The air in the garden turned frigid, though the sun was still high. Sebastian stood paralyzed between his two worlds, the "105th love letter" still clutched in his hand like a useless weapon.
"Are you two here?" Elara asked, her voice light and melodic, cutting through the tension. She stepped forward with a polished smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Mr. Creed? It's your wedding anniversary today. I know I shouldn't have interrupted, but Seren really wanted to come. I picked her up from your mother's place."
Amara's gaze shifted to the little girl. Despite the fire burning in her chest, her heart gave a painful throb. She looked at Seren, the child she had bathed, the child she had stayed up with through fevers, the child she had loved since she was an infant. To Amara, Seren wasn't a pawn, she was her daughter.
"Dad, Mom, Happy 7th anniversary!" Seren chirped, her voice bright and rehearsed. "I love you both so much. I got you a gift!"
The little girl reached into Elara's designer bag and pulled out a small, velvet jewelry box. Amara forced a small, trembling smile onto her face. She reached out, her fingers brushing Seren's as she took the box. For a second, she hoped. She hoped that in this world of fakes, the love of this child was the one thing that was real.
Amara flicked the latch and opened the lid. The satin lining was stark, white, and empty.
A hollow silence followed. Amara stared at the void in the box, the metaphor so sharp it felt like a physical twist of a knife in her gut. The child she had raised with every ounce of her soul had just handed her a box of nothing.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, Mrs. Creed," Elara gasped, though her eyes were dancing with malice. She reached down and touched a shimmering gold band on her own wrist. "I didn't realize... Seren must have given me the real bracelet by mistake. Silly me."
With a slow, mocking deliberation, Elara began to unlatch the expensive jewelry from her arm to hand it to Amara. It was a brand-marking. A victory lap. She was showing Amara that even the gifts meant for the "wife" belonged to the mistress first.
Amara looked from the empty box to the gold on Elara's wrist, and finally to Sebastian, who looked like he wanted to swallow his own tongue. The humiliation was a tidal wave, drowning the last decade of her life.
"Sorry," Amara whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm... I'm not feeling well."
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and ran, her silk heels catching on the grass as she fled toward the house, leaving the "museum of love" behind.
"Amara!" Sebastian shouted, finally finding his voice. He took a panicked step toward her, but a small, firm hand gripped his suit jacket.
"Daddy, no," Seren said, her voice eerily calm for a six-year-old. She pulled on his arm, anchoring him in place beside Elara. "Mummy needs to rest. Let her go."
Sebastian watched Amara's retreating figure, torn between the woman he was obsessed with and the family that kept his secrets. He didn't move. He stayed in the garden of fake flowers, holding an empty promise.
The cool porcelain of the sink felt like ice against Amara's trembling hands. She stared at herself in the mirror, her vision blurred by tears that felt like acid.
"Stop crying," she hissed at her reflection, her voice trembling. "Does crying help? Does it change the fact that your life is a staged play?"
She splashed freezing water onto her face, soaking the hairline of her perfectly styled hair. The cold shocked her system, numbing the immediate sting of Elara's mockery. She reached for a towel, wiping her face with a sudden, violent resolve. She wasn't just leaving. She was escaping. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, this house becomes a tomb for his memories, not mine.
Amara stepped out into the lobby, intending to slip away to the guest wing to finish her secret packing. But the house, the house Sebastian had built to be their "sanctuary" was no longer quiet.
A low murmur of voices drifted through the heavy oak doors of the library. It wasn't the sound of a fight. It was the sound of familiarity.
Amara's feet moved before she could give herself permission to stop. The door wasn't fully latched. A sliver of warm light spilled onto the hallway carpet, and through the gap, the scene inside shattered what little was left of her heart.
Sebastian was no longer the panicked, guilty husband who had watched her run away. He was sitting on the edge of the mahogany desk, his posture relaxed. Elara stood between his knees, her hands resting possessively on his shoulders.
"You were reckless today," Sebastian's voice drifted out, sounding more intimate than Amara had ever heard. There was no "CEO" mask now, just a dark, quiet intensity.
"She needed to see it, Seb," Elara whispered, tilting her head. "How long were you going to keep her in that dream? Seren is getting older. She's tired of calling Amara 'Mommy' when she knows who her real mother is."
Amara gripped the doorframe so hard her nails bit into the wood. Seren knew. The child she had tucked in every night, whose scraped knees she had kissed, had been part of the play.
Inside the room, Sebastian didn't pull away. Instead, he reached up, tracing the line of the gold bracelet on Elara's wrist, the one that was supposed to be Amara's anniversary gift.
"I have everything under control," Sebastian murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive growl. "Amara isn't going anywhere. I love her and I can't leave her, but you have my name and you are exactly where I want you to be."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Elara's. Amara watched as the man she had loved for ten years closed his eyes, looking perfectly at peace in the arms of the woman who had helped him destroy her.
"Aren't you going to check on Mrs. Creed?" Elara asked, her voice dripping with a mock concern that sounded like a predator purring. "She looked truly devastated out there."
Sebastian didn't move. He didn't rush to the door. Instead, he pulled Elara closer, his hands sliding down her waist with a familiarity that made Amara's skin crawl.
"I will later," Sebastian said, his voice devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for Amara. "She'll calm down. She always does. How are you feeling? Are you still sore?"
Elara let out a soft, playful huff, leaning her weight against him. "It's your fault, Seb. Last night we went at it several times, even after the doctor reminded us to take it easy during early pregnancy. You're going to exhaust me before the baby even gets here."
The words hit Amara like a physical blow to the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She had spent years trying to conceive with Sebastian, through doctors' appointments and tearful nights, only to be told it "just wasn't their time." And all the while, he was planting a garden in another woman's soil.
The room began to spin. Through the crack in the door, she saw Sebastian lean down, his mouth devouring Elara's in a heated, possessive kiss. It wasn't just a betrayal; it was a replacement.
Nausea surged in her throat. Amara stumbled back, her vision blurred by a fresh wave of scalding tears. She needed to get away, to run until her lungs burned, but as she turned to flee the hallway, her arm caught the edge of a pedestal.
The Ming vase a piece Sebastian had bought her to "celebrate their fifth year" teetered for a heartbeat before crashing onto the marble floor.
CRACK.
The sound was like a gunshot in the silent lobby.
Inside the room, the kissing stopped instantly.
"Who's there?" Sebastian's voice sharp and authoritative, the "protective husband" mask snapping back into place even as he untangled himself from his mistress.
Amara froze, her boots standing in a sea of jagged porcelain shards. The heavy oak doors swung wide, and there stood Sebastian, his shirt slightly untucked, his lips still flushed from Elara's kiss. Behind him, Elara smoothed her hair, her eyes narrowing around.