She Was Never Just the Wife – The late-autumn dusk was blood-red, casting the rose garden beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Lucero Residence in the same crimson glow. Wearing an apron, Celia Ross stood at the kitchen counter, flour dusting her fingertips beside the now-finished cake for her third wedding anniversary. It was frosted in pale lavender and edged with fresh rose petals she had picked one by one that morning while they were still damp with dew. Her phone buzzed, and she wiped her hands clean before checking it. The message was from her husband, Beckham Lucero’s assistant. [Mr. Lucero has an international meeting tonight. You don’t need to wait for him for dinner.] The message was brief and businesslike, with a cold distance in every word. Celia lowered her eyes and gently set the phone back on the counter. Over the past three years, she had received so many messages like that she had long since stopped counting.
The first few times, it had hurt. Then came the disappointment. Now, all that was left was a kind of numb peace. “Mrs. Lucero, what should we do with the food?” Cory Wheeler, the Lucero family’s housekeeper, asked from the kitchen doorway, his tone hesitant. The table was covered with dishes, every one of them made to Beckham’s liking, from ginger salmon lettuce wraps to white lasagna and tomato basil chicken breast. She had put care into every last dish, just as she had into every day of the past three years. “Let’s wait a little longer,” Celia said softly. “Maybe the meeting will wrap up early.” Cory looked at her slender figure from behind and sighed to himself. She was always like this, quiet and gentle, giving her all to things no one seemed to appreciate. When the antique clock on the wall struck seven, Celia untied her apron and headed into the living room. A business news segment was playing on TV. Celia had just picked up the remote to switch it off when she froze as the screen cut to the VIP exit at the international airport. “It’s seven o’clock.
Just moments ago, ballerina Laylah Stein arrived at the international airport after five years away. “More surprisingly, she was seen holding hands with a little boy who appeared to be about three years old,” the reporter said on the broadcast. As the camera zoomed in, Laylah stepped out in a white dress, sunglasses on and her long hair falling over her shoulders. Even after a long flight, she still looked flawless. She was holding tightly to the hand of a little boy in a tiny suit. His features were so delicate and pretty that he almost looked unreal. A reporter thrust a microphone toward Laylah. “Ms. Stein, who is this child?” Laylah immediately crouched down and drew the boy closer in a protective gesture. “Sorry,” she said, her tone stiff. “That’s a private matter. I can’t comment on it.” That guarded response only stirred the crowd up further, with more reporters pressing in. “Who is the child’s father? Did you get married overseas quietly?” “Now that you’re back, are you planning to stay?” “There have long been rumors about you and Beckham Lucero, the CEO of Lucero Group. Were the two of you involved?” As a tall figure appeared on the screen and pushed through the crowd toward Laylah, Celia’s hand tightened until her nails bit into her palm. It was Beckham.
He was wearing the dark gray suit she had pressed for him that morning and carrying a huge bouquet of white roses. She remembered him once saying that white roses were too plain for his taste, that he didn’t care for them. And now he was carrying them straight to Laylah. “Beckham…” Laylah looked up at him, clearly caught off guard. Beckham handed her the flowers, then bent to pick up the little boy. The ease of it made it look as though he’d done it countless times before. “Mr. Lucero, what is your relationship with Ms. Stein?” “Is this your child?” The camera flashes went off in a frenzy, one blinding burst after another, as reporters fired questions at them from all sides. Beckham swept an icy gaze over the crowd. But when his eyes fell on Laylah, something in his expression softened, a side of him few had ever seen. Then Beckham turned to the cameras and said evenly, “Laylah is the most important person in my life. Beyond that, I have nothing else to say.” He paused, then added, and even through the screen, the words hit Celia hard. “As for certain business marriages, they’re nothing more than arrangements where both sides get what they want. Not worth talking about.” ***** The broadcast rolled on, and new trending topics were already popping up one after another: [Laylah Stein Returns with Young Son], [Beckham Lucero Meets Laylah at the Airport], and [Lucero Group CEO Suspected of Secret Family].
Celia watched in silence, her face blank. Only the slight tremor in her lashes betrayed her as she got up and walked into the dining room. The dishes had long since gone cold, and the sauces had turned thick and dull. She picked up one plate and dumped it into the trash, then another, and another, until only the anniversary cake was left. The pale lavender frosting was still pristine, but the rose petals had already wilted. Celia reached out and brushed the cold, silky icing with her fingertips. Then she brought her hand down and crushed the top of the cake in one hard press. “Mrs. Lucero,” Cory called from behind her. “Clean it up,” Celia said without turning around. Her voice was calm enough to make Cory uneasy. “I’m skipping dinner tonight.” With that, she walked out into the garden. Night had fallen, and the roses were blooming under the moonlight. The garden had been a wedding gift from Beckham’s grandfather, Tyshawn Lucero, a century-old rose garden brought over from Ashford Ridge. For three years, Celia had tended every rosebush herself, sparing no effort in caring for them. Her fingers brushed a deep red rose, its petals soft as velvet. Then her hand closed around it without warning.
Sharp thorns pierced her skin. Blood welled up at once, slid down her pale fingers, and sank into the soil. It hurt a little, but compared to the hollow weight in her chest, that sharp sting made her feel almost clearheaded. Her phone buzzed again with a message from Beckham. [Not coming home tonight.] Celia stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with her bleeding finger, she slowly typed a reply. [Okay.] She hit send, then turned and walked back into the house, her spine as straight as ever. Cory stood in the foyer, looking as though he wanted to say something but held himself back. “Cory,” Celia said, stopping without looking back, “starting tomorrow, don’t prepare dinner for Beckham anymore.” “What about you, Mrs. Lucero?” Cory asked. “I’ll make sure I eat,” Celia said. She climbed the curved staircase, her footsteps echoing through the quiet house. When she reached the bedroom, she didn’t switch on the lights. Instead, she walked straight to the window. Outside, the city lights shimmered like scattered stars. She stood at the top of the beautiful prison she had called home, the blood on her fingertip already drying into a dark crust. Her phone lit up again with a push alert from X: [Laylah Stein’s Son Revealed, with a Striking Resemblance to Beckham Lucero.] In the photo, Beckham was holding the boy while Laylah leaned against him.
The three of them looked every bit like a happy family of three. Celia looked at the photo and smiled faintly. Chapter 2 Drafting Divorce Papers Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through the silence in the bedroom. Aiyana Stein’s name lit up the screen, harsh and glaring in the dark. Celia stared at the name, a faint, chilly smile touching the corner of her mouth. She didn’t answer. The call died on its own, then came in again less than ten seconds later. She ignored that one too. When the phone rang a third time, Celia walked to the vanity and looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. A dark, dried smear of blood still clung to her fingertip. She picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and stayed silent. “So you finally answered?” Aiyana sounded openly smug. “Celia, you saw the news, right? My sister’s back, and she even brought a kid with her. “So tell me, do you still think you can hold on to your place as Mrs. Lucero?” Celia pulled out the vanity chair and sat down, calmly meeting her own eyes in the mirror. “What, not talking now?” Aiyana sneered. “Hurt? Upset? Of course you are. You could fill in for her all you wanted these past three years, but you were never anything more than a substitute. “Now that the real one’s back, a fake like you should really—” “Done?” Celia cut in quietly.
Her voice was light, but it stopped Aiyana cold. Aiyana went silent for a beat before managing, “You…” “Aiyana,” Celia said, cutting her off. Her tone stayed calm, as though she were stating a fact that had nothing to do with her. “Beckham’s been good to you these past three years, hasn’t he?” Aiyana froze, then turned smug again. “Of course. Beckham’s always—” “He got you the best job, bought you limited-edition bags, and even skipped meetings just to see you when you were sick. Everyone says he spoils you rotten,” Celia said slowly. Something in Celia’s tone put Aiyana on guard at once. “What are you getting at?” she demanded. “Nothing much.” Celia gave a soft laugh. “I just think the one who should be hurting most right now isn’t me. It’s you.” “What are you even talking about?” Aiyana snapped. “You think I’m talking nonsense?” Celia looked straight into her own reflection, her expression cool and unreadable. “Aiyana, think about it. Why has Beckham treated you so well these past three years? “Was it because of you, or because you’re Laylah’s sister?” Aiyana’s breathing turned uneven, and when she finally spoke, her voice shook. “Shut up.” “For all those years Laylah was gone, you only mattered because you reminded him of her. Everything Beckham ever did for you was just his way of making it up to Laylah.” “He was never looking at you. He was looking at her through you. Now that she’s back, what place do you think you still have?” Celia said, her voice turning softer and colder with every word. “Celia Ross!” Aiyana shrieked. “Like you’re any better? You’re nothing but the woman he married for business. Beckham never—” “At least I’m still Mrs. Lucero,” Celia cut in, her voice edged with mockery for the first time. “I held that place, out in the open, for three whole years. What about you? “You took a little borrowed affection and turned it into a three-year dream. Now the dream’s over, and your precious Beckham probably won’t even remember your name.” Aiyana ground the word out. “You…” “If I were you, I’d be worrying about my own situation right now,” Celia said as she rose and walked to the window, looking down at the rose garden below. “Instead of calling someone you’ll never measure up to just to show off.” She hung up before Aiyana could answer.