Six Years of Sexless Marriage, My Devout Husband's Hidden Family

Kierra's POV

After that, Natasha vanished without a trace.

I never imagined it was Francis who had hidden her all along.

Even Silverstone City, that glittering, opulent place we built together, had been built for her. Every stone, every flower, every breath of that city existed for her protection.

At first, I thought the whole idea of a secret mansion to hide a mistress was just some old-fashioned myth. But then I found his journal.

Francis’s diary.

He’d poured everything—his time, his brilliance, his money—$600 million into building Silverstone City, claiming it was to bless Brookfield’s.

But the truth? It was all for Natasha.

Thinking of this, I pulled up the news article back when Natasha's indecent photos had been exposed.

I paused the video and captured the frame where the man’s hand flashed by. When I saw the red mole on his ring finger, I staggered and nearly collapsed.

It was Francis.

Even then, Francis loved Natasha. His marriage proposal to me had nothing to do with love; it was just a distraction for his family.

Just a decoy. A smokescreen.

Something to quiet his family while he protected the only woman he ever truly wanted.

Six years of cold silence, of celibacy, of nothingness.

He’d wrapped it all in the language of religion and said he wanted a life of simplicity and worship.

He prayed. Meditated. Disconnected from the world.

And like a fool, I supported him. I thought I was helping him find peace.

But this? This betrayal? I couldn’t forgive.

Francis had been living with Natasha and raising two children with her while I sat alone in our house, convinced that his rejection and reserved attitude were due to his sacred vow as a devout.

So, right there, standing on the riverbank, the cold wind cutting through me, my tears had nearly dried up.

I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.

The pain was too deep, too vast, too empty.

As the sky began to lighten in the morning, I pulled out my phone and called my lawyer. “Atty. Lawson, help me prepare a divorce agreement.”

I hung up and, with a cold fire in my chest, began tearing through every corner of Silverstone City in search of Percy.

And since my husband was gone, it was up to me to save my son.

But I was still too late.

I tried everything—bribed one of Francis’s bodyguards, coaxed the location out of him.

But when I finally found him…

His body was barely recognizable.

The vultures, scavengers, had gotten to him. Picked him clean.

My baby. My beautiful, bright, gentle boy.

Percy had been murdered, then devoured. Feasted on like he was nothing.

I couldn’t breathe.

My legs buckled beneath me as I collapsed to the ground, the weight of it all pressing into my chest like a vice.

I wanted to scream—to rip the sky apart with the sound of my agony.

But no sound came.

Just air. Just pain. 'Percy! My baby!'

The words clawed their way out of my throat, raw and ragged.

The pain hit so hard I coughed up blood.

My vision blurred.

Though not my biological child, I devoted years of love and care to raising him. Although only five, Percy was way more sensible than kids twice his age.

He would just smile through the tears, hold my hand, and say, "Mommy, don't cry. I'm not hurt. I'm okay."

Such a small child, yet he already felt sorry that Francis always ignored me.

In six years of marriage, Francis had never given me a single gift. So Percy spent days carefully drawing a family portrait just for me.

He even used his pocket money to buy a rose from a street vendor, handing it to me with a shy smile.

“It’s from Daddy,” he said.

How could Francis do this? How could he destroy a child so pure?

I wrapped Percy’s tiny, lifeless body in my arms, the warmth long gone.

My knees nearly buckled, but I held on. “Don’t be scared, Percy. Mommy will take you away from here.”

But then one of Francis’s bodyguards stepped forward, blocking my path. “Mrs. Weston, you can’t take the child with you.”

I glared at him coldly, reached into my coat, and handed him a bank card.

“There’s $5 million in there,” I said.

He paused. Then snatched the card like a drowning man grabbing for air.

“Can I leave now?”

He glanced around nervously, then leaned in. “You can... but don’t tell anyone I let you take him.”

...

Later, I bought Percy his final suit. Arranged his cremation. Held his tiny urn to my chest and walked beside his ashes, numb.

Just like that, my bright, kind little boy had turned to dust.

When Francis finally came home, he opened the door to find me sitting there, cradling the urn like it was still warm.

He was dressed sharply. Slick. A businessman again, no longer cloaked in his monochromatic religious attire.

He paused, forcing sorrow on his face like it was just another role to play.

“News came from Silverstone City,” Francis said. “Percy... something happened to him.”