Chapter 1 1

Serina's POV

I woke up because of the bright sunlight, so I quickly sat up. What happened last night? It seemed real, but maybe it was just a dream. Yes, it must have been a dream. That couldn't be the Markus I knew. He loved me, and that's what I'll hold onto. A smile crept onto my lips at the thought. I am Serina Gonzales-Feehily, the wife of Markus Michael Patrick Verdon Feehily.

I rushed out of our room to find him, but I failed. So, I faced the reality that he never really loved me. I sighed; I thought I could convince myself otherwise, but I was wrong. My tears started to fall, and I hadn't felt like this in a long time. It hurt so much.

I let my tears flow, hoping it would ease the pain even a little. "Good morning, Ma'am Serina," a servant said from behind me, apologizing for Markus leaving early and not waking me, as I seemed tired from the wedding.

I wiped away my tears with my palm and couldn't face the servant, my eyes likely swollen. I had fallen asleep crying last night, hoping he'd come to comfort me, but I was mistaken. I was the only one who slept in his large, cold room.

A bitter smile crossed my face as I remembered what he had said last night. "If you think I married you because I loved you, you're wrong. I only made you fall for me to pay for all your sins! You owe me a life, so you better repay it!"

I closed my eyes as the painful memory resurfaced. "A-ah, Ma'am, are you okay?" I was startled by the servant's voice. I had forgotten there was someone behind me.

"A-ah, yes, I'm okay. W-what time did your sir leave?" I asked, trying to compose myself. I didn't want the servant to suspect that something was wrong.

"He left early, ma'am. He told me to prepare breakfast for you before we all left," the servant replied politely.

He asked them to prepare breakfast for me? Was what I heard real? I felt a glimmer of happiness, but it faded quickly. What if it was just for show, like the way he acted when we were still dating?

But wait, they were leaving?

"Leaving? W-where are you all going? W-why are you leaving?" I couldn't help but ask. The servant had said they were leaving before.

"Oh, ma'am, we're all being transferred to the hacienda. We'll be working there from now on. I thought you knew," the servant said, sounding puzzled.

"A-ah, y-yes, I forgot," I stammered, trying to cover up. I didn't want them to suspect any trouble between us.

I pushed aside my questions for now. I would ask him later. Maybe he was just caught off guard by his behavior last night. I convinced myself.

I went straight to the dining area and noticed a painting that caught my attention. It was a portrait of Markus, beautifully done, with a charming smile. Every detail of his face was captured perfectly, from his long, arched eyebrows that rivaled those of women, to his pointed nose, red kissable lips, and his blue eyes. His Irish heritage was evident.

I smiled sadly as I remembered how kind his face used to be, but last night, he seemed like a monster in his anger.

I looked at the bottom of the painting, where the artist's name was written: Sapphire.

Who was Sapphire?

"Ma'am, your breakfast is ready," Rita interrupted my thoughts. She always seemed to appear out of nowhere.

"T-thank you," I said and shifted my gaze away from the painting as I sat down.

Rita handed me a newspaper, and I poured myself a cup of coffee.

I sipped my coffee while flipping through the newspaper, and a picture of my husband caught my eye. He was wearing a business suit and sitting in a swivel chair, but what caught my attention was the writing next to his name.

"THE MURDERER MUST BE PUNISHED."

I froze, my whole body trembling. I dropped the cup, and the hot coffee burned my leg.

"Ouch!" I exclaimed.

"Ma'am!" Rita rushed over, concerned, handing me a tissue.

"I-I'm okay," I replied, my voice trembling, as I hurriedly left the room.

The pain from the spilled coffee on my leg was nothing compared to the pain in my heart. Though there was no name mentioned, I had a strong feeling that I was the one being referred to as the murderer.