Three years of marriage, and my husband had never touched me. Not once. I found out why on our third anniversary. I caught him in the bathroom, whispering Cathy, his first love's name, while pleasuring himself. She had just come back to the country. That night, I didn't cry. After that, he always told me, he had to help her, she is alone. "Okay." "Go ahead." "No problem." He started noticing my calm. "Why aren't you angry?" Because I had stopped wasting my anger. I was busy. For two years, while he played the devoted "friend," I studied photography in secret. Took classes. Saved up. Got my portfolio ready. Applied to art schools across Europe. The day my visa was approved, I placed the divorce papers in front of him. He laughed. "You're joking. How would you even survive without me?" I didn't answer. I just walked out, flew across the ocean, and disappeared into the old streets of Florence. He didn't chase me. He didn't even try. He never knew where I ran to. And I wasn't running anymore. I was home.

I gave him thirteen years. But he never cared about me. So I left. I walked away from the billionaire, the mansion, and the life that turned me into a ghost. I became their nightmare. Now my product is crushing his empire. My stepsister is behind bars. And the man who never saw me is standing in the rain outside my office, holding coffee I didn't ask for and apologies I don't want. He burned my world down without even knowing it. Now he's burning his own to win me back. Too bad I'm already on fire.