A world filled with lies

My husband, Dax, was cold and distant, obsessed with his ex-girlfriend, Frida. His neglect cost me our first child. Then, Frida' s schemes cost me my dream job.

When I became pregnant again, Dax abandoned me while I was in agony to rush to Frida's side for a minor scratch. This time, I didn't just lose the baby-I almost died.

He never even visited me in the hospital. Instead, he was photographed comforting Frida, his "one true love."

His mother finally revealed the truth: Dax's loyalty stemmed from a twisted childhood memory. He believed he had saved Frida from a traumatic event, a debt he felt he owed her for life.

But as I lay broken, a memory of my own surfaced. A dark warehouse. A kind boy who saved me. A promise whispered. It wasn't Dax. His entire devotion to Frida was built on a lie.

Now, he stands on my doorstep in Argentina, begging for a second chance after I've filed for divorce. He doesn't know that I know his secret. And I'm about to burn his world to the ground.

Chapter 1

Aliza's POV:

The chill of the sheets felt like a prophecy of what was to come, a cold dread seeping into my bones even as Dax's body was still warm next to mine. He had just taken me, with a practiced indifference that pierced deeper than any physical act. His movements were precise, powerful, and utterly devoid of the lingering tenderness I craved. He sighed, a sound of pure release, and then the familiar withdrawal began, a quiet retreat from my touch that left my skin tingling with a phantom chill.

He didn't say my name. He rarely did, not in moments like these.

He slid out of bed. His back was to me as he pulled on his silk robe. It was dark blue, the color mirroring the deep, impenetrable ocean I often felt separated us.

"I have early calls," he said, his voice flat, already distant.

He didn't wait for a reply. He never did. The door clicked shut, leaving me in the vast, echoing silence of our marital bedroom. I watched the spot where he had been, the indentation still warm on the pristine white sheets. It was a painful echo. I closed my eyes, a wave of familiar loneliness washing over me.

After a few minutes, the silence became too heavy to bear. I pushed myself up, the silk nightgown clinging to my skin. I needed to know. I always needed to know. I padded quietly to the door, pressing my ear against the cool wood. Nothing. He wasn't in his study. Curiosity, a venomous thing, coiled in my gut. I opened the door a crack.

The house was dark, but a faint light spilled from the far end of the hallway, from the small, rarely used sitting room next to the library. That was unusual. He only went there when he wanted to be truly alone. I moved like a ghost, my bare feet silent on the cold marble floors. As I got closer, a soft, familiar voice drifted out. It was a woman's voice, lilting and self-assured, the kind that filled large spaces.

It was Frida. Her celebrity talk show podcast.

My stomach clenched. I knew this ritual. Every night, after our perfunctory encounters, Dax would retreat, not to work, not to sleep, but to this. To her voice. I stopped just outside the half-open door, peering through the gap.

Dax sat in a large armchair, silhouetted against the glow of his tablet. His head was tilted slightly, a soft, almost tender expression on his face that I rarely saw directed at me. He listened, utterly engrossed, as Frida' s voice filled the quiet room. She was talking about her day, a minor mishap on set, a funny anecdote about a co-star. Mundane things, yet he absorbed every word like it was gospel.

A low, guttural sound escaped him, a quiet chuckle. My breath hitched. He was laughing. For her. The sound was foreign, intimate. I had not heard him laugh like that, not truly, not since our wedding day, and even then, it felt more like polite amusement.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. The raw pain of seeing him so utterly captivated by another woman, by a ghost from his past, was a physical ache. My vision blurred. He looked so vulnerable, so lost in her world. It was a look I would have given anything to earn, even for a fleeting moment. But it wasn't for me. It was for Frida. Always Frida.

I was his wife. I shared his name, his bed, his life. But in his heart, I was an afterthought, a convenient arrangement. I was the second choice, a stand-in for the woman he truly adored. The realization hit me like a fresh punch to the gut. I was nothing more than a placeholder.

My chest tightened with a suffocating mix of sorrow and indignation. I backed away slowly, silently, the cold marble biting into my feet. The soft drone of Frida' s voice, accompanied by Dax' s occasional, tender sigh, faded behind me. When I reached the bedroom, I shut the door quietly, the click echoing the finality of my broken heart.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of his devotion to another woman. It felt like hours before I heard the quiet click of the sitting room door, then his footsteps retreating to his study. The house fell silent once more, but the image of his soft gaze, the sound of his private laugh, branded itself into my mind.

The next morning, he appeared at the breakfast table, impeccably dressed, his usual mask of cold efficiency in place. There was no trace of the tenderness I had witnessed just hours before. He sipped his coffee, eyes scanning the financial news on his tablet.

I cleared my throat, forcing a smile. "My parents are hosting their annual summer barbecue next weekend," I said, trying to make my voice sound light. "They'd love for you to come. It' s been a while."

He lowered his tablet, his gaze neutral. "Next weekend? I'll check my schedule." It was his usual polite evasion, a phrase I'd learned to translate as 'no.'