(Scarlett's POV)

I stirred from my drowsy haze, every muscle in my body aching with the sweet soreness that reminded me of the passionate intensity we'd just shared.

The warmth behind me was unmistakable-my husband Sebastian's strong arms wrapped around my waist, holding me tight against his chest.

This kind of intimacy was incredibly rare in our three years of marriage.

As the billionaire CEO of Sterling Group, Sebastian was constantly traveling between London and New York, expanding his business empire, rarely coming home.

I turned in his embrace, burying my face against his broad chest. My arms circled around him desperately, greedily absorbing this fleeting moment of tenderness and happiness.

For the first time in so long, I thought maybe I'd finally managed to warm this cold, stone-hearted man.

His breathing was deep and even against my hair. I could smell his cologne mixed with the scent of our lovemaking, and for a moment, everything felt perfect.

"Sebastian," I whispered against his skin, but he was already drifting back to sleep.

When Sebastian got up to shower, the sound of rushing water filled the bathroom.

That's when his phone on the nightstand buzzed once.

I glanced over casually, but what I saw on the screen made my blood turn to ice.

The iMessage notification read: Sebastian, I kept the pregnancy test. When are you going to give me and the baby a proper status?

My heart plummeted into my stomach. With trembling fingers, I unlocked his phone-the passcode was our wedding date, which now felt like a cruel joke. I tapped on the message thread.

What I saw was a photo of a pregnancy test showing two clear red lines.

I couldn't believe it. My perfect husband-cold and arrogant, yes, but someone I'd believed was faithful to our marriage-had been keeping a mistress. And now she was pregnant with his child.

Tears spilled from my hazel eyes uncontrollably. I scrolled through the chat history with shaking hands, finding that most of the conversation had been deleted.

Only a few scattered messages remained, hinting that Sebastian had built another "home" with this woman during his overseas business trips.

I clicked on the woman's Instagram profile. Her latest story showed two hands intertwined-and I recognized that Patek Philippe watch on the man's wrist immediately. It was Sebastian's.

Just as I was about to screenshot the evidence, the message disappeared. She'd deleted it.

Then a new message popped up, taunting me: Sebastian, I'm coming back to New York.

My mind raced. As a daughter of the Miller family, I knew I had to stay calm. Without concrete evidence, I couldn't act rashly. I had to be smart about this.

I quickly put the phone back exactly where it was and pretended to be asleep when Sebastian emerged from the bathroom.

Later that day, I sat in my sports car, watching through my sunglasses as my husband settled his pregnant mistress into a secluded mansion on Long Island. When the woman turned around, my world shattered completely.

She looked exactly like me.

The same bone structure, the same hair color, even similar mannerisms. But she appeared more delicate, more fragile, more pitiful. Everything I wasn't.

In that moment, I understood everything. I was nothing more than an expensive substitute.

This explained why three years ago, when our families arranged our marriage for business purposes, Sebastian had agreed so coldly after just one glance at me. He'd already found his real love-someone who looked like me but wasn't me.

My heart felt like it was being carved out with a knife as I watched this usually cold, ruthless man gently lift the woman into his arms, his eyes full of tender devotion as he carried her into the villa.

The man who'd never once looked at me with such warmth was cradling another woman like she was made of spun glass.

Today was our third wedding anniversary.

I sat alone in our empty penthouse, drinking red wine and waiting. Sebastian never came home.

I laughed bitterly to myself-of course he wouldn't. He was probably spending our anniversary with her.

After my bath, I found a gift box in the walk-in closet that Sebastian's assistant had delivered. Our anniversary present.

When I opened it, I found a set of sexy silk lingerie. But as I lifted it out, a photograph fell to the floor.

The photo showed Serena Sands-that was her name-wearing the exact same lingerie, her hand resting on her rounded belly, her eyes full of malicious triumph. On the back, written in elegant script: "Don't be angry, Scarlett. Sebastian says this looks better on me."

The humiliation and rage overwhelmed me. I tore the photo and the lingerie to shreds, screaming until my throat was raw.

I stood naked in front of the floor-length mirror, tears streaming down my face, looking at my pathetic reflection.

That's when the closet door opened.

Sebastian was back.

He seemed completely oblivious to my distress-or maybe he simply didn't care. His arms wrapped around me from behind, his voice husky with desire.

"Scarlett, I'm home."

His burning body pressed against my cold skin. Without warning, he lifted me up and threw me roughly onto the bed, ready to take what he wanted from me again.

My breathing was ragged as I pressed my hands against his hard chest, my dark hair scattered across the white pillows.

"Sebastian Sterling!" I gasped, my voice almost a moan.

But Sebastian only stared at my face with an intensity that bordered on obsession, then leaned down to capture my lips with his own.