, seemingly in hurry. The footsteps came to a sudden halt in front of the grand door. Pushing it open, the person moved closer to gaze at the sleeping woman in the bed.

Ophelia Harrington, the lady of the manor, lay asleep. Her breath steady as she snored softly. Unaware of the gaze on her, she shuffled around to get comfortable.

Suddenly, feeling something brush up against her leg, she jolted awake in panic. She opened her eyes in confusion and panic, frantically looking around in the dark. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized who it was.

It was Julian Harrington, her husband, who was currently trailing his hand up her leg. Not knowing whether to relax or panic more, she just laid there.

“Julian…” she tried to mumble, only to fall on deaf ears as he continued his actions. His expression was as cold as ever. Even in this intimate moment, he couldn’t be bothered to show her a hint of gentleness. In the past two years of their marriage, he had never bothered to be at home with her, to spend time with her more than a handful of times.

Ophelia’s face was pale. She bit her lip, struggling to stay awake, but her consciousness blurred into darkness. In the end, she fainted under Julian’s assault.

As the morning approached, sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, casting a soft glow on the bed. Ophelia, still in slumber, only stirred awake when the soft sunlight turned harsh. Slowly opening her eyes, she sat up looking around to find her husband. A cold, bitter laugh echoed through the walls when Ophelia realized the absence of Julian, leaving the space besides her empty. As always.

She should be used to it by now. She told herself that lie every day.

Carefully, Ophelia got up from the bed, her movements slow due to the unbearable soreness coursing through her body. She picked up the clothes from the edge of the bed and put them on. Wobbling to the bathroom, she freshened up.

The sight of herself through the mirror was unbearable, making Ophelia turn her gaze to side. With a heavy sigh, she walked out to retrieve her clothes from the closet. Just as she finished picking an outfit, she heard a slight noise behind her.

Turning around, a gasp of surprise escaped her to see Julian walk in. He was dressed in a tailored dark grey three-piece suit with a crisp light blue shirt and a dark red tie, exuding sophistication. But it wasn't his attire that surprised her, it was his presence. In two years of their marriage, Julian never came to see her before leaving for office.

“You… You’re still here?” Ophelia asked, her stuttering voice revealing shock and hint of nervousness.

Julian, utterly indifferent, handed her a bottle—cold, mechanical, like he was completing a chore rather than speaking to his wife. Subconsciously, she accepted it. Looking down at her hands, she turned the bottle around to read the words on it. ‘Contraceptive Pills’, the words read. Her head shot up to look at Julian.

“Take them.” He ordered.

“Julian… I can’t-” Ophelia began, only to be interrupted again.

“Eat it.” Julian frowned.

Ophelia’s eyes grew dim. She pursed her lips. Opening the bottle, she took one out. Picking the glass from bedside, she gulped the medicine, washing the bitter taste with water. The reason why she didn’t want to take them was because she was allergic to them. However, Julian never knew. He had never cared about her. Even if she told him, it would be useless.

Thinking their conversation ended, Ophelia turned back to head inside the bathroom. Only to be stopped short by Julian's heart-shattering words.

“Ophelia, we need to get divorced.”

The words struck her heart like a gun shot, leaving her speechless. She turned around, looking up at him in disbelief. She searched for words, but they wouldn’t come—lost somewhere between disbelief and devastation. With a lump in her throat, she fumbled helplessly, “Why…? Why now…I…Our-” Tomorrow was supposed to mark their second anniversary.

Julian’s voice was calm and indifferent. He didn’t even look at her as he spoke, interrupting her again, “Ophelia, you know that I don’t love you. I married you because I needed someone to marry, and you were willing enough. That’s all. And...”

“And...?” Ophelia spoke up, wanting him to finish his words.

“She’s back.” He completed, shamelessly.

She was back. Ophelia didn’t know who “she” was, nor did she want to. But one day, after accidentally stumbling upon Julian’s wallet, she saw her. A photo, small enough to fit in her palm but heavy enough to shatter her heart. A polaroid, proof of the betrayal she had never dared to confirm. Her husband. Kissing another woman. The ache swelled, far larger than her heart could ever bear.

Yet the betrayal was not just in the polaroid—it was in the way he held her, in the way his lips met hers with a tenderness. One that Ophelia had never known. The same way “she” was in his heart, in a place Ophelia could never reach. She had known, deep down, that Julian could never love her—not after the night she heard him whispering “her” name in his sleep.

Her mind raced back to their wedding day, to the vows spoken and the promises that now felt like lies. But Julian didn’t hesitate. He pulled away, his voice cold and detached.

“You can ask for as much money as you want.”

Ophelia’s hand froze mid-air, her breath hitching. She blinked, dazed, trying to process his words. “So that’s how you see me?” she whispered, voice barely steady. “A gold-digger?”

Had he really believed she married him for money?

Julian frowned. Wasn’t that it? In the two years they had been married, he had never truly seen Ophelia. Never cared enough to try. She was just there—a quiet presence in the background, a name on paper, someone who never pushed back. He had assumed that the comfort of luxury was enough for her, that the extra credit card and the seamless life he provided were all she had ever wanted. He had never bothered to ask. Never needed to.

He exhaled, already bored of the conversation. “The house in the suburbs will be under your name. You can pack up and go to the courthouse this afternoon to finalize the divorce—I’ve already registered the paperwork.” His voice was calm, detached. Almost transactional.

“But Julian, please—” Ophelia tried to argue, her voice cracking.

Then his phone rang. Sharp. Disruptive. Without hesitation, Julian reached for it, his demeanor shifting in an instant. His fingers curled around the device with purpose, and as soon as he saw the caller ID, his expression softened—something Ophelia had never witnessed in their two years of marriage.

"Hello, darling…" His voice was warm now, disturbingly gentle. "Yes, we’ve already agreed. And you? Good girl, I’ll be right there."

The words twisted like a knife in Ophelia’s chest.

Without another glance at her, Julian pocketed his phone and strode away, leaving behind only silence and the weight of a goodbye he hadn’t cared enough to say.

Ophelia stood frozen, staring at the doorway Julian had just walked through. The air felt heavy, pressing against her chest. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed onto the cold floor. Panic set in as her breath came in short gasps—too shallow, too fast. No matter how desperately she tried to inhale, it felt as though the walls themselves were closing in, suffocating her.

Her wailing echoed through the manor, chilling the servants to the bone.

One of the maids rushed into her room, wide-eyed with concern. She dropped to her knees beside Ophelia, attempting to console her, but words felt useless against such raw devastation. The woman who had always been composed—the graceful, kind lady of the house—now trembled, unrecognizable.

After an eternity, Ophelia’s sobs quieted. The maid hesitated, casting a worried glance at her face. But Ophelia barely seemed present; something had fractured within her.

She rose abruptly, grabbing her phone and purse before sweeping out of the room. The maid followed quickly, alarmed by the frenzied way Ophelia moved—like a storm ripping through the stillness.

Ignoring the voices calling after her, she descended the stairs in a reckless blur, pushing past servants, past the threshold of the mansion, into the open world beyond.

“Madam, are…are you okay? Where are you going?” a servant dared to ask, worry threading through her voice.

Ophelia’s answer was barely a whisper, hoarse and distant with a weary smile. Even now, trying to be polite to people around her. “I’m fine. I’m going out alone.”

She wandered aimlessly through the streets, lost in a haze of grief. Staying in that house meant suffocating, drowning in the ghosts of everything she had endured.

Was there ever a time Julian saw her—truly saw her?

Ophelia stumbled forward, her legs carrying her through the streets, though she wasn’t sure where. The world around her blurred, faceless figures moving past, whispers of laughter and conversation lost to the hollow ringing in her ears.

How had she become so insignificant?

She had loved him. Had loved him. Had tried to be enough, to fit into the fragile mold he never bothered to shape for her. But she had never been the woman whose name slipped from his lips in sleep. Never been the arms he sought, the gaze he longed for.

She wasn’t her, she smiled through tears. Yes, it was because she wasn't her.

A soft wind brushed against her skin, but it did nothing to warm the ice pooling in her veins. Each step felt heavier, as if she carried the weight of a love that had never existed, a love she had crafted in her mind like an artist painting a masterpiece of lies.

What a fool she had been.

She had convinced herself that if she stayed, he might one day turn to her and truly see her, truly love her. That maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t remain a shadow in his life, a name he had signed on a marriage certificate out of necessity rather than desire.

Her fingers tightened around her purse as her breath hitched.

She wanted to scream—to claw at her chest and demand the universe explain why her love had never been enough. Why she had bent, broken, shattered into pieces for a man who had never even glanced down to see the fragments she left behind.

And now, all that remained of her marriage was a void.

A name on a house deed. A shattered heart. A love discarded with as much care as an unwanted gift.

She had no home anymore.

No future to hold onto.

Nothing but this suffocating ache that swallowed her whole as she wandered through the streets, lost in a world that had never cared enough to stop for her.

Then her phone buzzed. The sudden vibration startled her, halting her steps.

A picture.

Ophelia hesitated but tapped to open it.

A couple.

A slender woman clinging to a man, the two entwined in an intimate embrace.

Her heart clenched with unbearable force.

She bit down hard on her lips, trying to silence the sob rising in her throat. The taste of iron flooded her mouth.

Everything blurred—her surroundings, her thoughts, her sense of self. She didn’t see the curb as she stepped forward.

The truck’s horn blared.

Someone screamed, “Watch out!”

Impact.

The front bumper struck her, sending her airborne. A sickening thud followed as she crashed onto the pavement.

Gasps filled the air. Tires screeched.

Ophelia laid still.

Her phone laid beside her. Screen cracked, message still open.

Ophelia barely felt the pain—because, in that moment, she realized she had already been shattered long before the truck ever touched her.