Before Death Do Us Part

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – A Whisper from a Stranger

Morning came like punishment. Too bright. Too still. Too cruelly alive for someone who felt like she died somewhere between last night’s applause and her husband’s fading warmth. I rubbed my eyes as I stared at the high ceiling of our big yet empty room.

Lucian’s side of the bed was untouched. His scent—clean linen, faint cologne, the ghost of him—lingered on the pillow but not in the room.

He hadn’t slept beside me. Again.

I sat there for a while, watching the sunlight crawl across the sheets, gliding the emptiness he left behind. I used to love mornings.

Now they only reminded me how easy it was for him to disappear before I even woke. I do not know what is happening between us, in our marriage. I played my role seamlessly, the wife that he needed, the one who stood beside him, defying everything just so he could get the approval he needed from my parents… I did almost everything for us but why does it feel as if the warmth of Lucian that I have felt before has already burned down to its tiniest ash?

Downstairs, the house gleamed like a showroom. Every corner sparkled. Every flower was fresh. Every painting hung straight. And yet, everything felt lifeless. Perfect, but dead. I could not help but again, reminisce what this place looks like when we first started to live here… and to my surprise, all I could remember now were the mornings where he would quickly leave… for a business. Right. Who said that we would have our honeymoon after the wedding?

“Good morning, Ma’am,” said Liza, one of the house staff. Her smile was small, careful.

“Sir left early. He said he has a meeting at the main branch.”

“Did he have breakfast?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“No, Ma’am. Just coffee.” Of course. Coffee. Always coffee and excuses. I nodded and sat at the long mahogany table.

The breakfast was already laid out — eggs, fruits, pancakes. Enough for two. Always for two. I stared at the food until the syrup reflected my face back at me — a woman perfectly dressed, perfectly painted, perfectly unwanted. I used to eat breakfast with him when we were just starting. Now I ate silence.

By midday, I found myself at the salon. My stylist’s chatter filled the air like static, but I barely listened. I smiled when expected, nodded when necessary. That’s how I survived lately — by existing politely.

“Your hair’s getting thinner, Mrs. Hale,” she said with a light laugh. “You need rest.” Rest. The word sounded foreign. How could I rest when my life no longer fit inside my own body?

I watched myself in the mirror — the flawless curls, the scarlet lips, the practiced grace. Every detail screamed control. But beneath that reflection, I saw someone else. Someone smaller. Someone begging to be seen.

By the afternoon, I was at Valez Atelier, my family’s legacy. Or at least, what remained of it. The mannequins wore unfinished gowns. The workers spoke in hushed tones. The air smelled faintly of fabric dust and resignation.

“Mrs. Hale,” said Clarisse, one of my senior designers. Her eyes flickered nervously.

“We still haven’t received the budget approval from Hale Group for the new line.” My lips parted, then closed again. I wanted to tell her I’d handle it. That I had power. That my husband cared. But lies were heavier when spoken out loud.

“I’ll remind him,” I said softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

Clarisse nodded, though I could tell she didn’t believe me. Neither did I. Lucian promised he’d keep the business alive. Instead, he bled it quietly, stripping it of control under the guise of “efficiency.” He said it was our empire. I just didn’t realize he meant his. And even if I wanted to something about it…

“Sera, you look tired,” she said, her tone casual but sharp.

“You should really fix that. People notice.”

“I’m fine, Mother.” That evening, I met my mother at the Peninsula Hotel lounge.

She was radiant as ever, dressed in pearls and poise. She sipped her tea, eyes scanning the room more than my face.

“Everyone’s still talking about the gala. You and Lucian are the envy of the city. Keep it that way. Power couples don’t show weakness.” I laughed softly.

“You make it sound like love is a press release.” She set down her cup.

“Love fades. Reputation doesn’t.” I looked at her — the woman who raised me to be perfect, who taught me to smile through bleeding lips and broken hearts.

“You mean appearances don’t.” She smiled thinly.

“Appearances are everything.” For the first time, I wondered if maybe that was the real curse of being a Valez — to be beautiful, to be loved, but never to be free.

“Did father mention anything to you, Mother? Perhaps Lucian shares his plan for our atelier with Father?”

“No…” her eyes turned into a slit and she shook her head. “Ija, focus on your home, what about children? You should eye having one right now. The atelier can handle its own under your husband’s management,”

I wanted to disagree, I feel like we are losing our very own rich, the Valez Atelier, and I cannot do anything about it.

When I got home that night, the lights were dim. The clock ticked past ten. Lucian arrived minutes later, softly closing our bedroom door. Smelling faintly of whiskey and an almost foreign perfume. The light from the lamp illuminated my figure sitting on our bed. I watched him as he loosened his tie, avoiding my eyes.

“You’re still awake?”

“I waited for you,” I said, playing with my fingers.

“We were supposed to have dinner.”

“I told you, I had a client meeting.”

“You’ve been having a lot of those lately.” Bitterness spilled out from my mouth. He sighed, his patience thinning.

“Sera, not tonight.” Not tonight. Always not tonight.

I swallowed hard and nodded, still watching him as he took off his clothes.

“I just miss you,” I said quietly. The words came out smaller than I intended.

He looked at me for a moment — really looked — and for a second, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or pity. But it vanished.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” he said simply, and walked in our shower. I wanted to scream that being here wasn’t the same as being mine. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I got up, the feeling of sleepiness slipping off my system.

I wandered to the balcony. The city stretched beneath me — glittering, distant, alive in ways I no longer was. I pressed my hand against the glass, watching the lights blur. How ironic, that the world saw me as a woman who had everything… When the only thing I wanted was to feel something again. And then, like an echo from last night, his voice replayed in my head:

“Not all love is loyalty, Mrs. Hale.” Azrael Dreven.

The stranger who saw through my perfect mask. I tried to brush it off, but the words lingered, wrapping around my thoughts like smoke. There was something about the way he’d said it — not as a warning, but as if he has seen things I haven’t.