Their third wedding anniversary.

Sylvia Dalton had baked the cake herself. Then she picked up the gift she’d ordered half a month in advance and headed to the snooker club in the east of the city.

The doorman recognized her right away and bent respectfully. "Mrs. Hartwell, Mr. Hartwell is in Room Three."

She nodded. Before she even reached the door, a burst of cheering rolled out first.

"Nice shot—!"

"147! It’s really 147! Mr. Hartwell’s maximum break was insane!"

Sylvia’s steps stalled.

Through the half-open door, she saw Ethan Hartwell straightening up, unhurriedly rubbing chalk onto the tip of his cue.

The light fell across his shoulders. The fitted black shirt made his frame look even sharper, his shoulders straight and clean-cut. His expression stayed cool and distant, like the man who’d just cleared the table in one go and crushed last year’s club champion, Leo Zane, wasn’t even him.

"I’m outclassed, Mr. Hartwell. Seriously, I can’t believe you only play this casually!" Leo gave a bitter laugh and shook his head in surrender.

The room burst into applause.

Then, from the crowd, a graceful figure moved first.

Nadia Holt, the hottest Best Actress in town right now, walked up in a wine-red gown, smiling like a blooming flower. Right in front of everyone, she rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to Ethan’s cheek.

"Ethan, congrats."

The whole billiards room instantly exploded. Whistles, teasing, and hooting came one after another.

"Mr. Hartwell, what a life!"

"A kiss from the award-winning queen herself? That treatment is literally one of a kind in all Rosehaven!"

Ethan didn’t push her away.

His thin lips pressed together slightly, then curved into a faint smile. "I won this title for you."

"Oh, stop it." Nadia smiled shyly and threw herself into his arms.

Sylvia stood outside the door, her fingers tightening little by little, the ribbon on the gift box cutting into her palm.

Today was their third wedding anniversary.

And her husband was here, taking in a room full of praise for another woman, accepting another woman’s kiss.

She’d thought she would storm in, question him, lose control like every wife who caught her husband red-handed.

But she didn’t.

Three years of marriage had worn down all her sharp edges.

Nadia Holt wasn’t the first one. In these three years of marriage, she had counted how many women’s numbers were saved in Ethan’s phone.

She had smelled perfume on him when he came home late at night.

After Serena Quinn left, the women around him had changed one after another, and she had... endured all of it.

The place in her chest felt like it had been soaked in ice water, swollen with sour pain, yet numb enough that not even tears would come.

Sylvia lowered her gaze and looked at the box in her hand.

Forget it.

She turned and walked to the trash can at the end of the hallway, then loosened her fingers.

With a soft thud, the beautifully wrapped gift box dropped to the bottom. The ribbon came undone, revealing a deep blue cue case inside.

She gave it one last look, then turned and walked away.

One step. Two. Three.

Suddenly, someone grabbed her wrist hard from behind.

The grip was so strong it felt like her bones might crack. Sylvia stumbled as she was yanked back, colliding with a familiar chest carrying that cold cedar scent.

Ethan Hartwell.

The man lowered his eyes to her. There was a dark emotion surging in them, something she couldn’t read. His voice was low and icy. "Mrs. Hartwell, you think you can throw something away and just leave?"

Sylvia struggled once. Failed. So she simply smiled.

"Mr. Hartwell really does have eyes everywhere. And your hearing’s not bad either."

She lifted her eyes, looking past him toward the billiards room with obvious meaning. "What a blessing, huh. You hadn’t even cleaned up the last little girlfriend, and now there’s a big star kissing you too. I figured if I stayed here, I’d just ruin your romantic luck."

Her tone was light, almost airy. There was even a faint smile at the end.

But every word landed like ice.

Ethan narrowed his eyes.

He hated this version of her the most.

Her fingertips were trembling with anger, yet she still had to put on that calm, detached look, as if none of it mattered to her.

As if he, her husband, was nothing more than some random decoration in her life.

"Jealous?" he sneered.

"You’re overthinking it, Mr. Hartwell." Sylvia answered flatly. "I just came to show my face. Since you’ve got a beauty keeping you company, I’ll leave you to it."

She turned to go again. Ethan’s eyes darkened. Without another word, he hooked an arm around her waist and hoisted her straight up.

"Ethan Hartwell! Put me down—"

"Shut up."

He kicked open the private lounge at the end of the corridor, locked the door behind them with one hand, and pinned her against it.

The lounge was dim, lit by only a single wall lamp. The light pooled in the narrow space between them.

Sylvia’s back was pressed against the cold door, while in front of her was the heat of the man’s chest. Her eyes reddened with anger. "Are you insane? There are so many people outside, and your actress—"

"Why bring her up?" Ethan gripped her chin, his thumb brushing over her lips. The pressure wasn’t harsh, but it carried a force she couldn’t resist.

"Mrs. Hartwell, did you come today to check up on me, or to celebrate our anniversary?"

Sylvia’s breathing caught.

So he remembered.

He remembered it was their anniversary, and still he’d stayed outside fooling around, leaving her home alone.

"It doesn’t matter anymore."

She turned her face away, voice very soft. "Anyway, I already threw the gift away."

"Did I say you were allowed to?"

Ethan stared at her for two seconds. Then suddenly he lowered his head and kissed her hard.

There was no tenderness in that kiss.

It felt like punishment. More than that, it felt like possession.

Sylvia pushed him, bit him, tried to resist, but he shut all of it down with ease.

After a long while, he finally pulled back a little, forehead resting against hers, breath burning hot, voice rough and low. "Sylvia Dalton, remember one thing—"

"You’re the wife I married fair and square. Being intimate with me is your duty."

Her heart jolted violently.

The glow from the wall lamp trembled. His kiss fell again, fiercer than before, carrying something she couldn’t understand, something almost close to panic.

His big hand was scorching hot. He lifted her skirt and slid in from the outside of her thigh, tracing up the line of her waist until softness and fullness were entirely under his control.

A soft sound slipped from her lips. Three years of marriage—he knew her body too well, knew every place where her desire would betray her...

"N-no... don’t..."

He bent to her ear and laughed softly. "You’re already this soft, and you’re still saying no?"

In the end, she still couldn’t push him away.

In these three years of marriage, this was where she had lost the worst.

One casual move from him, and the walls she had spent three years building would collapse in an instant.

Inside the tiny lounge, spring heat surged. The air filled with low, lingering sounds that refused to stop.

...

Afterward, Ethan leaned back on the sofa and lit a cigarette. His expression returned to that cold, distant look, as if the man who had just lost control wasn’t him at all.

He looked at Sylvia as she stood with her back to him, getting dressed. Red marks mottled her pale skin, and her slender body swayed slightly—he had been too rough just now.

"You..." He had just started to say something when his phone suddenly rang.

Three words flashed on the screen: Serena Quinn.

He glanced at it, answered immediately, then stood and walked toward the balcony. "Serena? What’s wrong? Slow down. Don’t cry..."

Sylvia’s hand tightened around the hem of her dress.

That voice—that gentleness—she had never heard it in three whole years.

Of course.

Only Serena Quinn was the one he had truly kept in his heart.

Three years of marriage. Women like Nadia Holt, all those flirty little side stories, were just entertainment to him, something to pass the time.

He hated this arranged marriage with her. He couldn’t let go of Serena Quinn, the white moonlight who had gone abroad. So he’d done everything he could to humiliate Sylvia—countless scandals, endless rumors—until she, the real Mrs. Hartwell, had lost every bit of dignity.

Sylvia straightened her dress and walked out of the lounge, out into the noisy haze of glasses clinking and laughter spilling everywhere.

The trash can stood quietly at the end of the corridor.

She stopped. From a few steps away, she gave one last look at the blue gift box lying at the bottom.

It was like looking one last time at the version of herself from these past three years—the woman who had loved Ethan Hartwell so humbly she had sunk into the dust.

The moment she stepped out of the club, the night wind felt cold.

Sylvia tilted her head back and looked at the sky. Then, all of a sudden, she laughed softly.

Seven years of secret love. Three years of marriage.

Enough.

Really enough.