My Perfect Husband Was My Destroyer

The shoe was a masterpiece—commissioned from international artisans, inlaid with diamonds, worth tens of millions.

Meanwhile, I couldn't even bring myself to buy new socks. I patched and mended my old ones, desperate to make do. Zion had always said he wanted to save money so we could build a future together.

Yet he gave the best of everything to Lydia Chambers.

"No need for financial compensation," Lydia said, her voice smooth and cold. She extended her foot. "As long as she licks the wine stains off my shoes, I'll let it go."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

I stood frozen—a circus animal, a clown on display for the elite. Hundreds of mocking gazes stripped away my dignity layer by layer. Humiliation clawed at my throat. Heat flooded my face.

"That's enough."

A deep voice cut through the jeers.

A pair of feet stepped into my line of sight. They were clad in the New Year socks I had knitted with my own hands—the stitching familiar, the pattern unmistakable.

Zion.

Lydia turned to him, her expression shifting to aggrieved innocence. "She deliberately ruined my dress and shoes, Zion. I didn't ask for a cent. I only asked her to clean them. Isn't that tolerant enough?"

"You bumped into me," I whispered, staring at those socks. "It was you."

"Everyone here can testify for Miss Chambers, yet you still dare to lie!" Austin Moss roared, stepping forward, his face twisted in sycophantic rage. "Apologize!"

The crowd echoed him.

"Indeed," Zion said, his tone indifferent. "That is tolerant enough."

My heart plummeted.

I had foolishly thought his arrival meant salvation. That my husband would protect me. Instead, he pretended not to recognize my voice. Refused to listen. This cold, imperious man was a stranger—nothing like the gentle husband who usually greeted me with a smile.

"Lick it clean," Lydia commanded.

"In front of everyone? That's improper," Zion interjected smoothly. "Just have her wipe it with her clothes."

The onlookers praised him instantly. Mr. Gilbert is so kind. He's leaving her a shred of dignity.

I wanted to scream. Was I supposed to kowtow and thank them for their mercy? For allowing me to use my sleeve instead of my tongue?

Under the crushing weight of their coercion, I had no choice. Trembling, I knelt. I wiped the wine from Lydia's heels with my sleeve.

"Someone, come!" Austin barked the moment I finished. "Throw this trash out!"

Two bodyguards lunged forward, gripping my arms, dragging me toward the exit.

As I was hauled away, Lydia's voice floated over the music. "Zion, doesn't this scene feel familiar? Just like back then, when that woman—Rose Henson—rushed into our wedding to cause trouble and got thrown out."

"It really does," Zion replied, devoid of emotion. "She deserved it."

The heavy doors slammed shut. Music started up again inside. I collapsed onto the cold pavement. Through the glass, I watched Zion take Lydia into his arms. They danced gracefully, a picture of perfection.

A sharp sting hit my nose. I wiped it—my hand came away red. The metallic scent of blood filled my senses, a reminder of the sickness eating away at me.

Back at the rental unit, I sat in the dim light, looking at the tiny home Zion and I had pieced together. The refrigerator, table, and chairs were scavenged from secondhand markets. The sofa had been rescued from a dump.

Once, I had found this room warm. With Zion here, it had been a harbor.

Now it felt like an ice cellar.

I curled up on the lumpy sofa, wrapping the thin blanket tight around my shoulders. My eyes locked onto the photo of us taped to the wall, unable to reconcile the man in the picture with the man in the ballroom.

More than an hour later, the door creaked open.

Zion walked in.

Gone was the glossy, diamond-studded tuxedo. He had changed back into his "costume"—work clothes riddled with holes and stained with grime. In his arms, a bouquet of fresh flowers. A cake box dangled from his left hand, a cheap takeout container in his right.

I froze.

I looked at him, unable to decide if his dedication to this charade was thoughtful or psychopathic.

"A young couple was fighting down the street and threw these flowers away," he said, a bright, fake smile plastered on his face as he shoved the bouquet into my hands. "I saw they weren't damaged, so I picked them up for you."

The tiny flicker of hope that had survived the night was instantly extinguished.

Sadness, heavy and suffocating, took its place.