Strings Muffled by the Fog
For eight long years of marriage, my husband Jordan—the most powerful man in Rivermouth—remained as cold and restrained with me as ice.
Everyone in our circle envied me, whispering that Jordan loved me to the bone.
To protect my fragile, trauma-scarred body, he would soak in ice water every night, suppressing what he called a “severe sex addiction.”
For eight full years, he never touched me.
I believed it.
Like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood, I held onto this twisted, suffocating love.
Then came the day I performed the ninth hymen reconstruction surgery for a girl named Jennifer. In her anesthesia-drugged murmurs, I heard my husband’s name—clear as day.
“Jordan… gently…”
In that moment, the beautiful dream I’d cherished for eight years shattered with deafening clarity.
…
Blinding and sterile, the shadowless lamp filled the operating theater with white light. Peeling off my blood-stained gloves, I tossed them into the medical waste bin; they landed with a dull thud.
The Head Nurse approached, her voice low. “Dr. Margaret, about this girl Jennifer… it’s the ninth time. She always says it was an accident, but I think—”
I didn’t respond, only staring at the name “Jennifer” on the medical chart, my mind buzzing.
The Head Nurse sighed. “Don’t push yourself too hard. I’m sure Mr. Jordan has something special planned for tonight. After all, it’s your eighth anniversary.”
Yes. Eight years.
Numbly, I removed my white coat and left the operating room.
My phone lit up with a message from Jordan—gentle and considerate, as always.
*“Margaret, I’ve reserved a table at ‘Cloud Nine’ for 7 p.m. James will pick you up. Love you.”*
Love me?
Those three words sent a wave of nausea through me.
Back home, I sat in the vast, empty living room, gazing at the enormous wedding portrait on the wall. In the photo, Jordan looked devastatingly handsome, his eyes adoring. I smiled demurely, a porcelain doll under perfect protection.
Now, that doll was covered in invisible cracks.
Lifting my wrist, I looked at the Patek Philippe watch Jordan had given me. He’d said it was for my safety—equipped with the most advanced tracking system so he could find me instantly if anything happened again. I never realized it had another, unused function: real-time audio monitoring.
Almost against my will, I opened the dedicated app on my phone and connected to the watch.
I took the watch off, placed it inside an exquisite jewelry box, and called Jordan’s driver. “James, could you deliver this box to Mr. Jordan at Cloud Nine? Tell him it’s my anniversary gift.”
After doing this, I felt utterly drained. Collapsing onto the sofa, I put on my headphones.
At exactly 7 p.m., my headphones filled with the muffled sounds of a restaurant—clinking cutlery, distant chatter. Then Jordan’s voice, tinged with impatience.
“What is this?”
James replied respectfully, “Sir, it’s a gift from Mrs. Jordan for your anniversary.”
A brief silence. Then the sound of a box being opened.
A playful male voice cut in. “Oh, Jordan, from your wife? How come your precious treasure isn’t with you tonight?”
It was Jordan’s childhood friend, Timothy.
Jordan snorted. “She’s at home. Can’t stand looking at that dead face of hers.”
My heart clenched violently, breath stolen by the pain.
*Dead face…* So that’s what he thought of me.
Timothy clicked his tongue. “Fair enough. Eight years shackled to a broken vessel you can’t even use… I feel for you. Speaking of which, where’s Jennifer? Isn’t this your little wife’s big night?”
A sweet, girlish voice piped up, laced with feigned hurt. “Timothy, stop teasing me… Jordan, do you think Margaret knows something?”
It was Jennifer.
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Chapter 2
I bit my lip until I tasted blood—metallic and sharp.
Jordan’s voice came through the earpiece, unnervingly gentle. "What could she possibly know? That orphan would be nothing without me. Dumb as a post. If my bastard rival hadn’t snatched her all those years ago and left her broken, would I have wasted years keeping her? If I hadn’t married her and she’d died, what would everyone think of Jordan?"
"She’s just a pet. Kept at home to keep up appearances. Don’t think about her, sweetheart. Everyone knows I only touch clean girls."
A wave of raucous laughter followed, broken by Jennifer’s coy, playful scolding.
"Jordan, you’re terrible…"
"Terrible? You haven’t seen anything yet…"
What came next was worse. Like a blunt, poisoned knife, it carved slowly through eight years of trust—through everything I’d believed was love.
Curled tight on the sofa, my whole body went cold, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
So it was all a lie. The “addiction.” The “restraint.” The “fear of hurting me.”
He could—he just thought I was tainted.
Those clusters of needle marks on his arm weren’t to suppress desire. They were boosters, for when the fun outside wasn’t enough.
His love? Pity. Charity. A prop for his “devoted husband” act.
And me? The genius doctor, the youngest PhD in the field, locked in a gilded cage like a worthless trinket… For eight years, I’d been his fool.
My phone buzzed. A message from Jordan.
*Margaret, where are you? The food’s getting cold. Are you feeling unwell again? Be good—I’ll wrap things up here and come home to you.*
I stared at the hollow words on the screen and laughed until tears streaked my face.
Slowly, I typed out a reply, one deliberate character at a time.
*Jordan, I want a divorce.*
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8.5
The candles flickered in the dimming light of our Upper West Side apartment, casting dancing shadows across the mahogany dining table I'd spent all afternoon setting. Ten years. A decade of marriage deserved more than just any dinner—it deserved perfection. I adjusted the porcelain centerpiece one last time, running my fingers over the delicate surface. Porcelain. Traditional, but fitting. Beautiful and fragile, just like I'd been foolish enough to believe our marriage was. The Château Margaux—Preston's favorite—sat breathing in its crystal decanter. I'd made his preferred meal: herb-crusted lamb with rosemary potatoes, the recipe Marisol had taught me during our first year together. My mother-in-law.
8.5
I once believed I had the perfect life — a powerful billionaire husband, a luxurious home, and a baby on the way. Then everything shattered in a single night.
When I woke up in the hospital after a so-called miscarriage, I overheard the horrifying truth. My husband, Jacob, secretly allowed doctors to destroy my womb, while my own sister proudly carried his child behind my back. They stole my baby, erased my future, and expected me to stay quiet like the obedient trophy wife they created.
But they forgot who I was before marriage ruined me.
I was one of the most gifted neurosurgeons in the country.
So I disappeared to Geneva, rebuilt my career from the ground up, and became the woman they could never control again. While Jacob’s empire crumbled and my sister’s lies unraveled, I sharpened my revenge in silence.
Now the man who betrayed me is begging for forgiveness.
The sister who stole my life is losing everything.
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8.3
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