When I ended the call, I remained seated on the edge of the bed, clutching the velvet box as though it held the final trace of the woman I used to be.

Three years earlier, I had walked away from my father’s home in the middle of a storm, believing Spencer’s love carried greater value than any family legacy.

Back then, my father warned that if I chose that man over my family, I should never return in tears. I left anyway, and my tears came far too late.

My phone buzzed once more as Paisley sent me a video from the mansion’s living room. Crystal chandeliers, sparkling glasses, elegant music, and women dressed as though they had stepped out of luxury fashion magazines filled the screen.

The camera focused on Spencer, surrounded by influential businessmen, looking composed, self-assured, and proud. A moment later, Paisley’s hand reached up to straighten his tie as though claiming him for herself. Then she faced the camera and silently mouthed the words: “He’s mine.”

I snapped out of my trance with a calmness that even unsettled me. My eyes drifted to my ring finger, where the faint mark remained after Spencer had insisted three days earlier that I remove my wedding ring because, according to him, it ruined my appearance. The following day, I noticed an enormous diamond sparkling on Paisley’s finger.

A knock sounded at the door. “Ma’am,” Gladys said gently, “there’s a gentleman downstairs asking for you. He arrived in a Bentley.”

I hurried downstairs almost without thinking. Standing in the living room was Joel, my father’s longtime driver since my childhood, upright in a black suit, his expression respectful yet quietly emotional.

“Miss Phoebe, Mr. Harrell asked me to bring you,” Joel said politely.

Mrs. Gladys stared in complete confusion.

As far as she knew, I had always been a quiet, nearly invisible wife with no family and no history.

“Give me a moment, Joel,” I replied, feeling unexpected strength rising inside me. “I need to change.”

Joel, however, had not come by himself. Behind him entered two stylists, a professional makeup artist, and a clothing rack filled with gowns my father had sent. Silk, shimmering stones, intricate embroidery, and striking colors seemed to glow beneath the lights.

I selected a simple floor-length red gown with no unnecessary decoration. Then I opened my jewelry case and removed the ruby necklace my father had gifted me on my eighteenth birthday.

“The Rose of Fire,” one stylist whispered with admiration. “No one has seen it since that gala in Geneva.”

When I looked into the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back. The humiliated wife in a worn dress was gone. I was Phoebe Harrell, the daughter of Raymond Harrell.

During the drive to the hotel, Joel quietly revealed that my father had continued cleaning my bedroom every single week. Every Christmas, no one was allowed to mention my name because his eyes would immediately fill with sorrow, and ever since I left, his health had steadily declined.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Please… drive faster,” I urged.

The Bentley stopped outside the magnificent Grandview Hotel. The reception staff froze as I stepped from the car. Although I carried no invitation, I had no need for one.

I rode the elevator to the highest floor. As the doors slid open, waves of music, laughter, and clinking glasses washed over me.

Spencer stood in the center of the ballroom. Paisley clung possessively to his arm, kissed his cheek before the crowd, and he made no effort to pull away.

A young businessman glanced toward me. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Which family does she belong to?” he quietly asked his companion.

I offered no response. The man followed my line of sight toward Spencer before smiling knowingly.

“Oh, Mr. Conway,” he remarked. “People say he’ll soon make an announcement with Paisley Daley. Though according to the rumors, he already has a secret wife—a woman he never allows anyone to see.”

I met his eyes with a cool smile. “Is that what people believe?” I asked softly.

Then I walked directly toward my husband, and without anyone understanding why, the crowd instinctively stepped aside. Spencer looked up, and the color drained from his face.

“Mr. Conway,” I said, lifting my glass. “Fancy meeting you here.”

His complexion turned ghostly pale. Beside him, Paisley’s eyes widened with fury.

“What are you doing here?” Paisley snapped. “You weren’t invited.”

I ignored her completely. “Spencer,” I asked evenly, “is this how you welcome your wife?”

My words silenced the entire ballroom. Spencer seized my arm with painful force and dragged me toward one of the pillars.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Spencer whispered through clenched teeth. “Leave within three minutes, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

Paisley hurried over carrying a glass of red wine. “You still don’t understand, Phoebe. He belongs to me,” she declared before splashing the wine across my dress.

Before she could enjoy the moment, I caught her wrist.

The glass slipped from her hand, crashed onto the marble floor, and shattered with a sharp echo. Spencer shouted my name for everyone to hear.

“Please excuse us,” Spencer announced moments later, forcing a polite smile toward the guests. “My wife hasn’t been herself lately. I’ll take her home.”

Then I noticed the ballroom doors opening behind him. An older man with silver hair entered alongside four bodyguards and three of the nation’s most influential businessmen.

My father had arrived, and no one in that room was ready for the words he was about to speak.

PART 3

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