Amelia Jenson sat rigidly on the plush sofa of the sprawling Riverbay Villa, the crisp edges of her marriage certificate digging into her palm. Three years. Three years since a hurried, almost clinical ceremony had bound her to Liam Prescott, a man she barely knew. The name, Liam Prescott, emblazoned on the document, felt less like a husband's name and more like a brand, a label on a product she was meant to maintain.

Her gaze drifted to the large television screen across the opulent living room. Liam was there, his dashing features radiating charisma, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Beside him, draped intimately, was Ava Summers, a renowned celebrity whose name seemed perpetually intertwined with his in the tabloids. Reporters clamored, their voices a cacophony of questions about their 'intimate relationship.' Liam’s swift, cold retort, "Do I need to explain myself to you?" cut through the noise, silencing the press but echoing painfully in Amelia’s chest.

A sharp pang shot through her heart. She had long known of his public entanglements, the endless news cycles of his 'womanizing ways,' yet seeing it unfold with such casual intimacy, in her home, on her screen, was a fresh wound. She was Mrs. Prescott, a title that carried no weight, no warmth, no respect within these very walls. Her grandmother’s words, "be faithful to your husband," rang hollow, a cruel jest in the face of such blatant disregard. The villa, once a symbol of her new life, felt like a vast, lonely tomb. She was tired of waiting, tired of hoping, tired of the constant, gnawing anxiety that came with every scandalous headline.

A click of the front door broke her reverie. Liam was home. A flicker of hope, swiftly followed by familiar dread, ignited within her. She moved, almost automatically, towards the door, ready to play her part, to maintain the fragile illusion of a marriage that existed only on paper.