Chapter 3

I barely slept that night.

My mind kept replaying Alexander's panicked expression when he left, and that missing Hermès scarf. The more I thought about it, the more wrong it felt.

The next morning, I decided to thoroughly check my belongings.

I opened my walk-in closet to get dressed when I suddenly realized something was wrong—where was my La Perla lace lingerie set?

I frantically searched, throwing clothes to the floor.

"No, no, no! This can't be happening!" My voice turned shrill, almost screaming, "Three thousand dollars! Three thousand dollars for La Perla!"

Silk nightgowns and designer lingerie scattered everywhere as I dumped out entire drawers like a madwoman. Sweat mixed with angry tears streamed down my cheeks.

"My shoot! My work!" I clutched my hair, feeling like I was losing it, "What about next week's shoot? They specifically requested this set!"

That three-thousand-dollar ivory lace set—a few nights ago I wore it... fantasizing about Alexander's touch. Even now, thinking of that night makes my cheeks flush.

I kicked over the shoe boxes on the floor with a loud crash.

"Damn it! Who the hell is doing this!" I screamed at the empty closet, "My Tom Ford perfume gone! Black nightgown gone! Egyptian cotton towel gone! Now even my lingerie—"

I stopped mid-sentence as a terrifying thought struck me.

These items... perfume, nightgown, towel, lingerie... they were all my most intimate possessions. All carrying my scent, my body heat...

"Holy shit!" I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone, "Some pervert is collecting my things!"

Rage instantly turned to fear, my voice trembling: "Who's watching me? Who's been in my room?"

"Alexander!" I stormed toward the door, fury barely contained in my voice, "Alexander, get out here!"

The hallway was eerily quiet, only my frantic footsteps echoing on the marble floors.

Wait, I stopped. Would Alexander steal my lingerie? The thought occurred to me before I dismissed it myself. He won't even touch me—how could he possibly be interested in my underwear?

Then who? The butler? The staff? Or...

An even more terrifying thought flashed through my mind—could someone have broken in? Could someone be secretly watching me?

Thinking of those missing intimate items, this huge, cold mansion, my vulnerability when alone, fear and anger surged through me.

"Can't even keep me safe—what kind of husband is that?" I raged internally.

Thinking of this museum-cold mansion, this husband who only "fulfilled obligations," anger boiled like lava in my chest.

"Enough! I'm done with this life!"

That afternoon, I went to the private gym to blow off steam.

Drenched in sweat on the treadmill in my tight workout clothes, I cranked the music to full volume, trying to drown out my inner turmoil with heavy metal rock.

But after ten minutes, that feeling of being watched crept back.

I slammed the stop button and looked around. The gym was empty, manicured gardens visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight filtering through blinds and casting shadows on the equipment.

"Is someone there?" I called out loudly.

No response.

I walked to the windows, carefully checking every corner. Security cameras hung silently in the corners, red lights blinking.

What if someone was watching the monitors? What if someone somewhere was observing my every move through screens?

I remembered last night's feeling of being watched while bathing, and that bone-chilling sense of being spied on while changing in the dressing room the day before.

Those missing items—lingerie, perfume, towels, silk nightgowns—could they be somewhere I couldn't see, being used by someone to...

My hands began to shake.

This couldn't go on. I pulled out my phone, fingers flying across the screen:

"Tomorrow 10 AM, I want to formally initiate divorce proceedings. The sooner the better."

Sent to my lawyer.

The message showed as delivered. I let out a long breath.

"One week. I'm only giving this charade one more week."

Dinner time arrived. I sat at the long mahogany dining table, crystal chandelier sparkling overhead.

Alexander appeared right on time, impeccably dressed in his suit, hair perfectly groomed, as if nothing had happened.

"Good evening, Isadora." He pulled out his chair and sat down, his tone as flat as usual.

I didn't respond, staring straight at him with ice-cold eyes.

"I want a divorce."

His fork dropped onto the porcelain plate with a sharp clatter. Alexander froze completely, his face instantly draining to paper white, blue eyes wide with shock.

"Why?" His voice came out almost like a sob, hands trembling uncontrollably, "We can talk about this..."

"Talk about what?" I laughed coldly, standing up, "Talk about how you treat me like a decorative vase? Talk about how you haven't touched me once in three months? Or talk about how this house can't even protect my lingerie?"

"Isadora, please calm down..."

"Calm down?" My voice turned sharp, "Alexander, do you know what humiliation feels like? I'm your wife, not your roommate! I'm not some ornament you bought with a contract!"

Alexander's fists clenched tight, knuckles white from the pressure. His breathing became labored, chest rising and falling dramatically.

"I never thought of you that way..." His voice was hoarse, like it was being torn apart.

"No?" I moved closer, eyes blazing with fury, "Then tell me, have you acted like a husband these past three months? You don't even know my bra size, yet you expect me to play house with you?"

Alexander suddenly shot to his feet, his chair sliding back and hitting the wall with a bang. A look of near-desperation flashed in his eyes.

"What happened?" His voice shook as he gripped the table edge, "Did someone say something to you?"

"Nobody said anything to me." I sneered, "But my things are disappearing, Alexander. My lingerie, my perfume, my towels. Someone in this house is stealing my personal items, and you—my so-called husband—don't even know!"

Alexander's face grew even paler, "I'll investigate..."

"Don't bother!" I slammed my hand on the table, "I don't want to live in this place anymore. I don't want to live with a man who treats me like a showpiece."

"Isadora, please sit down." Alexander's voice was almost pleading, "Let's discuss this calmly."

"There's nothing to discuss." I turned to leave.

"Wait." Alexander's voice came from behind me, clearly panicked, "Give me one week."

I stopped without turning around: "One week?"

"One week." His voice cracked like he was about to cry, I could hear his ragged breathing, "Give me one week to fix these problems. After one week, if you still want to leave..."

"After one week, I'm moving out." I said without looking back, "Have the lawyers discuss the contract terms."

I walked toward the door, my footsteps beating a frantic rhythm on the marble floor.

Behind me came the sound of Alexander collapsing heavily into his chair, along with his suppressed, near-desperate gasping.

I could feel his broken gaze on my back, but I didn't turn around. I had made my decision.

That night, lying in bed, I heard glass shattering in the study, followed by Alexander's suppressed, angry roar—like the howl of a wounded beast.

I closed my eyes, a cold smile playing on my lips.

One week. The word echoed in my mind, but I already knew my answer.