The Powell family heiress, after countless deliberations, ended up marrying a "mute."

Every WhatsApp message she sent was read but never replied to.

Every call she made, he never answered.

In their first year of marriage, Miranda Powell was home alone late at night, burning with a fever of 40 degrees Celsius, barely holding on as she sent Harold Shull a voice message for help.

Ten voice messages—none received a response.

It was the housekeeper, arriving the next day to clean, who found her unconscious and rushed her to the hospital.

That evening, Harold came home and coldly informed her that, because she had left the primary bedroom in disarray, he would be sleeping in the guest room.

In their second year, Miranda was nearly strangled during a mugging on a foreign street.

Terrified, she called Harold, who was nearby, begging for help.

Twenty calls—no answer.

In the end, it was a kind stranger, a fellow American, who stayed with her through the hospital visit.

Five hours later, Harold called—not to check on her, but to demand why she hadn't arrived at the dinner on time.

In their fifth year, Miranda's car malfunctioned on the highway, leading to a crash—and a miscarriage.

Listening to the endless, unconnected dial tone, she felt her child slipping away, and finally her hope died too.

The moment she left the operating table, she stormed into Harold's office with a hammer and smashed his phone to bits.

"If you can't read messages or answer calls, what's the point of keeping it?"

Harold stood calmly to the side, letting her rage.

Until, suddenly, the shattered phone emitted a special message alert—only to be silenced forever under Miranda's hammer.

For the first time, a crack appeared in Harold's composure. He snatched his car keys and hurried downstairs.

Miranda called a car and followed him.

Half an hour later, his car stopped in front of an upscale apartment complex.

Bathed in sunlight, Miranda saw a young woman, pale and clutching her pregnant belly, slowly make her way out of the building.

From her profile, she looked so young.

Harold rushed to her, listened to her tearful words, and carefully scooped her up in his arms.

"The baby will be fine. Don't be afraid..."

His deep, soothing voice drifted through the air as Miranda gripped the car window so tightly her nails broke and blood seeped out.

Five long years together, and only now did she realize her husband could respond instantly to a WhatsApp message.

That he could look worried, be so tender.

Could have... another woman, and another child.

Miranda trembled all over, tears streaming as she laughed.

Of all days, it had to be the day she lost her own child that she witnessed it all.

She stumbled home, collapsing onto her bed.

That lost child came to her in dreams, calling her "Mommy." Miranda apologized to her again and again.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her wrist—the child vanished, replaced by Harold's icy face.

"Cece's child is gone. Because you smashed my phone in a fit, I didn't see her message in time to make arrangements."

The calmer his voice, the harder he squeezed her wrist, nearly shattering it.

She laughed.

"Dead? Good. Why should your child live when mine is gone?"

Harold stared at her, his expression terrifying.

After a long moment, he climbed onto the bed, tearing at her clothes, his voice almost deranged. "You owe her a child. Get pregnant and lose it to pay her back."

"Harold!"

Miranda screamed, her heart numb with pain.

She said that their child had died, and he... didn't even hear her.

She realized then, even face-to-face, his world was closed to her, just like those read-but-unanswered messages.

She struggled desperately, her hands reaching for the fruit knife on the nightstand. She grabbed it and plunged it into his chest.

She hated him.

She wanted him dead.

But Harold didn't die—just a minor injury.

Miranda brought her lawyer to the hospital, glanced at him as he conducted a remote meeting with clients, not sparing her a single glance.

He never tolerated interruptions while working.

The phone on his nightstand suddenly chimed with that special alert. Harold picked it up, glanced at the screen, paused the meeting, and typed out a long reply.

Miranda caught a glimpse of the chat name, Cece.

Her heart turned cold and hollow.

So Harold could reply instantly—even pausing an important international meeting.

They chatted for ten minutes before the meeting resumed.

An hour later, the meeting ended.

Finally, Miranda spoke, "Let's get a divorce. You're at fault, so I expect extra compensation in the split."

Harold looked up at her, his cold eyes slightly surprised.

"Cece's child isn't mine. I've never crossed that line with her, and I never will."

Then, he switched gears.

"But I'll do everything I can for her. Hurt her, and you'll regret it."

That guarded look stabbed at Miranda's heart. "How long has it been... Why..."

"A year." Harold ignored her second question, pulled out a photo of Celia Kimsey from his wallet, and handed it to her.

Without another glance, he signed the divorce papers.

"Hope to see you at the courthouse in a month." His tone was mocking.

Miranda didn't react, just stared at his wallet, almost burning a hole through it.

Her photo had never been inside.

After a long moment, she looked at Celia's face, dazed, then drew a deep breath.

"I'll be there."

Harold didn't believe she'd go through with the divorce.

Maybe he was used to her chasing him.

After all, she'd endured five years of a marriage where she sent 10,000 messages and got zero replies.

But this time, she was truly awake.

She turned to leave, and at the door, Harold called out, frowning.

"That villa in the southern suburbs you liked—I've transferred it to Cece. There's a forest with rich natural oxygen; it'll be good for her postpartum recovery."

Miranda clenched her fists, her nails digging deep into her palm.

"I told you that house was my first gift for our baby, even if... she's gone now."

No response from behind.

She looked back—Harold was already typing on his phone, his attention nowhere near her.

She let out a bitter laugh.

Miranda strode out of the hospital room, as if putting distance between herself and this place could erase the failed love.

Back in the car, she pulled out the photo again, her hands trembling.

They looked too alike.

Celia looked so much like Harold's dead first love, Evelyn Wallace.

The woman Harold had truly wanted to marry.

Five years ago, the Shull Group's finances hit a crisis, and only the Powell family offered help.

On one condition, the families would join through marriage.

Miranda liked Harold—her father, Fred Powell, saw it and tried to help his daughter find happiness.

The families met immediately. Miranda gazed boldly at Harold, stars in her eyes.

But the first thing he said was that he wanted to marry the Powell family's stepdaughter—Miranda's stepmother's daughter, Evelyn.

That was when Miranda realized—they loved each other.

Fred saw no reason to risk everything for a stepdaughter and withdrew the marriage proposal, advising Miranda to give up on Harold.

"Mira, mutual love makes a good marriage. Otherwise, you'll only suffer."

Miranda tried to let go.

But Harold, desperate to save his family, secretly contacted her and proposed.

All it took was one dinner alone, and she was smitten, forgetting Fred's advice.

She believed Harold's change of heart meant he liked her, and with her beauty and charm, he'd fall in love sooner or later.

Their wedding, funded by Fred, was extravagant beyond compare.

It should have been a day that overflowed with happiness whenever she remembered it.

But before the reception ended, news came of Evelyn's suicide—shattering everything.

Miranda still remembered that day—Harold fleeing in haste, her stepmother's wailing, endless gossip, and her father's eyes, filled with pain for her.

Their honeymoon was canceled.

Everything was thrown into chaos.

For the first six months of marriage, Harold simply didn't reply to messages, claiming he preferred calls.

Six months later, as the Shull family rose to power, he stopped answering calls too.

He became a black hole—she poured all her joy and sorrow into him, but got nothing back.

Miranda broke down, confronting him, demanding answers.

Harold threw the wedding day chat logs at her.

Turns out, Evelyn had messaged him before her suicide, but Miranda had kept him busy with toasts, causing him to miss the chance to save her.

He hated himself—and he hated Miranda.

Now, he'd found a substitute who looked 80% like Evelyn, and treated her a hundred times better than he ever treated Miranda.

Snapping out of her memories, Miranda crumpled the photo and tossed it aside, staring at her own reflection in the rearview mirror.

Her face was ashen, hair a tangled mess.

She looked like a madwoman.

For five years, she'd clung to Harold, refusing to let go.

The less he replied, the more she messaged, obsessed with forcing him to respond just once.

But in the end, she only drove herself mad.

Countless breakdowns, fits of rage, and then, each time, picking up the pieces alone.

Miranda pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't called in five years.

"Does your promise from five years ago still stand?"

When she got married, there was a man who tried to stop her three times.

She talked about love; he talked about sex.

"Harold's way too uptight, trust me. He'll be just as boring in bed. But you, you need a fire."

Miranda laughed. "And you're the fire, huh?"

He raised an eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying.

"Mira, I bet you two will split within five years. When I win, consider me first.

"I'm still single, so of course the offer stands."

That familiar voice on the other end of the line snapped Miranda back to reality.

"I'll be divorced in a month, but I don't want love. I just want a man to have some fun with, let myself go for a while."

He burst out laughing.

"Deal! Baby, I'll play with you!"

After hanging up, Miranda went home and freshened up, preparing for her mom Helena Tipton's memorial the next day.

Every year, Fred took Helena's memorial seriously.

The next day, Fred and Miranda met up. Not seeing Harold with her, Fred's face darkened.

"He can't make it again? He can't spare even an hour?"

Miranda walked up and looped her arm through his, forcing a casual smile.

"Dad, we're getting divorced. I'm the one who asked for it.

"Whether he comes or not doesn't matter anymore!"

Fred stared at her for a long moment, then finally patted her head. "Cutting your losses—smart move."

Fred and Miranda paid their respects to Helena's photo, then went to the kitchen to cook her favorite homemade dishes.

Just as they finished setting the table, Harold's parents, Bernard Shull and Courtney Noonan, barged in, fuming. Without warning, Courtney slapped Miranda hard across the face.

"Fred! Look at the daughter you raised—she stabbed my son and left him in the hospital without a care. Is that how a wife should act?"

Snapping out of it, Miranda stepped forward to shield her furious father and slapped Courtney right back without hesitation.

Then she snatched Courtney's phone and called Harold.

The phone barely rang before he picked up.

Quick, as always.

Miranda sneered. "Your parents are throwing their weight around at my house. Get over here and take them away—today's my mom's memorial!"

Harold's voice was as calm as ever. "I... still can't leave the hospital."

"Harry, which sofa do you think fits better in the villa you gave me? Try sitting on them and help me decide."

In the background, Miranda could hear Celia's sweet, coquettish voice.

Miranda gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white, just about to say something when Harold's voice came through. "You can't eat cold food right now."

And then, the call ended.

She stood there, eyes cast down like a statue.

Courtney sneered, "You hit his mom and expect him to take your side? Dream on! You haven't won his heart once in five years."

As she spoke, she arrogantly flipped the entire table of food that Fred and Miranda had prepared for Helena's memorial.

The shattered dishes knocked Helena's photo to the floor, breaking it.

Miranda snapped out of her daze, grabbing Fred—who was shaking with rage—and looked at Bernard and Courtney, whom she'd treated with respect for five years.

"I put up with you because I cared about Harold. Now I don't even care about him, let alone you!"

With that, Miranda took two bodyguards—a man and a woman—and drove straight to Bernard and Courtney's house.

The bodyguards kept her safe from interference, but Miranda did the dirty work herself, swinging a baseball bat from the living room all the way to Courtney's beloved walk-in closet.

As Courtney shrieked over her jewelry, Harold stormed in and grabbed Miranda's hand.

"Have you had enough?"

Panting, Miranda looked up at him and laughed.

"Oh, you've got time now? And so fast—less than 15 minutes."

She shoved him away, tossed the bat aside, and headed for the door.

Someone was standing there, peeking in. Seeing Miranda, she rushed to explain, "I'm so sorry, I was the reason Harry was late—he didn't mean to ignore you..."

But Miranda ignored Celia's soft, apologetic words.

She brushed past, but Celia kept backing away, apologizing, until she tripped and fell to the floor.

"Ow... My stomach hurts..."

"Cece!"

Harold rushed out to help her, bumping into Miranda as he passed.

The force wasn't enough to knock Miranda down, but a sudden cramp seized her abdomen, so sharp she collapsed to her knees, vision going black.

Sweating, she looked up from the floor—just a meter away, Harold was cradling Celia in his arms, doting on her.

Celia's cheeks were flushed, clearly well taken care of by Harold—there was no sign of pain at all.

Hearing Miranda collapse, Harold frowned. "Are you trying to fake an injury and play the victim against Cece?"

Courtney snorted with laughter.

Miranda almost wanted to laugh herself.

How did she, a Powell heiress cherished by Fred, end up degrading herself in marriage like this?

Gritting her teeth, Miranda used the doorframe to slowly pull herself to her feet.

Courtney watched coldly.

"Cece's gentle—she's a good match for Harry."

"Yeah." Miranda nodded, catching her breath. "An ungrateful family that leeches off the Powell family really deserves a 100-bucks-a-night daughter-in-law."

"Enough!"

Harold strode forward, voice sharp and commanding. Celia, taking advantage of the momentum, deliberately kicked Miranda hard.

Miranda staggered back, barely managing to grip the doorframe before she collapsed again.

Her abdomen throbbed with pain, and now her chest ached from the clear imprint of Celia's shoe.

Miranda stared blankly at the smudged mark—it felt like a brand of humiliation, the perfect symbol of her marriage.

"Harold had finally lost control of his emotions. How rare.

"Too bad it was over a woman who once worked as a prostitute," Miranda thought to herself.

She'd looked into it herself—this woman, someone who couldn't even show her face in polite society, was the one who made Harold anxious, worried, impulsive.

Now, she was strutting around like she owned the place.

Miranda slowly lifted her gaze, cold sweat stinging her eyes and blurring Harold's face until he looked nothing like the man she once loved.

Maybe they'd both become strangers.

"Clean yourself up before you come downstairs. I married a lady, not a lunatic," Harold said coolly.

"Harold." Miranda tilted her head and smiled. "How is it you're still alive?"

She lunged at him, driving the utility knife in her palm toward his chest.

It was the second time she'd stabbed him, and Harold took a long moment to process it.

Even after Bernard and Courtney finally dragged Miranda away, he just stared at her, voice trembling.

"Did you really... want me dead?"

Miranda's eyes were bloodshot, the word "yes" on her lips, but Courtney's shriek cut her off.

"She's bleeding—so much blood!"

Everyone turned to look—Miranda's skirt was soaked in crimson, the deepest stains at her thighs.

"Miranda!"

Harold ignored his wound, bolted upright, and scooped her up—panic breaking through his calm for the first time.

"What happened? You—get the car! Now!"

Miranda's eyes had already lost focus, but her hand clung desperately to the hallway railing, her voice barely a whisper. "Bodyguard... take me... to the hospital... bodyguard... housekeeper..."

"I'll take you! You'll be okay... You'll be fine..."

Harold fumbled to pry her hand loose, but she wouldn't let go.

"I don't believe you!" Miranda suddenly screamed, her voice raw with anguish. "You're not that kind... You've never cared about me... You won't... Bodyguard! Bodyguard! Help me!"

Only when she felt her female bodyguard's hand did Miranda finally let go and lose consciousness.

Harold carried her, running all the way to the car, his hand trembling as he cradled her head.

He was used to Miranda's fiery defiance, her constant readiness to fight.

He'd never seen her so frail.

Sweat and blood soaked her completely—the proud, taut bowstring of her spirit now a thin, brittle sliver, ready to snap at the slightest touch.

Harold pressed his face to her cold cheek, whispering "You'll be okay, you'll be okay..." over and over.

He didn't know if he was saying it for her or for himself.

Miranda awoke to darkness.

"Ms. Powell, how are you feeling? Should I call the doctor?" Her female bodyguard hurried to her side.

Only she and the male bodyguard were in the room.

"Where's Harold?" Miranda's voice was barely audible.

"Celia... was admitted. Mr. Shull went to the room next door about an hour ago."

After a pause, she continued, "Your father called. I told him you were out with friends."

"Well done."

Miranda grabbed her phone, found a video she kept in her gallery—a clip of her drinking at a bar—and sent it to Fred to put his mind at ease.

When she exited, she saw a new message from an unknown number.

She opened it—the profile was named "Cece," and it was a flood of photos.

"The day I miscarried, Harry stayed by my bedside all night, fell asleep right there.

"At midnight, I called him, crying about losing the baby. He came right over to comfort me, still in his hospital gown.

"Just now, I said my stomach hurt, and he was feeding me soup and slicing fruit. Ms. Powell, do you know how skilled your husband is with a fruit knife?"

Miranda stared at the photo of the perfectly peeled fruit, thin and even, a testament to his steady hands.

She thought to herself, "I wouldn't know."

"You can look down on me all you want, Ms. Powell. But Harry respects me, and that's enough. You nearly bled out and died—how pitiful. I'll let Harry come check on you."

A minute later, Harold did in fact arrive.

He looked at Miranda, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something in his deep eyes she couldn't read.

Just then, the attending physician came in, and Harold asked, "Why did she... bleed so much?"

The doctor glanced at him, surprised.

He was just about to say, "She didn't recover properly after her miscarriage..."

Miranda cut the doctor off before he could speak.

"I know my own body. No need to ask."

Harold sat down beside her bed, watching her for a long moment before gently taking her hand.

"I had the chef make some soup. Want to try a little?"

Miranda gave him a strange smile. "Sure."

Harold opened the insulated container, poured a small bowl, and brought a spoonful to her lips.

The same soup Celia had.

The same caring gesture he'd used with Celia.

Miranda slapped his hand away, sending the entire bowl crashing to the floor.

She calmly grabbed a napkin and wiped her hands.

"Sorry, I hate chicken. And I hate soup.

"The chef's been working for us for five years and still doesn't know what I like. All your effort wasted—fire him."

Harold called someone in to clean up, his mood steady.

"What do you want to eat? I'll have the chef make something else."

Miranda didn't bother to answer.

Harold dialed the chef, listing off dishes one by one, watching for any reaction from her.

"Seafood chowder. That's the one," he finally said.

Miranda's voice was icy. "What happened to me has nothing to do with you or the Shull family. Just go. Stop wasting your time here—we're already divorced!"

Harold ignored her, went to the bathroom, soaked a towel, and came back to wipe her hands and face.

Once, just to make him come, she even lowered herself and begged. But he never heard her.

Now, when she wanted him gone, tried to drive him away, he still wouldn't listen.

Miranda hurled her water cup at him.

"Get out!"

His shirt soaked, Harold didn't even glance down. He simply placed everything from the nightstand within her reach.

"Keep throwing. When you're done, let me clean you up. You're drenched in sweat—it's you who's uncomfortable."

Miranda kept throwing things at him.

When she'd thrown everything, Harold picked it all up and handed it back for her to continue.

By the third round, Miranda was spent, letting him wipe her down as if she were a frail old woman.

He fed her the seafood chowder. After she finished, Harold's phone chimed with a special alert.

He stood. "Cece's still recovering, not feeling well. I'll go check on her."

He didn't return for the entire night.

The next morning, Miranda's doctor friend came by during rounds, asking why she'd hidden her miscarriage from Harold.

"When he brought you in for emergency care, his chest wound was bleeding everywhere. People told him to get bandaged, but he wouldn't listen—he waited until you were out of the ER. Mira, if you'd seen how lost he looked, you'd know he really cares about you."

"I know. I was barely conscious, but I felt it."

Miranda gazed out the window, squinting against the harsh light.

"That's why I'm afraid. Afraid that if he shows me a little tenderness, I'll fall for him all over again. My boundaries with him... are so weak."

But there was a life between them—a barrier Harold would never cross, never truly meet her heart to heart.

This illness had drained her.

Miranda stayed in the hospital for five days, then rested quietly at home for another week.

During those five days, Harold—uncharacteristically—postponed work and cared for her. The following week, he was away on business.

But Miranda knew from Celia's taunting videos and photos that he'd taken the other woman along.

Harold always hated mixing business and pleasure. When they were newlyweds, she'd offered to join him on trips and help organize his life, but he refused, saying she was too playful.

Now, who knew how many times he'd made exceptions for Celia?

"I told him I'd never been to Los Angeles, and Harry brought me along. Your husband is so thoughtful.

"He took me to a revolving restaurant, Disneyland, and promised to show me the world.

"All these photos—he took them for me. I love taking pictures, and we shot for two whole hours. Your husband is so patient, and such a great photographer!"

Miranda had never experienced any of it—not even once.

She never knew he could be so gentle, so agreeable, so good behind a camera...

How ridiculous.

She was learning about her own husband through another woman.

Miranda typed back.

"No photos in bed? Or do you just not want to sleep with him?"

Silence on the other end.

She tossed her phone aside and called the housekeeper.

"Pack up all of Harold's things."

This was the home Fred had bought for her, the one she'd decorated herself when she was still full of hope for love.

A week after the divorce, it was Harold who needed to move out.

When Harold returned from his business trip, he sensed something had changed in the house.

But Miranda was always rearranging the decor, so he didn't dwell on it. He handed her the gift he'd brought back.

"My work's wrapped up for now. I can spare three days to spend with you. Where do you want to go? Getting out might do your health some good."

Miranda was stunned.

All these years, he'd never once offered to take time off for her.

She'd planned countless trips, full of excitement, only for him to cancel every single one with the same tired excuse—"work's too busy, I can't fit it in."

She opened her mouth, ready to refuse him, when vivid memories of those carefully crafted itineraries suddenly flashed through her mind.

Five years of relentless disappointment.

After a long pause, Miranda said, "Let's drive to the coast. I love the beach."

Let this miserable marriage have at least a dignified farewell.

She opened the gift box and pulled out a Louis Vuitton cashmere shawl.

The color was all wrong for her taste, but she graciously draped it over her shoulders anyway.

Harold, as she requested, drove a coupe. Halfway there, his phone chimed with a special notification.

"Harry, I twisted my ankle. It hurts so much."

Harold immediately called Celia and changed the GPS route—he had her location saved on his phone.

Miranda stared at the app, quickly searching online. It was a couple's app.

At this point, did physical boundaries even matter?

Her head throbbed. She rolled down the window, letting the wind rush in and carry away the surge of emotion.

"Harold, I don't expect anything from you. You're the one who suggested this trip, so you should see it through.

"It'll take two hours to turn back. You want me sitting in the car all morning? I can't handle that—find someone else."

"I don't trust anyone else," Harold interrupted calmly.

Miranda fell silent, her eyes stinging.

A twisted ankle, and he said he didn't trust anyone else.

What about all those years she faced high fevers alone, the terror of nearly being slashed, the car accident...?

Did that just mean she was tough enough to survive without anyone caring?

"Harry, sorry to trouble you again."

They picked up Celia, and Harold helped her into the car.

Miranda glanced over, freezing instantly.

Celia was wearing the same shawl, but in a much prettier color—the style Miranda actually liked.

"Harold, who picked out my shawl?"

Miranda asked, each word deliberate.

Celia replied, "Ms. Powell, you don't like yours? There were only two left at the boutique. I thought, since you're older, you'd prefer something more mature, so I chose the younger color for myself."

She looked apologetic. "Why don't we swap?"

Miranda ignored her, her eyes fixed on Harold.

"So you gave me the leftover one? What am I, Miranda Powell, the garbage bin for other people's castoffs?"

She yanked off the shawl and tossed it out the car window.

Celia shrank back, too scared to speak. Harold gently patted her shoulder. "It's okay."

He buckled her seatbelt, slid into the driver's seat, and said coolly, "It's just a color. You make such a fuss about everything—it's no wonder you're always unhappy."

After a long silence, Miranda let out a bitter laugh.

"So you do notice I'm unhappy."

He noticed, but he never cared.

The car detoured to the hospital.

By the time Celia finished getting her ankle taped, the whole morning was gone, and Miranda's trip was still stuck at the starting line.

"Let's have lunch. Cece's hungry, and you probably are too," Harold said to Miranda, glancing at Celia in the back seat. "Thai or barbecue?"

Celia beamed, her voice syrupy and innocent. "Harry, how do you always remember my favorites? You're amazing!"

Harold smiled faintly.

"If you pay attention, it's not hard to remember."

That smile felt like a curved blade, slicing deep into Miranda's heart.

Celia kept going. "What about my favorite drink—do you remember?"

"Fresh-squeezed orange juice."

"My favorite fruit?"

"Avocado."

"My favorite way to eat ribs?"

"Braised."

"How does Ms. Powell like hers?"

Harold, who had been answering instantly, suddenly hesitated.

Miranda's voice was icy. "If you two want to get cozy, go book a hotel room. Stop turning my car into a sleazy soap opera."

Harold frowned.

"Is that all you ever think about? Cece's like a sister to me."

Celia's eyes filled with tears. "Ms. Powell, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. I... I won't say anything else. Harry, just drop me off by the curb. I'm not that hungry."

Harold shot Miranda a reproachful look, his tone final.

"It's lunchtime. We'll eat together."

Miranda folded her arms.

"Fine. I want French food."

This time, Harold didn't object.

He drove to the restaurant, but didn't get out of the car.

"Cece isn't used to French cuisine, and her ankle needs looking after. I'll have barbecue with her. I'll pick you up when we're done."

Before Miranda could respond, the car slid forward and drove away.

She stood under the blazing sun, watching the rear of the car for a long time.

That car was the birthday gift she'd given Harold in their first year of marriage. She still remembered how her heart brimmed with hope, wishing he'd be surprised.

But Harold had only glanced at it, never once driving it.

Today was the first time he'd ever taken it out.

She'd waited five years for this moment—only to see him drive off, leaving her behind with another woman.

"So, forget it, Harold.

"I'm not always going to wait for you. I don't have to wait for you," she thought to herself.

After lunch, Miranda called a car and had her bodyguard accompany her alone to the beach.

She'd already booked the itinerary and hotel; she didn't want it to go to waste.

Harold called three times during her trip, which was more than usual.

Miranda didn't answer any of them.

On the first day, she did everything she wanted, visited the places she'd dreamed of, and even found some enjoyment.

On the second day, as she strolled along the shoreline, she unexpectedly ran into Celia. Harold was standing beside her, arms full of grocery bags, carefully dabbing her mouth with a napkin.

When Harold saw Miranda, he paused.

"When did you get here? Why didn't you leave a message? Cece and I looked for you all day yesterday. She's still recovering from childbirth and twisted her ankle; it's been exhausting—"

"And what about me yesterday, stuck in the car for over five hours because of her? Wasn't I exhausted too?" Miranda thought.

She suppressed the urge to argue, her face expressionless as she turned and walked toward the ocean, leaving them behind.

Celia jogged after her, her voice low and smug.

"Ms. Powell, you're really no fun. No matter how much time you spend with Harry, his heart will always belong to me."

Miranda laughed.

"Only you? After all this time, you still don't realize you're just a stand-in?"

Seeing Celia's face change, Miranda didn't feel any satisfaction.

She kicked at the seawater, bored, when suddenly a force yanked her forward, her feet slipping out from under her.

Below was a sheer drop into the ocean, dark and unfathomable!

"Ms. Powell, that high-and-mighty attitude of yours is really annoying. Harry said you can barely swim—wonder if you'll learn your lesson this time?"

Celia let go and swam away with practiced ease.

The water at the cliff's edge was icy cold, and Miranda was a poor swimmer at best. Panic set in immediately.

She swallowed several mouthfuls of water, flailing desperately toward the shore, but the rip current kept pushing her farther out.

Nearby, she heard Celia's frantic cries for help—the same current had caught her, too.

But Celia was much stronger; at least she could breathe.

Through the churning waves, Miranda saw Harold.

He was swimming toward them, fast and determined.

Instinctively, she grabbed his arm, lifting her face out of the water to gasp for air.

But he shook her off forcefully, pushing her away. Miranda didn't get a chance to breathe before she plunged back into the sea.

The suffocating sensation spread through her body.

This time, she had no strength left to fight, watching helplessly as Harold steadily swam away with Celia.

Darkness closed in, and Miranda slowly sank into the deep...

"Ms. Powell? Ms. Powell? How are you feeling?"

Miranda spat out a mouthful of seawater and opened her eyes, finding herself lying on the sand, two bodyguards soaking wet beside her.

She gripped the female guard's hand tightly, staring up at the brilliant blue sky until her eyes stung and a tear slipped down her cheek.

"Miranda!"

Harold pushed through the crowd, rushing over. Seeing she was safe, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Just now, I..."

Miranda didn't want to hear it, didn't want to see him. She turned to her bodyguard. "Take me back to the hotel. Help me up—I'm too weak."

Harold bent down and wrapped his arm around her waist. "I'll take you."

Miranda shoved him hard, but his arm was like iron.

She laughed bitterly.

"Fine. If you call the police and have Celia arrested for attempted murder, I'll let you take me."

Harold immediately dismissed the idea.

"She saw you were upset and wanted to cheer you up by splashing in the water. She didn't know about the drop-off. You're misunderstanding her."

Just as she expected.

Miranda replied coldly, "Then stay away from me."

Seeing the sharp, hateful look in her eyes, all the strength seemed to drain from Harold.

"Harry..."

Behind him, Celia's voice trembled with tears. He turned instinctively.

By the time he looked back, Miranda was already being helped to her feet by her bodyguard, leaving without another word.

Her slender figure was like a needle piercing his heart.

That evening, Celia knocked on Miranda's hotel room door.

"Who's Evie? When he saved me this afternoon, he kept calling me 'Evie.'"

Miranda paused, glancing down at the bruise on her arm—left there when Harold had shoved her away in the sea.

"His first love. She drowned herself."

"So I'm Evie's stand-in? No wonder he..." Celia's expression went blank for a moment, then her eyes narrowed.

"So what if I'm a stand-in? The dead can't compete with the living.

"Ms. Powell, at least I have a face that can win. You have nothing. People without ability should step aside."

Miranda looked at this ambitious woman and, inexplicably, remembered herself five years ago—radiant with confidence, just like Celia.

Back then, she never would have imagined that all her pride and self-assurance would one day drown in the sea.

"I'm about to divorce him. If you want to climb up, your real competition is him.

"And for the record, I value my life. You nearly killed me today. I don't have any proof to hold you accountable this time, but sooner or later, you'll pay for it."

Without waiting for Celia's reply, Miranda closed the door and collapsed onto the bed, falling into an exhausted sleep.

She didn't wake until noon the next day. When she opened the door, she found Harold leaning against the frame, his eyes shadowed with a sadness that never seemed to fade.

"I'll spend today with you," he said.

Bang! Miranda slammed the door in his face.

She ordered room service and ate slowly. When she finally stepped out, Harold was still waiting.

Miranda pretended not to see him, called for her bodyguard, and headed out to hike the cliffs of Point Dume.

She wasn't in a rush, stopping here and there along the way.

Harold followed at a careful distance, supporting Celia whenever she suddenly appeared.

At one of the cliffside rest stops, Celia approached Miranda and opened her palm to reveal something.

"This watch—Harry wears it every day. It was a gift from that Evie, wasn't it?"

Miranda glanced at it, then looked away.

The watch was worn and cheap, completely out of place for someone like Harold.

She had bought him countless watches over the years—rare collector's pieces, new limited editions from luxury brands...

Her taste was impeccable, but for five years, Harold had never taken off that damned, worthless watch, not even for the most exclusive business events.

"Looks like it," Celia said, her eyes unreadable.

Suddenly, she dropped to her knees, grabbing Miranda's leg, waving her arms, and begging loudly.

"Ms. Powell! This is Harry's most treasured watch. You said you wanted to see it, so I took it when he washed his hands. How could you use me like this? Please, don't throw it away, I'm begging you!"

"Miranda! Don't touch it!"

Harold's hurried footsteps echoed behind them.

Celia flung her arm, and the watch tumbled over the edge—down into the sea below.

A figure dove after it, trying to catch it.

Miranda stared dumbly at the silhouette growing smaller and smaller, murmuring.

"He... he really loves her that much..."

A 25-meter cliff—only extreme athletes would dare to dive from that height.

Harold had no experience. He'd jumped for a worthless watch Evelyn had given him!

Miranda pressed a hand to her forehead and looked at Celia, whose face was ghostly pale. She couldn't stop herself from slapping her.

"Idiot! At this height, the water's as hard as concrete. Tell me, what are the odds your life of luxury survives this?"

Miranda called for rescue.

Heaven must have favored Harold. Unlike those tragic cases where faces split open and brains spilled out, he was lucky to escape with his life.

Miranda sat outside the emergency room for six hours, signing one critical condition notice after another.

Waiting with her was another wife.

Her husband had shielded her during a fire, lowering her to safety with a bedsheet while suffering burns over 70% of his body.

Maybe to soothe Miranda's nerves, she offered comfort, saying everything would be alright.

But Miranda felt nothing.

Her husband had nearly killed himself for another woman's old trinket.

She was numb to it all.

Her marriage, right to the bitter end, was nothing but tragedy—bloody and raw.

She was used to it.

Harold suffered a fractured sternum and remained unconscious for two days.

The day he woke, Miranda spoke with the attending physician and went to see him in his room.

She hadn't even stepped inside before several burly men grabbed her arms and legs.

Harold got out of bed with Celia's help, his gaze icy and sharp. "So even a watch bothers you?"

Miranda stared at Celia.

Celia's eyes darted away, fear flickering as she tried to hide behind Harold. His expression grew even colder.

"What's wrong, Ms. Powell? Trying to throw your weight around again?"

Miranda found the whole thing absurd, and any desire to communicate vanished instantly.

She looked at Harold for a long moment, her tone calm and steady, "When you want to accuse me, make sure you have proof."

The restraint in Harold's eyes was about to snap. He grabbed her right hand and forcefully pulled off the emerald bracelet from her slender wrist.

"Harold!" Miranda panicked.

"That bracelet—your mother gave it to you, didn't she?" His voice was cold as steel. Then he slammed it onto the ground.

The bracelet shattered into pieces, and Miranda's voice seemed to break along with it, her mouth hanging open in shock.

Harold returned to his bed, not sparing her a glance. "Sweep up the mess. Flush it down the toilet."

Only after the sound of flushing echoed three times did he finally let his men release Miranda.

She stood where she was, meeting Harold's gaze from across the room. Rubbing her aching wrist, she spoke softly.

"Harold, I've always been someone who never regrets my choices. No matter how hard or exhausting, if I picked the path, I'd see it through. But with you—I truly regret it. I regret marrying you, and I regret spending three sleepless days rallying specialists to save your life.

"Why didn't I just give up? I was such a fool."

Harold looked at her quietly, as if she were nothing more than a dull painting on the wall.

His usual "read but never reply" attitude.

Miranda let out a bitter laugh, shook her head, and steadied herself against the wall as she headed out, saying one last thing.

"Today's the last day of the cooling-off period. Tomorrow, 10 a.m., courthouse—sign the divorce papers, don't be late."

The next day, Harold showed up right on time.

He signed first, without hesitation, then stood and looked down at Miranda.

"If you think you can manipulate me with divorce, you're wrong. Once we're really divorced, don't even think about getting back together. Whether you sign your name or not is up to you."

With that, he walked away without a backward glance.

Miranda picked up the pen, pressing each stroke deep into the paper.

She left the courthouse, divorce certificate in hand. A flashy sports car was already waiting at the curb, and the man behind the wheel was dressed even louder than the car itself. He whistled at her.

"Honey, your hot lover is ready and waiting."

***

The living room was piled high with packed boxes. Miranda led Nathan Latimer inside, tossed out, "Have the movers take these to Harold's parents' house," and went straight upstairs.

She thought maybe being close to another man would help her vent years of pent-up emotion.

But the truth was, she felt nothing.

Nathan, pinned beneath her, joked, "Babe, if you keep seducing me with that blank face, I'm gonna lose the mood. You're a VIP monthly member—no need to rush to make your money's worth. What you really need is a good night's sleep."

So, the two of them just slept together—literally—on the brand-new bed.

Miranda felt like the past five years had been an endless marathon, running so far only to circle back to the starting line.

She finally stopped. One day of rest wasn't enough. She slept for an entire week, barely leaving her room.

Nathan stayed with her the whole time.

And during that week, Harold was overseas for work.

On the day he returned, his driver—unaware of the divorce—brought him back to the marital home as usual.

Harold stood in the yard for two minutes, finished a cigarette, then carried his gifts inside using his fingerprint. The housekeeper gave him a strange look.

"Where's Miranda?" he asked. "Still sulking?"

The housekeeper hesitated. "She's... she's resting."

Harold grunted, sticking to his old routine and changing his shoes—though the size felt off.

He washed his hands in the bathroom, then headed upstairs.

The housekeeper tried to stop him several times, and Harold finally grew suspicious.

He strode upstairs and threw open the master bedroom door—only to see a strange man sprawled shirtless on his marriage bed, with a scantily clad Miranda curled up in his arms.