Torn by my wife's twin

CHAPTER 2

Lana’s POV

Fifteen Years Later

Hi, it’s me again. You might be surprised I’ve survived until now. Don’t ask me how—I was just as shocked that I managed to live on two hundred dollars a month.

As I walked down the empty corridor, I caught my reflection in the long mirror wall and cringed. The cheap foundation and powder on my face looked cakey, and the bright fuchsia lipstick clashed with my warm skin tone. With a sigh, I debated wiping it all off, but decided against it. Brandon, the bar manager, would scold me if I showed up bare-faced.

With the little money I had, cheap makeup was all I could afford. And honestly, I never understood why we had to wear so much in a place that was already dimly lit.

It was a typical Wednesday night at the Delacroix. The bar was packed with women—it was ladies’ night, after all. And no, before you get the wrong idea, I wasn’t a stripper. I was just a waitress serving drinks.

If you’re wondering why I worked here, the answer is simple: I didn’t have many options. I never finished school, and after Mom hurt her back slipping down the stairs one night, she couldn’t bake cakes anymore. Then Dad left us—for good—three months ago. His heart gave out suddenly, and none of us saw it coming. I swore over his grave that I’d take care of Mom.

The pay here was good. Fifty dollars an hour—much higher than most bars. Delacroix catered only to wealthy businessmen, operating like a private club. This was my first month, and so far, I was surviving. The contract was clear: I served drinks to VIP guests, kept them company if asked, but touching was off-limits unless I allowed it.

Brandon hired me because he said I was “pretty enough” to entertain their high-paying clients. Lucky for me, VIPs tipped better than anyone else. Of course, not all the girls were allowed in the VIP section. That’s why jealous stares often followed me around. Whatever. I wasn’t here to make friends. As long as we stayed out of each other’s way, I was fine.

Still, the skimpy uniform was uncomfortable, and the five-inch heels felt like torture devices. My ankles throbbed with every step. But I had no choice—I had a mom to feed.

“Take this to table three,” Brandon barked, his eyes narrowing when he caught me rubbing my sore feet. “You know, my offer to be a Delacroix Angel still stands.”

I shot him a sour smile. “No thanks. I’d rather be here than sell my body.”

“Angels”—that’s what they called the girls who offered extra services. A sugar-coated word for prostitutes. Brandon thought it sounded nicer, less dirty.

The money was tempting, sure. Enough to put me through college. But I turned him down flat. I wanted to save myself for someone I truly loved. That promise was all I had left to hold on to.

Brandon rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Suit yourself, then. Now go.” He gestured for me to take the drinks in my hand.

Luna’s POV

I examined my reflection one last time, sighing quietly. People saw my beauty, my designer clothes, my glamorous lifestyle—and assumed I had it all. They had no idea how much pain I carried, hidden deep inside.

They envied me. They called me lucky. If only they knew the truth—that beneath the surface, I was bruised beyond repair.

Not even marrying Artemis Quinn, the most handsome, successful CEO in New York, could fix what was broken inside me.

His love wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was.

“Good morning…” His arms wrapped around me from behind, warm and secure. His lips brushed my neck, leaving a teasing kiss. He always knew how to turn me on, but I forced myself to stay still—I didn’t want to ruin my makeup.

We had s*x often, almost every night. But s*x didn’t equal love. Not for me.

The first time I saw Artemis, I was instantly drawn to him. Who wouldn’t be? He was the perfect embodiment of a Greek god. Gorgeous. Filthy rich. Caring. On a scale of one to ten, he was an eleven. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe he chose me. I never missed a beauty appointment, always working to stay worthy of being his wife.

I remember our first meeting as clearly as if it happened yesterday. It felt like something straight out of a romance novel.

It was during one of his company’s auction events. Our eyes met across the room. He already had a woman on his arm, so I dismissed the thought immediately. A man like him? Out of my league.

But later, he waited for me outside the ladies’ room. Before I knew it, he pushed me back inside and locked the door. My heart raced—trapped, nervous, but strangely thrilled.

“This is the ladies’ room… you must’ve made a mistake,” I stammered, my voice trembling under his dominant gaze.

He chuckled softly, amused, and caged me between his arms. His cologne filled the air, intoxicating.

“I’m not the type to beat around the bush. Who are you? Why haven’t I seen you at this event before?”

His deep voice sent shivers down my spine.

Gathering my courage, I answered, “I’ve actually been here three times. Maybe I’m just not the type you’d remember.”

I tried to walk past him, but he caught my arm, pulling me against his chest. His hand brushed my cheek, gentle but possessive.

“Mr. Quinn… what are you doing?” I whispered.

He stared into my eyes, his own a piercing shade of blue. “So you know who I am.”

“Everyone knows Artemis Quinn,” I admitted nervously. “You’re not just a successful businessman. Tonight’s auction is proof—you donate everything to the orphanage. They say you have a heart of gold.”

He smirked, intrigued. “So you think you know me. Tell me—what else have you heard?”

I hesitated, then muttered, “They… say you’re a playboy. That you can’t commit.”

His expression darkened, then softened again. “And do you believe that?”

“No. Of course not,” I said quickly.

His smile returned, warm this time. “Good. Because I want to ask you out for coffee tomorrow.”

The offer stunned me. Men like him didn’t ask women like me out. Surely, I was dreaming.

“I’m not your type,” I said, pushing him gently away and slipping out of the restroom. But that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The next day, fate stepped in. A Ferrari screeched to a halt in front of me. I nearly cursed the reckless driver—until I saw Artemis behind the wheel.

“Mr. Quinn?” I gasped.

“Get in,” he ordered.

And just like that, it began.

Our love story could have been lifted straight from the pages of a romance novel. Passionate, consuming, impossible to ignore. I fell, hard. But it didn’t last. Not for me.

Over time, Artemis’s devotion became suffocating. He was too loyal, too possessive. And then came the talk of children. He wanted a baby; I didn’t. A child would only trap me further.

Last night, when I refused him, he snapped. He had never raised his voice before, but the thought of missing my ovulation window set him off.

“Are you still mad about last night?” he murmured now, his arms snug around my waist.

I shook my head, meeting his reflection in the mirror.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said softly. “We can wait. Until you’re ready.”

Turning me gently, he cupped my face. “I love you, Luna Quinn. Your happiness is all that matters.”

Oh, Artemis. If only you knew the truth.

I forced a smile, slipping free of his hands. “Thank you, love. That means a lot.”

Grabbing my bag, I headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” he asked, suspicion flickering in his eyes.

“I have meetings,” I replied casually.

He raised a brow, his jealousy simmering.

“Oh, come on, Artemis… you know all my friends.” I threw the line over my shoulder, closing the door behind me.