The Scapegoat Wife's Ultimate Comeback

re Conor Hudson seemed to love my chaotic energy

it was a cage he built to hide his obs

call the police. He grabbed me, his eyes cold and

" he snarled. "Y

prisoned me in a windowless room, weaponizi

ncovered the sic

d who had stolen my dead sister's art legacy-

e could torture

d, I e

vish engagement party, I hij

ra, smiling at the hus

tly what you wanted,

pte

"Jacey, you're just a little... overwhelming." So when Conor Hudson, with his quiet eyes and even quieter demeanor, looked at me like I was exa

friends would listen, pat my hand, and tell me I'd find someone who appreciated my "spark." But each breakup c

rough rooms like a silent storm, all power and no wasted words. I, on the other hand, was a whirlwind of cha

te dress and the even more elaborate expectations. Conor was the guest of honor, the stoic heir to Hudson Enterprises, a man whose name whispered "power" and "billions." He stood

shapes I could only dream of. I talked about my own small attempts at curating, my passion for art that burned brighter than any social anxiety. Cono

eir eyes darted around the room. Conor's presence was like a vacuum, pulling in every single word I uttered. I mistook his deep quiet for profound unde

e that vibrated through the air, sending a shiver down m

udson, we need you for the auction. And Jacey, dear, I think Mr. Hudson has heard

' d done it again, been too much. My relentless talking, my in

gesture, barely there, but it stopped my apology mid-sentence. He didn't look at the or

ng," he said, his voice softer than I expected. "And I'm

like the sun breaking through a storm. He turned back to me, that same unblinking gaze. "So, you were saying ab

ence me. My throat tightened. The words, usually so ready to leap, got stuck. My mind, usually a chaotic whirlwind,

ed the last of my embarrassment. "Cat got your t

actually want to know?" The question

looked captivating in that moment, all sharp angles and suppressed power, a dark

he man who wouldn't just tolerate my noise, but would cherish it. Thi

cial standing and provide new business opportunities. They saw a quiet, steady man who would provide stability for their "spirited" daughter. Even my friends, who knew my penchant for dramatic, fleeti

ges. I floated through it all, convinced I had finally found my haven, my safe space from a world that constantly wanted

if still... quiet. Back home, life as Mrs. Hudson was opulent but strangely sterile. Our sprawling mansion felt like a museum, perfect

s to my longest, most winding anecdotes were often a series of polite grunts, or a simple, "Hm. Interesting." He rarely i

"Good morning." "Dinner at eight." "I'm off to the office." That was often the extent of our daily exchanges. I tried everything. I told him about my day in excruciating detail

lot to say." It was never harsh, never unkind, but it was just... there. A gentle dismissal. His patience was boundl

wled across the antique dining table, or accidentally spill coffee on his pristine white

lmly called the cleaning staff. His "patience" felt less like love and more like an unnerving indifference. No matter what I

out battle. Conor was consumed, working day and night. I, wanting to feel useful, offered to h

ing his study. "Something outside the box, to appea

creasing his brow. "Jacey, this is a serious business ma

eed. "The art of persuasion! I can get people to car

you to stay out of the way, Jacey. This isn't your worl

my help, you need to talk to me. Really talk. Tell me how you feel,

as if he' d said the sky was blue. He' d rather face financial ruin than reveal a sliver of emotion. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocat

There was something fundamentally missing, something deeply wrong with this picture, but

sister, returned from abroad. I' d heard stories, whispers of a troubled past, of Elsworth Hudson, their grandfather, sending her away

ments fluid, her voice a soft murmur. I, of course, was my usual self, a whirlwind of anecdotes about my latest cur

erstanding with a notoriously difficult donor. I called Conor, my voice tight with panic, explaining the convoluted situa

oice cracking. "I can't handle this a

oice calm, reassuring. "Just wait t

s furious, the donor was packing his bags. My claustrophobia, a lingering scar from a childho

m, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her eyes wide with concern. "Jacey, da

Hillery? Not him? I swallowed the bitter pill. "Where

a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Family

the delicate flower, clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with feigned terror. Just then, Conor burst into the room, his face etc

roar, raw and utterly uncontained. It was a voice

nger towards the hallway. "Someone... someone

her face, his eyes scanning her for injury. He murmured soft words, words of com

distant, almost perfunctory glance. "Jacey, are you alright?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of the earlier fury, now merely

, unleashing a torrent of emotion I didn't know he possessed. The silence he offered me wasn't acceptance; it was e

ce, his unwavering stoicism towards me, wasn' t a sign of his deep affection. It was a sign of his profou

flinched, pulling back as if burned. The sudden movement, the stark realization, drained every ou

ightly, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

ngue felt thick. He was asking me if I was

e man who would always choose her. I turned, my legs shaky, and walked away, not knowing where