The Auctioned Wife: Escaping The Billionaire's Cage

Aleida POV

The silence that followed was infinitely heavier than the noise.

When the rhythmic thumping and stifled cries from the next room finally ceased, the quiet settled over me like a suffocating blanket, a physical weight crushing my chest. I couldn't stay in that cramped box of a room a second longer.

I grabbed my coat and slipped out of the building.

The night air was biting, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the indoors, but I welcomed the cold. It stung my cheeks and numbed my skin, a welcome distraction from the rotting sensation spreading through my gut.

I walked without a destination, my boots striking the pavement on autopilot. Somehow, gravity pulled me toward the old district, where the streetlights hummed with a dim, sickly yellow glow.

I stopped in front of a small cafe: The Java Bean.

We used to come here in the beginning. Before the money, before the lies became our second language. Derek would play the guitar during open mic nights, singing songs he swore he wrote for me, his eyes crinkling with what I thought was adoration.

I pushed the door open, triggering the jingle of the overhead bell.

The place was empty, except for the old owner, Mr. Henderson, who was methodically wiping down the counter.

He looked up and squinted through his thick glasses. "Aleida? Is that you?"

I forced a brittle smile. "Hi, Mr. Henderson."

He came around the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. "I haven't seen you in ages. Or Derek."

He reached under the counter, his joints popping slightly, and pulled out a dusty wooden box.

"Speaking of Derek," he said, his voice raspy and kind. "He left this here months ago. Said he was working on a surprise for you and didn't want you to find it at home. He never came back for it."

He handed me the box.

I took it. My hands felt detached, like they belonged to a mannequin.

I opened the lid.

Inside was a photo album. Leather-bound. Expensive. The kind meant to sit on a coffee table to impress guests.

I opened the first page.

It was a picture of us. Sleeping. He must have taken it with a timer. We looked... peaceful. Artfully disheveled.

Underneath, in his impeccable handwriting: *The start of everything.*

I turned the page. A ticket stub from our first movie. A dried flower from the bouquet he gave me when I got my first design commission. Every page was a curated exhibit, a testament to a love that looked so visually perfect it made my teeth ache.

Mr. Henderson was smiling wistfully. "He loved you so much, that boy. You could see it in his eyes."

I closed the album with a soft thud.

"He didn't love me, Mr. Henderson," I said softly, the realization finally crystallizing. "He loved the plan."

The bell above the door chimed again.

I turned around.

Derek walked in. Else was hanging on his arm, wrapped in a fur coat that looked ridiculous in this dive.

They froze when they saw me.

"Well, isn't this a cozy reunion," Else sneered, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Following us now, Aleida?"

Derek looked at the box in my hands. His eyes widened. He took a step forward, almost instinctively.

"Aleida," he started, his voice cracking. "That's..."

Mr. Henderson looked between us, confused. "Derek? I just gave your wife the album."

Derek's face went ashen. He looked at the album, then at me. For a second, the arrogant mask slipped. He looked like a boy who had been caught stealing. He looked... mournful.

Else tugged on his arm, impatient. "Let's go, Derek. This place smells like stale coffee and desperation."

She looked at me with pure venom. "You can keep the trash, honey. We're making new memories."

Derek hesitated. He looked at the album in my hands like it was an unexploded bomb.

I looked down at it.

I remembered the man who took these photos. I remembered how safe I felt. But it was all a performance. Even this. Even the memories were tainted because the architect of those moments was a fraud.

I walked over to the large metal trash can by the door.

Derek watched me. His breath hitched.

"Don't," he whispered.

It was the first honest thing he had said in months.

I looked him in the eye. I felt nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just a vast, empty plain of indifference.

"It's just paper, Derek," I said. "Just props."

I dropped the album into the trash.

It landed with a heavy, final thud among the coffee grounds and dirty napkins.

I didn't look back. I walked past them, pushing the door open.

The cold air hit my face again, but this time, it didn't just numb me. It felt like freedom.