Chapter 1

To force me into breaking off our engagement, my fiancé orchestrated my father's company's downfall, driving it to bankruptcy and leaving him drowning in millions of dollars of debt.

The shock made my father collapsed from a heart attack and was rushed into emergency care.

Desperate and out of options, I knelt before my fiancé, tears streaming down my face, begging him to help cover my father's surgery costs. But he only looked down at me with cold indifference.

Then, just as all hope seemed lost, Atlas Whitmore, my childhood best friend, returned from abroad.

Without hesitation, Atlas pulled every string necessary to get my father the best medical care. He stayed with me through endless nights, never leaving my side, offering quiet reassurances when my world was crumbling.

But a week later, my father suffered another sudden attack.

As his life slipped away, Atlas knelt by his bedside, his voice trembling with emotion as he made a solemn vow—he would marry me and take care of me for the rest of his life, so my father could leave this world without worry.

After the funeral, hollow and broken, I finally severed all ties with my fiancé.

Instead, I chose Atlas.

For five years, I thought I had found peace, that I had been saved from my grief.

Until one night, I stumbled upon a conversation that shattered everything.

"You really outplayed me on this one. Got Celeste to walk away willingly, like the clingy fool she is. But tell me—what do you think she'd do if she found out it was you who destoryed her father? Will she'd want to kill you?"

My fingers hesitated on the polished brass handle of the private lounge door.

Inside, laughter rang out, low and mocking.

"You really had her fooled," my ex-fiancé, Nathaniel, drawled, amusement dripping from his voice. "Celeste trusted you like a brother, loved you unconditionally. I bet it never even crossed her mind that the man who destroyed her father was you."

My breath caught in my throat.

A second voice, hoarse with alcohol and anger, responded. It was Atlas.

"I took the blame for you because of Ivy," he bit out, his words laced with something bitter. "I never cared for Celeste even though, but I'm not a monster. I'd never go as far as pushing her father to his death."

A sharp clink echoed as glass met wood, the sound edged with suppressed fury. Then came Atlas's voice again, low and seething.

"I owe her. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to her. The only reason I helped you back then was for Ivy's sake. But if you ever hurt her, if you ever so much as make her cry, I swear to God, I'll end you."

Nathaniel laughed, a slow, taunting sound.

"Such devotion," he mused. "But it's too bad she met me first. You should focus on protecting your dear Celeste... after all, you killed her father. Be careful, Atlas. The dead have a way of coming back to haunt you."

*Crash.* The unmistakable sound of glass shattering against the door jolted me back to my senses.

I turned on my heel and walked away, my heart pounding like a war drum.

Downstairs, the bar was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of liquor and smoke. My hands trembled as I reached for a glass, lifting it to my lips.

The moment the alcohol burned down my throat, tears welled in my eyes. I never drank. But tonight, I needed something—anything—to drown out the words replaying in my mind.

It wasn't Nathaniel who ruined my father.

It was Atlas—the man I had spent five years sharing a bed with, waking up next to, trusting with the fragile remains of my heart.

And one week after my father's first attack, he must have said something, done something, to trigger the second.

No wonder my father's eyes had been locked onto him in those final moments. The look I had thought was gratitude—relief that I would be taken care of—wasn't that at all.

It was rage.

And I had been too blind, too trusting, to see it. The love, the warmth, the marriage I thought was my salvation...

It had never been love at all. It was guilt. A hollow, meaningless compensation.

A sharp laugh tore from my throat, but it sounded foreign to my own ears. The taste of alcohol turned to ashes on my tongue, my stomach churning with something ugly and consuming.

I was still staring blankly at my empty glass when warm arms wrapped around me from behind.

Atlas.

His embrace was firm but uncharacteristically hesitant, as if sensing the shift in me. His breath, tinged with whiskey, fanned against my neck as he murmured, voice thick with intoxication.

"Celeste... you've been gone too long. I missed you." His lips ghosted over my hair, his arms tightening around my waist. "Let's go home, love. I need you. I love you. So much... always..."

For five years, I had believed these words.

Atlas was never an expressive man, but every time he was drunk, he would whisper these confessions into my skin. His friends always said a drunk man's words were his truest thoughts.

And I had believed him. But now?

Now, all I could feel was how utterly ridiculous it all was.

My face betrayed nothing as I gently pried his arms away and helped him into the car.

He slumped against me, his head resting on my lap, his breathing slow and even. His brows, always slightly furrowed, finally eased in sleep, as if he had found some fleeting peace.

Then, just as I reached to adjust his coat, his lips parted, and a name fell from them.

"Ivy... Ivy... why didn't you choose me?"

Ivy Monroe. The woman who had stolen my fiancé. The woman who had been Atlas's first love.

Chapter 2

Atlas had never truly forgotten her.

He had merely played his part—pretending to love me, pretending to be the devoted husband—while his heart had always belonged to someone else.

I had underestimated just how deeply he loved Ivy.

The sharp *clatter* of a phone hitting the hardwood floor snapped me out of my thoughts. Atlas's phone had slipped from his pocket, skidding to a stop at my feet.

I bent down to pick it up, and just as my fingers brushed against the sleek screen, a message popped up.

"Atlas, thank you for taking drinks for me tonight. And the necklace... I can't accept it. It's far too precious."

A cold wave swept through me. The next notification was worse.

A social media post—from Ivy Monroe.

"Love is priceless."

Attached was a photo—a breathtaking diamond necklace, radiant under the soft glow of candlelight.

I recognized it instantly. The world's only one of its kind, recently auctioned for an astronomical price—one billion dollars. A mysterious bidder had outspent everyone to claim it.

Now, I knew who that bidder was.

And Ivy? She had posted it for me to see. She wanted me to know.

Just last week, Atlas had been so busy that he barely had time to eat. He had collapsed from stomach pain and been rushed to the ER. I had been beside myself with worry, torn between anger at his negligence and heartache that he would push himself so hard.

Yet the moment he opened his eyes, he boarded a flight to England.

I had thought it was for work. I had been furious at him for putting his job above his own health.

But now, I knew the truth. He hadn't gone for business. He had gone to that auction.

Even in agony, doubled over from pain, Atlas had flown across the world to bid on the rarest necklace in existence—for her.

A dull ringing filled my ears.

Before I could think better of it, my fingers moved on their own, typing in his passcode.

The lock screen flashed open.

It worked. His passcode wasn't his own birthday, not mine, either.

It was hers---Ivy's birthday.

A bitter laugh bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed it down.

Atlas had always refused to let me see his phone, insisting that we needed personal space and boundaries.

Now I knew why.

The moment the home screen appeared, I was greeted with her faceIvy—smiling—bright, radiant, breathtaking.

No wonder his expression softened every time he unlocked his phone.

My heart pounded as I tapped into his photo gallery.

Every album had the same format:

"Ivy, age 10."

"Ivy, age 11."

"Ivy, age 12."

All the way up to "Ivy, age 25."

Hundreds—thousands—of photos. Every stage of her life, carefully documented. And in all of them, she was smiling.

I swiped through frantically, my breathing growing shallow.

Not a single picture of me. Not even one of him.

Only her.

Just like his heart—his entire being had revolved around her, from the very beginning.

My hands trembled as I clicked into his notes. And then I saw it. His diary.

[20XX – ]

"Ivy scraped her knee today climbing a tree. It's my fault—I never should've planted them in the yard."

[20XX – ]

"Ivy got married today. As long as she's happy, nothing else matters. My life exists to make her smile."

[20XX – ]

"I got married today. When I saw Ivy sitting in the crowd, I wished—God, I wished—that she was the one standing beside me."

I couldn't breathe. My hands went numb, the phone slipping from my grip and landing on the car seat beside me.

At that moment, the vehicle turned into the long driveway of our estate.

The garden came into view. Or what used to be a garden.

I stiffened. Bare earth stretched before me, empty and lifeless.

Once, two beautiful peach trees had stood here—trees Atlas had specially transported from my father's old estate.

My father had planted them for me when I was ten. They had been my connection to him, a reminder that he was still with me.

Then, one day, their roots had inexplicably rotted, and they had withered away.

I had been devastated.

Atlas had held me for three days and nights as I sobbed, whispering soothing words, stroking my hair, promising he would always be there.

Now, staring at the barren ground, realization clawed at my chest.

It had also been him. The one thing my father had left me—Atlas had destroyed it.

Tears blurred my vision as a final notification appeared on the phone's screen.

A message from his assistant.

"Mr. Whitmore, as per your instructions, your will has been finalized. All assets will be left to Miss Ivy Monroe. We just need your signature for it to be effective."

Chapter 3

Through the haze of my tears, I thought I saw him.

The man who had once held me close at my father's funeral, his arms a shelter as my world crumbled.

*"Celeste, I will give you a home. Everything I have belongs to you."*

His voice had been so steady that day, his embrace so sure, as if I had been his entire world.

What a cruel illusion.

Now, as I laid Atlas onto our bed, I no longer moved with the tenderness I once did. I didn't take off his shoes. I didn't press a glass of water to his lips, murmuring words of comfort.

I simply turned away.

For the first time in five years, I shut myself inside the guest room.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every memory of his love—every soft look, every whispered promise.

And wondering if any of it had ever been real.

Morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room.

I opened my eyes to find Atlas already watching me. His gaze was gentle, his expression full of quiet affection, as if nothing had changed.

He leaned down, pressing a slow, familiar kiss to my forehead.

"Celeste, were you upset last night?" His voice was soft, laced with concern. "I'm sorry—I had too much to drink. I promise it won't happen again."

His tenderness was effortless, the same as it had always been.

I gave a quiet hum in response, barely audible, then slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. The moment the door shut behind me, I turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run over my fingers.

Then, with slow deliberation, I pressed my damp palms to my forehead, wiping away the lingering warmth of his kiss.

Breakfast was already laid out when I stepped into the dining room.

Once, a sight like this would have made me happy. Atlas always prepared my favorites—meticulously plated, arranged with care.

But now, after reading his diary, after seeing the truth spelled out so cruelly in his own words...

I couldn't even muster the appetite to eat. Because I knew now. These weren't my favorite dishes. They were Ivy's.

The sound of keys turning in the front door made me look up.

The door swung open, and Ivy stepped inside, her white dress flowing as she moved through my home as though she belonged there.

She walked to the table without hesitation, sliding into a chair across from me, her smile polite, effortless.

"Celeste, I hope I'm not intruding," she said, voice smooth as silk. "Atlas and I have a photoshoot this morning. He told me to come over for breakfast first."

I didn't respond. My gaze had already locked onto something else.

A keychain.

Dangling from her fingertips—identical to the one I carried in my bag.

Atlas must have noticed the shift in my expression because he immediately leaned in, his voice low, reassuring.

"Celeste, Ivy is our closest friend," he murmured. "It's normal for her to have a key to our home..."

His voice trailed off, cut short by his own instinct.

Across the table, Ivy had just picked up a glass of soy milk. Atlas was on his feet in an instant, moving without thought.

"Ivy, you can't drink this." His voice was sharp, urgent. "How many times have I told you?"

Ivy stilled, then let out a soft laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You're right," she murmured, her tone teasing, affectionate. "Thank God, I got you to remind me."

Their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them. Something too deep, too natural, but had nothing to do with me.

I pushed back my chair, the sound echoing in the quiet room. I didn't want to be here anymore.

I was halfway to the door when Ivy called out again.

"Celeste," she said, tilting her head in that same effortless way. "You're good at photography, right? Could you take my pictures today? I don't trust the new photographer."

My fingers clenched. Since my father's passing, I hadn't touched a camera.

Not once.

Because the moment I did, I would think of him—his steady hands guiding mine, his patient voice teaching me how to frame a shot, his warmth as he stood beside me.

Atlas knew this. He had locked all my cameras away, told me I didn't have to force myself, promised that he would wait until I was ready.

But now—before I could even refuse, Atlas placed a hand on my back, gently ushering me forward.

"Celeste," he said, almost apologetically, "Ivy gets carsick. Let's not make things difficult for her, okay? You can sit in the back today."

A quiet, bitter laugh nearly escaped me.

He had forgotten something----I was the one who got carsick.