BAD WIFE

Prolouge

Fifteen Years Ago...

The night looked like it had been ripped from the pages of a gothic novel—black skies split open with forks of lightning, thunder rolling through the heavens like war drums. Rain poured in a punishing torrent, slashing through the wind, soaking everything in sight. Beneath the creaking shelter of an old park gazebo, a girl sat alone—trembling, crying, breaking.

Clarissa's body was curled into itself on the bench, hands pressed to her face as silent sobs shook her shoulders. Her long brown hair, now darkened by the storm, clung in drenched strands to her flushed cheeks. The pink and cream floral dress she'd so carefully picked out was plastered to her skin like a wet paper wrapping, clinging to her trembling form, turning sheer in places she didn't care to notice anymore.

She felt exposed. Fragile. Raw.

She had fallen in love.

And it terrified her.

She hadn't meant to—not like this. She was supposed to be careful. Smart. In control. She'd always prided herself on not being "that girl"—the one who gave her heart away too quickly, who got swept into feelings she couldn't afford. But somehow, despite every internal warning, every defensive wall she had tried to keep intact—she'd still fallen.

And she'd fallen hard.

It wasn't just love—it was surrender. Like crashing face-first into fast-drying cement, the kind that hardens before you realize you're stuck, and suddenly you're nothing more than a bump in someone else's road. That was how it felt.

He was too charming. Too smooth. He wore his confidence like a tailored suit, fit for seduction. He said all the right things and smiled like he knew exactly how to disarm her—and it worked. Every time. Her carefully guarded heart didn't stand a chance.

She remembered the moment it started to spiral—the first time he'd looked at her and called her beautiful.

Something in her knew, right then and there, that she was in trouble.

He was completely out of her league. The kind of guy who turned heads when he walked into a room. Girls flirted with him in plain sight, drawn in by the same smile that had undone her. He was sculpted like he belonged on a magazine cover—broad shoulders, a defined chest, strong arms. He worked out religiously, and it showed in every movement.

Sandy brown hair that glinted gold in the sunlight. Green eyes so sharp they sliced through her whenever they locked onto hers. That first time he looked at her—really looked at her—she'd frozen. Paralyzed. Like a deer caught in headlights, unsure whether to run or stay perfectly still and hope it wasn't real.

Their first date had felt like a dream. He showed up in a crisp blue dress shirt that hugged his form too well and soft, dark denim jeans. Clean-shaven. Smelling like temptation itself—notes of spiced rum and warm honey clinging to him like heat.

She, in contrast, had no idea what she was doing.

She'd worn a long, modest floral dress and left her hair loose because she didn't know how to style it. Makeup wasn't her thing—wasn't something she ever thought she'd need. She didn't even know how to put on mascara properly.

But none of that had mattered to him.

He drove her an hour away to a restaurant by the sea. She remembered the way the waves crashed just beyond the windows, the moonlight glinting off the surface like liquid silver. The way the candlelight flickered between them, casting him in soft shadows and golden warmth. It felt like something that wasn't meant to last. Like a beautiful mistake you know will ruin you.