Fake Vows & Forbidden Flames

Chapter 5: A Wife’s Duty

Nearly three years of marriage, and he’d always been a fleeting presence—three days here, two weeks there, never staying longer than a month. But this time, forty days away... it felt different.

Staring at a photo of them smiling together, Dora’s premonition grew stronger. Luna Liu—even her name sounded elegant. His last lover had been Iris Wei, hadn’t she? Did that last a month? He changed women faster and faster.

If not for their names, she’d swear they were twins—long hair, natural makeup, willowy figures, the quintessential "good girl" type. Dora glanced down at her own softer curves. She was definitely not his usual style. So why had he agreed to marry her?

She felt grateful, though. He’d never cared she wasn’t a virgin, and they’d lived in peace these three years. He’d saved her from ruin. She didn’t open the trending news, spending the afternoon in a daze until her phone pinged:

【I’m coming home tonight.】

He was back? Like a ghost summoned from the void.

After a three-second pause, she typed back: 【Got it. Waiting for you.】

She didn’t notice her slouched shoulders straightening, nor the faint flutter in her chest.

After work, Dora headed to the mall. Her husband was picky and had a twisted sense of humor. As a "good wife," she needed to keep things interesting. For three years, most of her wardrobe was pajamas—even though he was rarely home.

Once, she’d reused an old set, and he’d mocked her for "digging out rags." Shocked by his sharp memory, she’d made a habit of buying new pajamas every three months to "keep his eyes entertained."

Thankfully, his infrequent visits kept her from going bankrupt. He was born into luxury, with expensive tastes—cheap pajamas were out of the question. After browsing, she picked a black silk set. "This one."

"That’s $450, miss."

Wincing as she swiped her card, Dora cursed silently. $450 for a scrap of fabric? Her daily clothes were never this pricey. Muttering under her breath, she hurried home.

Traffic delayed her, and by the time she reached Manor Heights, dusk had fallen. She didn’t notice the familiar Maybach in the parking lot.

The moment she reached the entrance, she knew—his faint, distinctive cedarwood cologne lingered in the air, sharp and warm, a silent confirmation he was already home.

Her steps faltered, her hand hovering over the doorknob, as a mix of anticipation and unease settled in her chest.