Chapter 2: Cold Cohabitation
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Julian was a ghost in his own home. On the rare nights he appeared, he'd slip straight into the guest room. Our master bedroom might as well have had police tape across the door.
Every morning, I'd prepare breakfast at dawn, only to scrape it into the trash hours later. Julian never ate a single bite.
"Should I set the table for Mr. Hayes tonight?" the housekeeper asked, though we both knew the answer.
"He's swamped with work," I lied, forcing my lips into what I hoped resembled a smile.
I became a Julian Hayes scholar, poring over his interviews like sacred texts, memorizing his favorite foods, music, books—anything to bridge the chasm between us.
Saturday, I spent six hours perfecting his favorite pasta dish, following an Italian chef's recipe to the letter.
When Julian walked in, he barely glanced at my culinary masterpiece. "I'm meeting friends for dinner," he said, already turning away.
I stood frozen, knuckles white, the scent of wasted effort hanging in the air. What else could I possibly do?
A month into this charade, Hayes Group held its annual gala. As the CEO's trophy wife, attendance wasn't optional.
I spent hours getting ready, selecting a midnight-blue gown that hugged every curve. Julian's assessment? A cursory glance and "Let's go."
At the gala, Julian paraded me around for exactly fifteen minutes, then abandoned me. I nursed a champagne flute in the corner, the perfect wallflower.
"So you're Julian's bride?" A statuesque blonde approached, hand extended. "Isabelle Laurent, Marketing Director and, well, Julian's oldest friend."
I shook her hand, feeling like I was touching a live wire. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Julian never brings dates to these things. You're the first," Isabelle said with a knowing smile. "Though we all know why."
My stomach dropped. "What exactly do you know?"
"Julian and I go way back to freshman year. He tells me everything," she shrugged, diamond earrings catching the light. "Don't take it personally. He's always been… selective with his affections."
Right on cue, Julian materialized. When he spotted Isabelle, his entire demeanor transformed.
"Izzy!" His voice actually contained emotion—warmth I'd never heard directed at me. "You made it."
Isabelle laughed, squeezing his arm. "Miss your big night? Not a chance, Jules."
They fell into easy banter, inside jokes and shared memories, while I became invisible. Each genuine smile he gave her was another crack in my heart.
So he was capable of warmth after all—just never for me.
After the gala, Julian personally escorted Isabelle to her car. I waited in our Bentley for twenty excruciating minutes before he returned.
"You and Isabelle seem close," I ventured as the city lights blurred past our windows.
"We have history," Julian replied curtly, effectively slamming that conversational door shut.
Back at the mansion, Julian disappeared into his study. I stood in the cavernous living room, loneliness echoing off the marble floors.
My phone pinged—a message from Dad: "How's married life treating you, sweetheart?"
I typed "Great!" then deleted a paragraph of truth before hitting send.
I couldn't burden my recovering father with the truth. Besides, Lin Group's survival depended on this sham marriage.
That night, staring at the ceiling of my empty bedroom, I finally asked myself: could I really survive two years of this elegant torture?
Meanwhile, in his study, Julian sat motionless before his laptop. He unlocked the bottom drawer and withdrew a worn photograph—a laughing girl with chestnut hair, her fingers intertwined with his, both of them radiantly happy.
With a heavy sigh, he returned the photo to its prison and locked the drawer with a decisive click.
