Chapter 2

I am not stupid; in fact, one could say I am quite shrewd. How could the eldest daughter of Vaughan Pharmaceuticals, a top graduate from the Finance Department of the Wharton School, be a fool? I watched every photo and video of Claire, studying her as if I were analyzing a business case.

I knew that she habitually pursed her lips when playing the violin, causing a shallow dimple to appear on her left cheek; I knew she liked her black tea with double sugar and a slice of lemon; I knew she loved freesias best because they were her mother's favorite flower; I knew she walked with a light step, like a cat; I knew that when she smiled, her eyes curved into crescents and her eyelashes trembled slightly.

I became Catherine.

I quit the black coffee I had drunk for over twenty years and started drinking sickly sweet black tea; I put away my finance degree and CFA charter, and began to fiddle with delicate plants in the garden; I sold my sports car and replaced it with the white Bentley Claire liked; I even learned to look at Damian with that gaze of adoration, dependence, as if I would die without him—a look I practiced hundreds of times in the mirror.

But I am congenitally allergic to freesias.

Every time I arranged those flowers in a vase, my respiratory tract would swell, red rashes would break out on my skin, and in severe cases, I would struggle to breathe. The doctor had warned me that continued exposure to the allergen could trigger asthma or even shock.

Damian didn't know. He never asked.

Once, I sneezed while arranging flowers. He frowned and glanced at me. "Caught a cold? Stay away from me, don't pass it on."

In that moment, my heart was as cold as Lake Michigan in a Chicago winter.

Dinner continued in silence. Damian would occasionally ask a few innocuous questions, such as "Are the roses in the garden blooming?" or "Is everything ready for next week's charity gala?" I answered each one in the gentlest of tones.

After the meal, the butler brought dessert—crème brûlée, Claire's favorite. I detested this cloying sweetness, but I had to eat it, and I had to look like I enjoyed it.

Just as I put down my spoon, Damian pulled a dark blue velvet box from his suit pocket and slid it across to me.

"Happy third anniversary."

His tone was flat, as if he were assigning a task.

I took a deep breath and adjusted my facial expression. Surprise, delight, emotion—these feelings had to be displayed at the right intensity at the right moment. After three years, I was a master at this.

I opened the box gingerly.

Inside was a pink diamond necklace. The center stone was a fancy vivid pink diamond weighing over ten carats, surrounded by countless tiny white diamonds. The design was intricate, filled with a girlish dreaminess. It must have been the work of a top jewelry master, worth at least ten million dollars.

But it was absolutely not my style. I liked clean, sharp geometric lines, cool-toned gems, designs that conveyed power. This necklace was unmistakably something Claire would like—sweet, romantic, and utterly devoid of edge.

"Thank you, Damian, it's beautiful." I feigned a surprised expression, my eyes misting over at just the right moment—Claire's standard reaction to receiving gifts. "I... I don't know what to say. I will treasure it, always."

Damian nodded with satisfaction and stood up, adjusting his cufflinks. "I'll sleep in the study tonight; I have a transnational conference."

"Alright, try to rest, don't overwork yourself." I stood up, like every virtuous wife, to smooth out non-existent wrinkles on his suit.

He looked at me, then suddenly reached out and touched my cheek. It was a rare moment of tenderness, but I knew he was caressing the Claire in his imagination.

"You look beautiful tonight, Catherine."

I lowered my eyes to hide the chill within them. "Thank you."

I watched him go upstairs until his back disappeared around the corner. His footsteps faded, and the study door opened and closed.

In that split second, all the tenderness, submission, and adoration on my face receded like the tide, leaving nothing behind. The corners of my mouth drooped, and my eyes became hollow and indifferent. If anyone had seen me then, they would have been terrified by the sudden transformation—it was as if I had become a different person.

Expressionless, I took off the priceless necklace and examined it against the light. The pink diamond refracted mesmerizing light under the chandelier, but in my eyes, it was just a cold stone, a witness to my three years of imprisonment.

I walked to the decorative cabinet on one side of the living room, pulled open the bottom drawer, and tossed the necklace inside. The drawer was already piled high with expensive jewelry—sapphire bracelets, emerald earrings, ruby brooches... all "gifts" Damian had given me over the past three years, like a pile of unwanted stones shining with lonely light in the dark.

Then I rushed into the guest restroom on the first floor, locked the door, and frantically scratched at the red patches already rising on my neck. I clawed bloody streaks into my skin, but I couldn't stop—it itched too much, an itch that penetrated to the bone.

I took out the spare anti-allergy medication from a hidden compartment under the sink and swallowed two pills dry, without water. Then I took out the ointment and slapped it messily onto my neck and arms. The woman in the mirror had eyes as cold as ice, her neck covered in hideous rashes and scratch marks—a stark contrast to the elegant, gentle wife at the dinner table just moments ago.

I looked at myself in the mirror and suddenly started laughing. The laughter echoed in the empty restroom, carrying a trace of madness and desolation.

One more month.

The contract ends then.

When that time comes, Damian Blackwood, I will show you who the real Catherine Vaughan is.