She Faked Her Death And Returned As A Legend

Genevieve drove a plain, unremarkable black sedan into the Veridian Institute compound.

She'd barely stepped into the building when Fiona Fletcher, her colleague and friend, grabbed her arm.

"You actually came to sign the papers? What is going on? You never answered my messages. This isn't a game, Gen. Even if you were serious about this, you should have talked to Julian first."

Genevieve felt a sharp sting behind her eyes, the sudden, threatening burn of tears.

Without a word, she pulled out her phone, opened WhatsApp, and handed it to Fiona, the chat already open.

Provocative messages and photos, sent over more than just one day. The photos themselves were beyond indecent.

Fiona barely glanced at the screen before shoving the phone back as if it were toxic. Her face flushed with rage.

"That son of a bitch! If it weren't for your patents, his precious company would never have gotten this big. And now he has the nerve to cheat on you? No. You're coming with me. I'm going to tear him apart."

"Don't." Genevieve raised a hand to stop her.

"What do you mean, 'don't'? He treats you like this, and you're just going to let it slide?"

"Not a chance."

Genevieve slipped her phone back into her pocket. Her eyes were cold and sharp as splintered ice. "A public showdown is too good for him. I want him to pay for what he's done."

Fiona knew Genevieve well.

She was a brilliant researcher with a kind heart, but she never tolerated betrayal. Once someone crossed her line, she would strike back without mercy.

Fiona didn't argue. They walked back to the office side-by-side.

The paperwork was simple—it moved through several quick approvals and now only needed a final review.

Before she could leave, a last-minute task came through: attend an academic lecture and pick up the conference materials.

3:30 PM.

Zenith Hotel.

The lecture had just ended. Genevieve was walking out of the hall, file folder in hand, and heading for the parking lot when she heard a familiar low laugh.

"Don't be difficult. Behave yourself."

She froze. Every muscle in her body went rigid as her head snapped toward the sound.

Julian had his arm around a woman with long hair and a slim waist, guiding her into the hotel. The woman's cloying voice was a soft plea. "I miss you. So, so much."

As she spoke, she hooked her arms around Julian's neck and kissed him, her red lips moving from his earlobe down to his throat.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound, his eyes full of indulgence. His hand pressed into the small of her back, pulling her closer with an urgent, undeniable need.

The sight was a physical blow, a sharp pain that seemed to sear right through Genevieve.

So the woman had followed him here. And they couldn't even wait for nightfall, sneaking off to a hotel in the middle of the afternoon.

Through the revolving door, Julian's gaze suddenly met Genevieve's.

His eyes were dark, clouded with unspent desire.

Hers were arctic and empty, holding a cruel, self-mocking calm.

The air between them turned heavy. The woman in Julian's arms spotted Genevieve, too. A smirk curled her red lips, and without breaking eye contact, she deliberately pressed another kiss to Julian's mouth.

This one was firm, deliberate—an unmistakable claim.

A wave of nausea rolled through Genevieve. Refusing to watch a second more, she turned away with a cold, humorless laugh.

The second she pulled her car door open, a hand shot out from behind, slamming it shut. Julian had caught up to her. He was slightly out of breath, and the cloying, fiery perfume clinging to him was sickening.

"Let go!"

Genevieve yanked with all her strength, but the door wouldn't budge.

In the next instant, an arm circled her waist and shoved her into the back seat. Julian slid in right after her, his handsome face tight with urgency, a volatile flicker in his dark eyes.

"Genevieve, I can explain."

With no way to escape, Genevieve only edged further away, her voice dropping to an icy calm.

"Wipe the lipstick off your mouth before you speak to me."

Julian's expression darkened. He instinctively raised a hand to his lips, a flash of panic in his eyes before it vanished.

"The Beacon Project hit a snag," he began, his voice rushed. "I've been stressed about the investment. I contacted the Regulus Group. Isabelle Sullivan is the daughter of one of their board members. She's here to study, and they asked me to look after her. Her English is terrible, and she'd had a little too much to drink. I was just dropping her off at the hotel."

His voice softened to a coaxing, syrupy tone. He leaned closer, trying to charm her the way he always did when things were tense.

"You know how people from Ferolia are—more openly affectionate. I promise, I'll be more mindful of boundaries from now on. Don't be mad, okay? How about I make it up to you with a kiss?"

Genevieve raised her eyes. The chill in them was absolute, yet her voice remained eerily steady.

"Is taking such 'close personal care' of her a condition of their investment?"

There was no shouting, no hysterical interrogation.

She didn't need to raise her voice. Her quiet calm was more impenetrable than any wall of anger, and that one cold question made his entire elaborate story sound hollow and pathetic.

A familiar frustration washed over Julian. He tugged irritably at his tie.

"Genevieve, this was for work. Can you stop being so childish?"

Genevieve found the accusation so absurd it was almost funny.

She hadn't even thrown a tantrum.

Did he need her to shove the obscene photos from her phone in his face before it would count as making a scene?

The years of affection now felt like a fresh wound, burning hotter than any rage.

"Julian, if you're tired of this marriage, just say so. I'll give you a divorce. I won't cling to you."

Why did he have to treat her like a fool? Why lie to her face like this?

The moment the words left her mouth, his hand clamped down on her shoulder.

Julian's eyes turned frighteningly dark. "Don't ever say that word. We agreed. Whatever problems we have, we solve them. We don't talk about divorce."

Solve it?

He was cheating on her, sleeping with someone else. How, exactly, were they supposed to solve that?

Genevieve felt trapped, as if any move she made would only leave her more wounded.

A sudden ringtone shattered the suffocating silence. Julian's face was a stone-cold mask as he pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen, and declined the call.

But Genevieve had already seen the caller ID: My Sexy Kitten.

Before he could put the phone away, the screen lit up again.

This time, a WhatsApp notification popped up. The contact: Hot Stuff <3.

"Honey, I got hurt. It really hurts."

"I can't do this without you. Come back quick."

"It's bleeding. Am I going to die?"

Three messages in a row. All in Ferolian.