It was almost 11 PM when Isabella Anderson finally got home after another overtime shift.

She was a senior in college, interning at a publicly listed company. Her performance was top-notch in the department, but the downside? Constant late nights.

Dragging her exhausted self to the door, she punched in the code and unlocked the villa’s smart lock. As she pushed the door open, the place was pitch black—just like every other night she came home.

Except this time, when she flicked on the entryway lights, something was off. A pair of unfamiliar men’s dress shoes sat neatly by the shoe cabinet.

They were polished so clean you could spot your reflection. Zero dust, like they just came out of the box.

Next to the door, the trash bin held an empty plastic bag and half-smoked cigarette. Scattered across the dark wood floor were pieces of women’s clothing and a pair of heels.

Isabella changed her shoes, stepped over the lingerie blocking her path with her foot, and headed straight to the living room. She didn’t bother turning on the light; just found the couch in the dark, sat down, and pulled a cigarette and lighter from her pocket.

The flicker of the flame lit up half her face. Her eyes? Blank. No anger. No sadness. Just numb.

She bit the cigarette and brought the lighter close. Then, thinking twice, she pulled it away, tossed the cigarette onto the coffee table.

Elbows on knees, forehead in hand, she leaned back and closed her eyes.

The villa had four bedrooms and two living areas—not too big, not too small. The living room sat pretty close to the guest room.

Even with the door shut, muffled voices came from inside.

"This is your place... What if she finds out?" said a soft, nervous female voice.

"If I cared, I wouldn’t have brought you here," came the cool reply of a man.

"Then... kiss me?"

It felt like someone had stabbed Isabella’s chest a hundred times over. She couldn’t breathe.

But her face? Still dead calm.

Time passed—no idea how long—until she dozed off on the couch. She was jolted awake by a high-pitched shriek.

Click.

The living room lights snapped on. A completely naked woman stood in front of her, arms frantically covering up.

“Isabella?! Why... why are you home so early? Didn’t you say... you’d be working late?”

Panic all over her face.

Meanwhile, the man coming out of the bedroom—Alexander Evans—didn’t seem fazed at all. Cool as ever, he threw on a robe, pulled the woman in, and kissed her cheek.

“Be good. Head back by yourself tonight,” he said casually.

“Alright...” The woman nodded, looking submissive and meek.

She rushed to pick up her clothes scattered across the floor, throwing them on one by one.

Before leaving, she turned to Isabella. “Isabella, I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I came onto Alex. Don’t blame him. If you’re mad—hit me instead.”

“Get out.” Isabella rubbed her temples, voice flat and even.

The woman looked like she was about to burst into tears, lips quivering. “Please don’t stress yourself out. I’ll explain everything another time, okay?”

Then, glancing back at Alexander with a look full of longing, she whispered, “Alex, talk to her. I’ll go now.”

She grabbed her purse and left, the door slamming shut behind her.

Only after that did Isabella finally exhale, like she’d been holding her breath the whole time.

Slowly, she sat up straight and reached into her bag, taking out a neatly folded piece of white paper.

She unfolded it to reveal a printed image and text.

“Alexander, I’m pregnant.”

Her voice was barely louder than a breeze.

He stood a good distance away, didn’t even glance at the sheet. Just said coldly, “Get rid of it.”

His reply was fast, ruthless—like the life inside her had nothing to do with him at all.Isabella smiled, a shadow of sorrow lurking beneath.

But right after, her face lit up again. Her eyes, naturally charming, narrowed slightly, glittering with a deceptive allure.

“I’ll get the procedure done tomorrow.”

With that, she stood, grabbed her bag, and walked past Alexander without hesitation.

As she brushed by him, she threw him a side glance. “A guy like you? Totally unfit to be anyone’s father.”

“Ha.” He let out a cold, mocking laugh and stormed into the guest bedroom, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang.

Isabella could tell he just dumped all his anger on that door.

She, on the other hand, stayed eerily calm. The corners of her lips twitched slightly before heading into the master bedroom.

Nearly a year of marriage, yet Alexander barely stayed home. Even when he did come back, he would always sleep in a separate room.

She had always known—without Grandpa Evans pushing this marriage through, she’d never have gotten into the Evans family. Alexander probably would’ve kicked her out on day one.

The engagement between the Andersons and the Evanses had been arranged twenty years ago. Originally, it was between Alexander and Olivia.

He fell for Olivia the moment they met and agreed happily to the arranged marriage.

But two years ago, a car accident changed everything. Olivia and Isabella had been in the same vehicle that day.

Olivia didn’t make it out alive, while Isabella had somehow survived.

Mr. Evans had always been grateful to Mr. Anderson for saving his life back in the day. After the Andersons lost their daughter and their financial standing plummeted, he insisted on keeping the engagement alive out of sympathy and gratitude.

And the Anderson family desperately needed a strong ally.

The two families reached an agreement—Isabella would take Olivia’s place and marry into the Evans family.

Alexander was a filial son. Even though he hated the arrangement, he still went through with it out of respect for his grandfather.

Isabella knew full well how much Alexander rejected her. But she had made a promise to her grandfather on his deathbed—no matter what, she would take her sister’s place and carry the marriage through. Her only request? One year. After that, she could leave if she wanted.

After the wedding, she thought, fine. Since I’m here, I’ll make the best of it.

She wanted to be the ideal wife, the perfect partner.

But things didn’t work out that way. On their wedding night, Alexander had kicked her out of the bedroom. Right in front of the house staff, no less—yelling at her, cursing her, wishing she’d just drop dead.

She still remembered his icy words like it was yesterday—“Isabella Anderson, why wasn’t it you who died?”

Yeah, why wasn’t it her?

Everyone thought she was the one who should’ve gone instead. The one nobody liked. The unworthy one.

Why did the beloved sister have to die?

So many people missed Olivia. Cared about her.

"It wasn’t my fault. I was a victim, too."

That was the only thing Isabella said after the accident. After that, she never tried to explain herself again.

But that didn’t change anything between her and Alexander. The distance only grew deeper.

Now, they were strangers. Maybe even worse.

Their marriage was empty—a title and nothing more.

Still, for the Andersons’ sake, she had to stick it out.

They needed the Evanses’ support, but even if she were to leave one day, she’d have to make sure not to burn that bridge.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, Isabella wrapped her cashmere shawl around herself more tightly and forced her wandering thoughts back into place. She was about to head to the bathroom to wash up when her phone started ringing from inside her bag.

She quickly walked over, pulled out the phone, and checked the screen.

It was Charlotte Brooks. Her so-called best friend—the same one who had just walked out of her house not too long ago.

With a straight face, she answered the call. From the other end came an arrogant, smug voice—so different from the delicate, pitiful tone she used in front of Alexander earlier.

Charlotte snapped, “Isabella Anderson, I’m pregnant. Be smart and divorce Alexander! If you leave on your own, you’ll still get something. But if you make me play dirty, don’t blame me for making sure you walk out with nothing!”