The wax from the candles had dripped onto the silk tablecloth, hardening into cold, white puddles. The food, prepared by a Michelin-star chef three hours ago, sat untouched and stale.
In the vast, silent dining room of the St. Yves mansion, Anaïs Chen sat alone.
She stared at the grandfather clock ticking against the wall.
Tick. Tock.
2:15 AM.
It was their third wedding anniversary.
In her lap, Anaïs's fingers were white from gripping a small, velvet gift box. It wasn't a watch or a tie. Inside the box sat a white plastic stick with two bright pink lines, resting on top of a tiny, handwritten note: Hi Daddy.
She ran her thumb over the velvet. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a mix of terrifying hope and crushing dread.
This will fix us, she told herself, though the voice in her head sounded small and weak. Once Bastian sees this, he won't look at me with those cold, tired eyes anymore. He'll look at me the way he did three years ago.
She closed her eyes, letting a memory wash over her.
It was the day of their wedding. A small, private chapel. Bastian St. Yves, the heir to the entertainment empire, had taken her hands. His grey eyes, usually so sharp and intimidating, had been soft.
"I don't need the world to know us," he had whispered, sliding the ring onto her finger. "I just need to protect you. I will keep you safe from everything, Anaïs."
She opened her eyes. The empty dining room felt like a tomb.
He had kept his promise. He had protected her. He had hidden her away in this golden cage, banned her from acting for her safety, and turned her into a ghost while he conquered the world.
The sound of the electronic lock beeping shattered the silence.
Beep. Beep. Click.
Anaïs sat up straighter, her heart leaping into her throat. She quickly checked her reflection in the back of a spoon—pale, exhausted, but alive.
The heavy oak doors pushed open.
Bastian St. Yves walked in.
He brought the smell of rain and cold air with him. He was wearing a black trench coat over his tuxedo, his dark hair damp and messy. He looked devastatingly handsome, like a fallen king, but the air around him was freezing.
He didn't look at the dining table. He didn't look at the dead candles or the anniversary cake. He walked straight toward the stairs, loosening his tie with a rough jerk of his hand.
"You're still up?"
His voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. It wasn't a question; it was an observation of a nuisance.
Anaïs stood up, her legs numb from sitting for five hours. She clutched the velvet box tighter.
"Happy Anniversary, Bastian."
Bastian paused on the bottom step. He turned slowly, his grey eyes sweeping over her. There was no recognition in them. No spark. Just fatigue.
"I forgot," he said simply. "Grandfather called. There was a family dinner."
Anaïs felt a physical blow to her chest.
A family dinner.
An hour ago, she had seen the photos on social media. Sienna, the famous actress and Bastian's Muse, had posted a selfie holding a glass of wine, sitting at the St. Yves family table. The caption read: Family time is the best time.
The mistress sat at the table laughing with his parents. The wife waited in the dark with cold soup.
"I see," Anaïs whispered, forcing her voice not to break. "Did… did Sienna enjoy the dinner?"
Bastian's expression hardened. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Don't start, Anaïs," he warned, his voice sharp. "Sienna is the face of the company. She has to maintain good relations with the board. You know you don't like crowds. You're too fragile for that world."
Fragile.
That was his word for her. Not wife. Not partner. Fragile. A decoration that would break if he took it off the shelf.
"I'm not fragile," she said, her voice trembling. She took a step forward, holding out the velvet box. "Bastian, please. I have something for you. Just open it."
Bastian looked at the box. He didn't reach for it. He didn't even ask what it was.
He rubbed his temples, closing his eyes. "Not now, Anaïs. My head is splitting. The investors are breathing down my neck about the new movie. I don't have time for gifts."
"It's not just a gift," she pleaded, desperation creeping into her tone. "It's important. It changes things."
"Put it in the study with the others," he said, turning his back on her and starting up the stairs.
With the others.
The study was full of unopened gifts from business partners and fans. He was telling her to throw her heart onto a pile of junk.
"Bastian!" she called out.
He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked down. His patience was gone.
"I'm tired, Anaïs," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that used to make her knees weak, but now only made her cold. "I don't want to talk. I don't want to open boxes. I just want to sleep."
He stared at her, his gaze lingering on her neck, then her waist. But it wasn't with love. It was with a detached, biological need.
"Come upstairs," he said. "Help me relieve some stress. It's the only way I can fall asleep."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Relieve stress.
He didn't want to make love to his wife on their anniversary. He wanted a sedative. He wanted to use her body to forget the woman he actually spent his evening with.
Something inside Anaïs—a thin, tight string that had been holding her together for three years—finally snapped.
She looked at the man she had worshipped. She looked at the unopened box in her hand.
"No," she whispered.
Bastian frowned. "What?"
"I said no," she said, her voice oddly calm. "I'm not feeling well. Go to sleep, Bastian."
Bastian looked annoyed, but he was too tired to argue. "Suit yourself. Don't wake me up when you come in."
He turned and walked into the master bedroom, shutting the door.
Click.
Anaïs stood alone in the hallway.
She looked down at the velvet box.
Hi Daddy.
If she stayed, this child would be just like this box. Unopened. Unacknowledged. Kept on a shelf while Bastian built his empire with Sienna.
Tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. She wasn't crying because she was sad. She was crying because she finally saw the truth.
"He doesn't want us," she whispered to the tiny life inside her. "He never did."
She walked to the study. But she didn't put the box on the pile.
She opened her purse and shoved the velvet box deep inside.
Then, she took off her wedding ring. The diamond was huge, flawless, and cold. It felt heavy, like a shackle she had been wearing for a thousand days.
She placed the ring on the table next to the dead anniversary cake. Beside it, she placed a simple white envelope she had prepared months ago but never had the courage to use.
DIVORCE PAPERS.
She didn't pack a bag. She didn't take any clothes. She didn't want anything that his money had bought.
She walked out into the rain.
---
The Next Morning.
Bastian woke up reaching for a warm body, but his hand hit cold sheets.
He groaned, sitting up. The headache was gone, but a strange uneasiness settled in his stomach. The room was too quiet.
"Anaïs?"
No answer.
She was probably downstairs making breakfast. She always made breakfast.
He got out of bed, threw on a robe, and walked downstairs. The house was silent. The dining room was exactly as he had left it—stale food, dead candles.
But there was something on the table that caught the morning light.
A diamond ring.
Bastian stopped. He walked over to the table, his heart skipping a strange beat. He picked up the ring. He knew every curve of it. He had designed it himself. Why was it here?
Then he saw the envelope.
He ripped it open. He expected a dramatic letter complaining about the dinner. Anaïs was emotional; she liked to write feelings.
But there was no letter.
Just a legal document.
Petition for Divorce.
Reason: Irreconcilable Differences.
Alimony Requested: $0.
Bastian stared at the paper. A scoff escaped his lips. "Divorce? Is she crazy?"
He felt a flash of anger. She was playing games. She wanted attention because he missed the anniversary. She probably drove to a hotel to scare him.
He grabbed his phone to call her, to yell at her for being childish.
Ring… Ring…
The number you have dialed is switched off.
"Damn it, Anaïs," he cursed.
Then, his phone rang in his hand. It wasn't her. It was his personal assistant, shaking so hard his voice was cracking.
"Mr. St. Yves… Sir…"
"What?" Bastian snapped. "If this is about the meeting, cancel it. My wife is throwing a tantrum."
"Sir, it's… it's the police."
Bastian went still. "The police?"
"They found a car, Sir. It's Mrs. St. Yves's car. It… it went off the St. Jude Bridge last night."
The world tilted. The floor seemed to vanish from under Bastian's feet.
"What did you say?"
"The current was too strong," the assistant was sobbing now. "They found skid marks. They think… they think she jumped."
Bastian dropped the phone.
The screen cracked on the marble floor.
He didn't remember grabbing his keys. He didn't remember driving. The next thing he knew, he was standing at the edge of the bridge, surrounded by police tape and flashing red and blue lights.
The rain was still falling, washing away the world.
A police officer stepped in front of him. "Sir, you can't be here—"
"That's my wife!" Bastian roared, his voice tearing from his throat like a wounded animal. "Where is she? Where is Anaïs?"
The officer looked down, his face grim. He held out a plastic bag.
"We found this in the wreckage, Sir. It was on the passenger seat. It's the only thing that didn't go into the water."
Bastian's shaking hands took the bag.
Inside was a simple anniversary card. The water had soaked the edges, but the ink was still legible.
He opened it.
He expected anger. He expected blame.
Instead, there were just two lines, written in her neat, beautiful handwriting.
I loved you, Bastian.
But you never really looked at me.
Bastian stared at the note.
He looked at the dark, churning water below.
He remembered last night.
I have something for you. Just open it.
Put it with the others.
He had pushed her away. He had told her she was a burden. And she had come here, alone in the rain, and driven off the edge.
"No…" Bastian whispered.
He fell to his knees on the wet asphalt. The pain hit him all at once—not a headache, but a shattering of his entire soul.
"ANAÏS!"
He screamed her name until his throat bled, but only the thunder answered him.
He clutched the card to his chest, sobbing violently. He didn't know that she wasn't in the water. He didn't know about the velvet box she had taken with her.
He only knew that the house was empty, the ring was cold, and the wife he had promised to protect was gone.