Chapter 2

“I’ve never been with Harper that way. I’ve kept myself completely untouched.”

The words sliced through the room like a frozen blade, striking Harper so hard she felt she might split in two.

Her blood ran cold. She stood paralyzed, her eyes widening in breathless shock.

Three years of marriage, and Rupert had never laid a hand on her. Was he truly saving himself for Irene?

Around the table, his friends exchanged startled glances.

“If my grandfather hadn’t forced my hand, I never would have married her.” Rupert exhaled a sharp breath of irritation. Tipping his head back, he downed his wine.

Someone shifted uncomfortably. Finally, a friend broke the tense silence with a teasing smirk. “That’s our Rupert. Devoted to the end. Not even a stunner like Harper could tempt him.”

“If I were Irene, I’d be in tears right now.”

Harper stood frozen just outside the door, the color draining from her face.

For years, she had tried to bridge the gap between them, only to be met with endless, hollow excuses. Now, the brutal truth was out.

He had never forgotten Irene—even though she was married and had another man’s child.

What a fiercely devoted lover.

Bitter sarcasm burned in Harper’s chest, but a voice inside the room shattered her thoughts.

“Mrs. Getty is here. Why don’t you come in?” someone called out, coughing awkwardly.

The lively atmosphere evaporated instantly. Dead silence took its place.

Harper dug her nails into her palms. The sharp sting grounded her, giving her just enough strength to force a dignified smile.

“I only just arrived,” she lied, her voice perfectly steady.

Rupert’s lips pressed into a hard line. Annoyance flashed in his dark eyes.

“Well, since your wife is here, we should probably take off,” a guest suggested delicately. “Go easy on the drinks, Rupert.”

Before Harper could respond, a melodic voice drifted from the doorway. “You’re all leaving just as I arrive?”

Irene stepped into the room, flawlessly made up and impeccably dressed. The moment Rupert saw her, his entire demeanor shifted. The coldness vanished, replaced by a radiant, unmistakable warmth.

He stood up eagerly. “Irene? What are you doing here? Where’s Jared?”

Irene smiled gently. “Jared’s at home. He wanted me to read him a bedtime story, but I didn't want to miss your gathering. I made an excuse so he'd go to sleep.”

“I’m done drinking anyway. Let’s head home,” Rupert said softly.

Without a second thought, he reached for Irene’s hand. He guided her toward the door with practiced ease, not sparing Harper a single glance.

Harper stood rooted to the carpet. She watched them leave, then caught the pitying looks on his friends' faces. The humiliation struck her like a physical blow.

To anyone watching, Rupert and Irene were the real couple. The true family. And Harper? She was just the invisible wife, a ghost haunting the edges of their world.

Harper didn't remember the drive back. She moved in a numb daze, sinking onto the living room couch. Time bled away as she stared blankly at the ticking clock.

Two agonizing hours later, the front door finally clicked open.

Harper looked up. Her eyes zeroed in on Rupert’s neck. A vivid cluster of red marks stained his skin—an unmistakable testament to where he had been.

Her breath caught. A fresh wave of nausea washed over her.

Irene trailed closely behind him. She stumbled slightly, letting out a soft, breathless whine. “Rupert, my legs are like jelly… will you carry me upstairs?” Her tone was teasing, yet perfectly calculated.

Over his shoulder, she shot Harper a triumphant, taunting smirk.

Rupert didn’t hesitate. He swept Irene into his arms effortlessly. “Let's get you upstairs. You need a hot bath and some rest,” he murmured, his focus entirely on the woman in his arms.

They moved past the couch as if Harper didn't even exist.

“You two…” Harper’s voice broke the silence—flat, dry, and heavy with hurt.

“I’m tired,” Rupert cut in. The impatience in his tone was a whip-crack. “Whatever it is, we’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

He turned on his heel and carried Irene up the stairs.

The rest of Harper’s words died in her throat. She watched his broad back disappear into the shadows of the second floor.

Three long years of marriage, shattered in one unbearable night.

He couldn't even spare the patience to let her finish a sentence. Yet he would gladly cradle another man's wife, soothing her to sleep!

Bitter tears burned the backs of Harper's eyes. She squeezed them shut, refusing to cry.

Rupert never came back to their master bedroom that night. The empty space beside her had never felt so cold.

Harper barely slept, even with the melatonin. She rose the next morning in a numb fog, mechanically getting dressed for work. She forced herself to stay busy, terrified that if she stopped moving for even a second, the image of Rupert and Irene would break her completely.

It was past ten at night when she finally dragged her exhausted body back home.

Stepping into the dimly lit living room, she froze. Rupert was sprawled across the couch. His face was deeply flushed, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

He was panting, his chest heaving with heavy, uneven gasps.

Startled, Harper dropped her bag and rushed over. "What’s wrong?" she asked, her anger momentarily eclipsed by panic. "Are you sick? Are you in pain?"

He looked feverish—intoxicated by something far stronger than alcohol.

Before she could pull away, Rupert lunged. His hand clamped around her wrist like a vise. In one swift, staggering motion, he yanked her down and pinned her beneath him on the cushions.

His dark eyes were completely glazed over. "I feel terrible," he rasped, his voice thick with unbridled heat. "I’m burning up…"

Harper’s mind raced. The symptoms were undeniable. Someone had drugged him.

Countless women had tried to trap Rupert at social events over the years, but he had always been untouchable. Until tonight.

"I need to get you to a hospital," she stammered, trying to wedge her hands between them.

Rupert didn't answer. Instead, he scooped her into his arms, carrying her effortlessly toward the master bedroom. He dropped her onto the mattress.

Harper’s head spun. She stared, wide-eyed and breathless, as he began frantically tearing at his shirt.

"Rupert…" she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

He froze mid-motion. He shook his head sharply, like a man trying to wake from a dream. "Harper?" he rasped. Uncertainty flickered in his cloudy eyes.

Harper gave a small, hesitant nod. "It’s me."

Instantly, the fire in his eyes died. He shoved himself off the bed and staggered out of the room, leaving Harper completely bewildered.

She had steeled herself for his touch. Now, she just felt hollow. Barefoot, she quietly followed him down the hall.

But when she reached the doorway of the guest room, she froze. Her blood turned to ice.

Rupert was gripping a piece of red lingerie. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hand moving rhythmically as a single, desperate name fell from his lips:

"Irene..."