Paisley Windsor saw it with her own eyes—the moment her husband, William Harper, kissed her sister-in-law.
In that instant, three years of marriage unraveled like a cruel joke. It hadn't been love. It had been a performance—and she was the only one who didn't know she was acting.
She had given up everything: her name, her ambitions, her voice. All to become what he once called a "decorative vase." Beautiful. Silent. Useless.
Her patience had earned her no love, no loyalty—only his contempt.
And every time he smiled at her sister-in-law... every time he dismissed her pain with cold detachment... the truth cut deeper:
Those who are loved walk freely.
Those who aren't move carefully—across the shards of their own broken self-worth.
When the weight of disappointment could no longer be borne, she asked for a divorce.
Not in fury.
In quiet surrender.
But William refused.
Not for her.
For the other woman's reputation.
Watching him shield someone else with a tenderness he never once offered her, Paisley let the last ember of hope die in silence.
"William Harper," she said, her voice level, her eyes like frost. "We're done."
She walked away—no vows, no apologies, no backward glance.
And then, piece by piece, she rebuilt.
She reclaimed her name.
Sharpened her skills.
And rose from the ruins with nothing left to prove—and nothing left to lose.
Just as she stepped fully into the life she'd carved for herself, he appeared again—eyes bloodshot, voice raw with regret.
"Paisley, I was wrong," he whispered. "Give me another chance."
She looked at him—no anger, no sorrow. Just a still, glacial calm.
Then handed him an envelope.
"My wedding," she said. "You're welcome to sit in the front row."
