Chapter 1

After we got married, James was recruited by an American university with a million-dollar annual salary.

I gave up everything to move to America with him.

But three years later, I still didn't even have a green card.

Meanwhile, that female assistant who came to America with us had already gotten her green card through James's connections.

I was so furious I wanted to fly back to Europe immediately.

James, usually so calm and composed, turned red and begged me to stay:

"You're my wife. I'll get your green card sorted out soon. Emma followed me all the way here from home to work in America. I'm her boss—I have a responsibility to take care of her."

My heart softened, and I put down my suitcase.

Until one day, when I handed our marriage certificate to an official, they told me:

"Ma'am, our system shows you are not Mr. Mitchell's wife. Please go back and verify this."

I froze on the spot. Then, without a word, I booked the earliest flight back to Europe.

……

Back at home, I tried three times, but the fingerprint lock kept giving me the "verification failed" tone.

I called James.

"What's wrong?" He picked up quickly.

"Why can't I open the door?"

He was silent for two seconds, then said:

"Oh, I changed the lock. I only registered Emma's fingerprint—haven't gotten around to adding yours yet. Just find a hotel for tonight. I'm working late, won't be coming home."

He was telling me to stay at a hotel?

I wanted to argue, but in the end, I just said:

"Okay."

What else was there to say?

This was supposed to be our home, yet he'd registered the fingerprint of Emma—an outsider.

I hung up.

I checked into the budget hotel by our building's entrance.

$548 a night.

When I swiped my card, the balance was almost nothing.

When we first came to New York, James gave me a supplementary card with no spending limit.

Later, Emma started buying most of his things.

Clothes, watches, even that insulated mug on his office desk—she bought all of it.

Gradually, the supplementary card was transferred to her.

James started depositing $2,000 a month into my account for living expenses instead.

He said she was better at shopping than me—better taste, knew how to coordinate things.

She said she was just doing her job as his assistant.

I couldn't really say anything more.

Until our third anniversary, when James and I were supposed to have a romantic evening alone.

Just as the mood was building, the doorbell rang.

James went to answer it.

Emma stood outside, slightly breathless, holding out a box of ultra-thin condoms.

"Professor Mitchell, it's your special day! I picked these up just for you!"

She glanced at me, smiling naturally. "You always say this brand feels the best. Aren't I thoughtful? Don't I deserve some praise?"

James took the box, letting out an awkward "mm."

She waved and left.

The door closed.

He walked back to the dining table with the box and set it casually beside him.

I stared at that box without saying a word.

I never knew which brand he preferred…

Because we'd been trying to have a baby, so we basically never used protection.

That candlelit dinner felt like torture.

Finally, he said something came up at the university, grabbed his coat, and left.

The moment the door closed, it suddenly hit me—

So an assistant's job could be this thorough.

That night, I dreamed of our first year in New York.

I came out of the airport dragging two huge suitcases.

James was waiting for me right at the exit.

Back then, he was still the man who felt so guilty that his eyes reddened when I gave up everything to be with him.

He was the man who would carry my luggage, who would let me lean on him when I was tired.

But then Emma came along.

James said she had left her hometown behind to follow him here—he had to help her out.

So he helped her get settled with residency.

Helped arrange her job.

I never expected that in the end, he'd even help her change the lock on our home…

Early the next morning, I went to buy a ticket back to Europe.

Standing at the corner waiting for the light to turn green, my phone rang.

It was a friend from back home.

"Grace, that thing you asked me to look into…"

She paused, her voice hesitant. "I pulled some strings, but I could only see registration records. Privacy laws are strict there—I couldn't get the detailed files."

"It's fine," I said. "Whatever you found is enough."

The other end went quiet for two seconds.

"James Mitchell's registered wife in New York… her last name is Roberts."

I held my phone, silent.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Thank you."

I hung up. The light turned green.

The crowd surged past me, and another group stopped beside me.

I stood there, staring at the glass curtain wall of the building across the street. The sunlight stung my eyes until they burned.

So his real wife was her all along.