The Billionaire's Wife Fell For The Wrong Twin

~Nadia's POV~ "Did you actually think I married you for love?" Adrian's voice was like a sharp cut through the room, and I felt what he said before I even understood it. I was still standing by the dining table, the one I had spent an hour setting with his favorite wine and the good silverware, like any of that mattered to a man like him. "Adrian…" "Answer the question, Nadia." I looked at him. Two years. Two years of trying to reach someone who had already decided I wasn't worth reaching. "I thought you married me because you wanted a wife," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Apparently I was wrong." He laughed, but it wasn't a friendly laugh. It was the kind that said he'd already made up his mind about this conversation. "A wife." He crossed the room slowly, hands in his pockets, like we were having a perfectly normal disagreement. "I married you because I was pressured into it and you were the most convenient option available. That's it. That's the whole story." Something hurt inside me, but I kept it to myself. "Then why stay? Two years, Adrian. If I'm so beneath you, why are you still here?" "Because leaving requires paperwork." He stopped right in front of me. "And you're not worth the inconvenience yet." I should have walked away. I know that now. Instead I said, "You're a coward." He slapped me before I could even finish speaking. I stumbled into the table, knocking over a wine glass. Red wine spilled everywhere, looking like blood on the white tablecloth. I grabbed the table to stop myself from falling, but he wasn't finished. He grabbed my arm and pushed me hard, and I ended up on the floor, gasping for air with my face burning. He stood over me. Didn't even look angry anymore. Just cold. "Don't ever call me a coward in my own house," he said. He straightened his cuff. Picked up his jacket from the chair. And walked out the door without looking back. The silence after was the loudest thing I had ever heard. I stayed on the floor for a while. Not because I couldn't get up, but because getting up felt like agreeing that this was just another thing I would survive and move past. And I was tired of surviving things. My face hurt. My ribs hurt from hitting the table. I lay there, looking up at the fancy apartment ceiling, and suddenly I was back in that first cage they put me in. I pulled myself up from the floor. The plan to get out wasn't something I came up with overnight. It took eight months of patience, of watching him walk past me like I was furniture, of saying goodnight to a man who never once said it back. Eight months of small purchases paid in cash. Four cameras. One tablet. One cello case that he never touched because he had never once cared about the thing I loved most. I moved through the apartment with a determination I'd never felt before, like I was done waiting, done being stuck. Living room camera. Check. Study cameras. Check. Bedroom doorway. Check. Hallway. Check. I grabbed the tablet from my cello case and saved the recordings from the past 2 years onto a secure drive. Then I put everything back. My lawyer had the financial docs, but I had a secret account with money. He couldn't touch the new password, all mine. Two bags were already packed and waiting in the closet, ready to go. I had everything I needed. The clock on the microwave read 2:38 PM when I finished. I stood in the kitchen doorway and looked at the ruined dinner table and the spilled wine and thought, two years. Then I thought, never again. I turned toward the kitchen, deciding between a drink and a knife, mostly the drink, honestly when I heard it. The front door clicked. I went completely still. My first thought was stupid and immediate: He came back to finish it. My hand found the counter behind me. I wasn't going to the floor again. I didn't care what I had to do, I was not going back down. The door swung open. Adrian stood in the doorway. I stared at him. He looked the same. Same height, same face, same broad shoulders in a dark jacket. But he had one hand behind his back, and his face… His face was different. He stepped inside and crossed the room slowly. When he stopped he brought his hand from behind his back. Flowers. White and pale pink, wrapped simply, the kind someone picks because they're pretty and not because they're expensive. He held them out toward me with a look in his eyes I had never seen before. Soft. Careful. Like he was afraid I might break. "Happy second anniversary babe," he said quietly. I didn't move. Didn't speak. I just stood there looking at him, at this man holding flowers with gentle eyes and a gentle voice, and all I could think was this is the same man. The same hands that put me on the floor two hours ago. The same mouth that told me I wasn't worth the inconvenience. The same face that walked out that door without looking back once. The same man. So why did he look at me like that had never happened?