Maine was glowing. Truly glowing–like a woman who had finally, after decades of waiting in the shadows, stepped into the spotlight that was always meant to be hers. She walked through the marble–floored hallway of the estate with light steps, her lips curved in a permanent smile. The staff noticed. The house noticed. Even the flowers in the garden looked like they bloomed differently now, as if responding to her triumph.
She was going to be Mrs. Bradley. Officially. Legally. Publicly.
After twenty–five years, the man she had always loved was finally, fully hers.
Joyce was out of the picture. Maine leaned against the doorframe of the master bedroom, watching Bradley scroll through his phone with an expression she couldn’t quite read. Still, it didn’t matter. He had said yes. He had chosen her. That was all that mattered.
She closed her eyes, letting the memories wash over her like warm water. She had always believed Bradley belonged to her. From the start, they had been the perfect pair–two ambitious, sharp minds from powerful families. But then she made a choice. She chose
her career over love. Over him.
She had ambitions. Dreams. And she wasn’t going to become a wife stuck in the kitchen. That wasn’t her story. That was Joyce’s.
So when Bradley–lonely, impulsive–turned to Joyce and married her instead, Maine told herself it didn’t matter. Joyce was just… convenient. A placeholder. A sweet little girl who knew how to cook and clean and smile on command. A housewife. A nanny in disguise.
Maine? She became the lover. And she preferred it that way.
She kept her independence, her freedom. And even though Bradley wore a ring that belonged to another woman, his heart? His body? They had always been hers.
For years, they carried on. Whispered phone calls. Secret rendezvous. The occasional “business trip” that always ended in hotel rooms and tangled sheets. Maine would laugh behind Joyce’s back–watching her slowly fade, lose her glow, her figure, her spirit–while she stayed vibrant, desirable, untouched by the burdens of domestic life.
Joyce scrubbed the floors. Maine wore heels and perfume.
Joyce cooked dinner. Maine tasted champagne.
And now, the wife was gone. Maine had won.
Bradley had said yes to the wedding. This time, not a fantasy on a cruise–but a real one. With papers. With a signature. A vow. Joyce’s divorce was finalized. Maine didn’t care where she’d gone or what she was doing now–as long as she stayed gone.
To make sure of that, she gave clear instructions to Bradley’s men.
“I don’t care what she’s doing,” she told one of them, crossing her legs in the living room. “If he asks, feed him lies. Tell him she’s out of the country. Tell him she’s changed her name.
Whatever it takes. Just don’t let him find her.”
The man hesitated. “Are you sure, ma’am?”
1/3 19.15
24
tony.
She knew Bradley was still reaching for the past sometimes, even if he didn’t realize it. But she didn’t need him to be in love. She needed him to marry her. Love could come later–or not at all. She didn’t care. She would be his wife, finally, and no one would take that from
her.
Even Joseph, Joyce’s own father, was thrilled. He had always preferred Maine–always said she was more refined, more capable. Joyce had been a disappointment to him for
years.
And Mateo? Joyce’s son? He had warmed up quickly, calling her “Mommy Maine” now with ease. He had never truly defended his mother. Not when it mattered.
And so, the wedding plans began.
Maine chose the venue–a luxury estate by the lake. She selected white orchids and crystal chandeliers. A Vera Wang dress. Champagne fountains. Custom napkins. Bradley told her to do whatever she wanted. “Make it big,” he said. “Make it perfect.”
And she did.
Yet… sometimes when she looked at him, lost in thought or slow to smile, she wondered if something was missing. Something he wouldn’t say aloud.
It didn’t matter. It would pass. Once they were married, everything would fall into place.
Or so she thought.
Days later, while lounging in the study, Mateo was scrolling on his phone when something caught his attention.
A post. From his mother.
He hadn’t followed her for a while, assuming she’d gone offline entirely. But there she was -smiling in a flowing white dress, sun pouring through a studio window. Standing next to a man. Holding flowers.
It was a prenup photo.
And the man beside her?
Mateo leaned in, squinting. Recognition hit.
Lorenzo.
He.knew him–an old friend of his mom’s. He remembered hearing his name mentioned now and then. Never paid attention. But seeing them now–like this?
He froze.
Then, in a burst of uncertainty, he ran down the hall.
“Dad!” he shouted, shoving the door open.
Bradley, who had been nursing a drink, looked up. “What is it?”
Mateo handed him the phone. “Look.”
Bradley squinted at the screen. His hand trembled slightly.
19:55 Sat, 24 May Ɑ·
There she was.
Joyce.
His wife–his–in white, next to another man.
Smiling. Radiant. Bradley’s breath caught in his throat.
He hadn’t seen her since she left. Not a word. Not a glimpse. He had imagined her lost, broken. But there she was, looking more alive than ever.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
Beside her was Lorenzo. He remembered him now. That damn gallery owner. That man who had always been hanging around her during college. The one Joyce had almost chosen back then.
Rage surged through him.
“Call him,” Bradley barked.
Mateo blinked. “What?”
“I said call that fucking Lorenzo. Now.”
Mateo hesitated. “But Dad-”
“I don’t care! Find a way! Do it!”
19:55 Sat, 24 May
