A Masterpiece and Her Reproduction

I was once the wife of tech mogul Julian Blackwood. For five years, he lavished me with affection, parading our perfect marriage for the media to see.

I had always believed he was deeply in love with me, that this was just his way of showing it—shouting from the rooftops how much he adored me.

Until one night, I overheard a conversation between him and his COO. "I've made countless enemies. Cora can't be a target. The only way to protect her is to make Rowan the perfect Mrs. Blackwood, to let her be Cora's shield."

It turned out that everything I had endured—the hostile takeover that nearly destroyed my career, the miscarriage that broke my heart—was all part of an elaborate, sickening game.

Fine. Two can play at that game.

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1

"Are you out of your mind, Julian? Rowan was hospitalized for stress-induced exhaustion, and you flew to Europe because Cora threw a fit over an art exhibit? You're playing with fire."

I recognized the voice of Julian's friend and COO, Griffin Reid, drifting from the crack in the study door.

I froze.

The soundproofing in this penthouse was flawless; you couldn't hear a thing unless someone was shouting.

A moment later, a glass slammed onto a table.

"Admire her? Is that what this is? Do you have any idea how many attacks, public and private, Rowan has taken for her? If you don't love her, then for God's sake, let her go! Just think—if Cora were in Rowan's shoes, she'd have sold your trade secrets to the highest bidder ages ago!"

"Shut up! If I don't use Rowan as a front, how am I supposed to protect Cora's creative freedom, her artistic integrity? Besides, she has everything that comes with being Mrs. Blackwood. It's not as if I've wronged her," Julian's voice was low and cold.

I leaned against the cold wall, my head buzzing as his words sank in.

All these years, he loved someone else? I was just a shield?

I stumbled back to the bedroom. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, one that had nothing to do with my exhaustion and everything to do with my shattered heart.

The water and pills Julian had poured for me before he left still sat on the bedside table, a silent mockery of his concern.

He had always been so good to me. Everyone envied his public adoration.

He was Julian Blackwood, a self-made titan who had built an empire spanning technology and finance.

For five years, being his wife made me a target for his every rival. To protect his image, I sacrificed my career, my studio, and even our child, whom I lost during a hostile takeover.

I had gambled everything on him, all because I thought he loved me, only to discover it was all a lie.

"Were you out of bed?"

His magnetic voice came from behind me.

Tears instantly welled in my eyes as I met his smiling gaze.

I had once felt so lucky to marry such a handsome man. Now, all I saw was the cold calculation swimming beneath the surface of his eyes.

"Rowan, did I startle you? What were you thinking about just now?"

He was an incredibly perceptive man. I forced a smile.

"I just woke up and you weren't here. It scared me. The doctor said it's just exhaustion and anxiety."

In the blink of an eye, I'd gone from a brilliant architect to the picture-perfect wife of a tech mogul.

After the hostile takeover and miscarriage, I developed severe anxiety. The panic set in whenever he was out of my sight—my hands would tremble, my heart pounding against my ribs.

He didn't suspect a thing, merely soothing me with a kiss. His long fingers brushed against my chin, his thumb tracing the shell of my ear before sliding down the column of my throat with an undeniable possessiveness.

A soft gasp escaped my lips.

Finally, his invasive hand came to rest on my waist. I could feel the heat of his palm, as if he meant to brand his mark onto my skin.

"I'm going to Europe tomorrow. Stay home and be good for me, hmm?" he murmured, his warm breath tickling my ear as he kissed the corner of my lips.

I shivered instinctively, gripping his robe to remind him, "Julian, my body... The doctor said I need to rest."

His expression darkened. He swiftly brought me the medicine and water, his gaze fixed on my pale face. His brows furrowed. "God, Rowan, you're going to be the end of me."

He fed me the pills himself.

I saw the genuine anxiety in his eyes, but the words I'd overheard screamed in my mind.

He was leaving tomorrow. For what?

To see the artist who mattered more than his entire empire?