The morning was a contradiction—lavish, yet cold.
The Cheng penthouse stretched into silence, interrupted only by the clink of fine china and the distant hum of the city outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the dining space with muted gold, casting sharp shadows across the long marble table. A sculptural chandelier hung above, too extravagant to feel real. Everything about the space felt curated, untouched, as if no one truly lived here.
Sophia sat at one end, dressed in a soft cashmere wrap dress in pale cream. Her hair was pulled back in a loose knot. Not messy—intentional. Like the rest of her now. Intentional.
Across from her, Leon Cheng, in a charcoal morning suit, read from a folded newspaper. His left wrist bore a platinum watch she knew cost more than her first car. His posture was regal in that careless, effortless way of men who ruled empires. Not an inch of him seemed aware of her presence. Or maybe he was—he just didn't find her worth reacting to.
She stirred her tea. The sound was delicate. Measured.
"I'm enrolling at L'Atelier."
He gave no reaction.
She let the words settle in the space between them, like smoke curling in the air. Her hands remained still, even as her heartbeat climbed like it wanted to scream for attention.
Leon turned a page. "L'Atelier. The acting school."
"Yes."
Finally, he looked up—one brow arched, cool as steel. "Is that what this is now? A career in performance?"
Her lips curved, just barely. "You'd be surprised what I can do."
He leaned back in his chair, folding the paper in half with precise fingers. "You don't need to do anything. You're my wife. You have everything."
Sophia set her teaspoon down gently. "Everything… but a life of my own."
His eyes locked on hers, unreadable. "You knew the terms when you walked into this."
"I thought I did," she said, her voice low but unwavering. "But marriage isn't the same as ownership. You have no right to decide what I do with my future."
Leon gave a soft, mirthless chuckle. "You're not built for that world, Sophia. They'll eat you alive."
"Then let them try," she said. "I'll be the one setting the table next time."
flicker passed through his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or annoyance. It was gone too quickly to tell.
"You think this is rebellion," he said coolly. "But it's just naivety. Do you know what happens to women who try to climb out of their role in this circle?"
"Yes," she said, standing slowly. "They become names you remember."
" The entertainment industry is not all rosy and dandy. A lot of underhanded activities are carried out behind the scenes. You are not built for such"
" That is true, I am not built for such, im built for more."
He didn't stop her as she walked away.
But she knew the silence was not surrender.
It was the beginning of something else entirely.
The moment she reached her room, she didn't pause.
She closed the door behind her, turned the lock, and reached for the drawer in her vanity where she kept her old phone. Not the sleek gold-plated one Leon had given her. The one she came into this life with.
She wiped the screen clean with her robe sleeve and propped it against a stack of books. Then she opened the email tab on her laptop—already sitting open from the night before—and found the submission page for L'Atelier's accelerated program.
"Audition tapes must be under three minutes. One monologue. No background music. No edits."
Her palms were suddenly clammy. She flexed her fingers and pulled in a slow breath.
No second chances. No hiding behind Leon's shadow.
She searched through the bookmarks she'd made at midnight. French. British. Translated Russian plays. The one that stuck with her was raw, haunting—a piece from The Glass Room, about a woman clawing out of the life she was trapped in.
She took her place in front of the phone and stared at the black screen.
Then she began.
"I was never yours to keep—only yours to silence," she said, her voice trembling at first. But with every line, it steadied. Hardened. Took shape like a blade being forged midair.
By the time she reached the final words—"I am not a cage you built—I am the fire you lit"—her eyes were wet. Not with weakness.
With fury. With truth.
She hit stop.
No retakes. No filters. No cuts.
And then—without hesitation—she uploaded it. Hit send.
Her hands were still shaking when she stepped away from the phone. She opened the closet and picked out her favorite trench coat—soft grey, almost silver. She tied the belt tight around her waist and slipped on black leather gloves. Then she picked up her purse.
If she stayed here, her resolve would waver. She knew Leon. He had a way of making choices feel like errors. She wouldn't give him that chance.
Downstairs, as she waited by the curb for the car, Veronica appeared. Impeccably dressed in a blood-red blazer and pencil skirt. Her eyes flicked over Sophia's outfit like a scanner searching for weakness.
"Running errands?" Veronica asked, voice smooth as polished stone.
"Something like that," Sophia replied.
"Leon doesn't usually like surprises."
Sophia smiled faintly. "He didn't marry a surprise. He married a storm."
The car pulled up. Veronica didn't stop her. But Sophia felt her gaze burning into her back like judgment laced in perfume.
She slid into the seat and closed the door behind her.
The interior of the car was quiet—too quiet.
Sophia leaned her head back against the cool leather headrest, eyes fixed on the blur of the city as the driver pulled into the stream of traffic. For a brief, suspended moment, she allowed herself to breathe—not deeply, but just enough to not unravel.
She'd taken the first step toward herself.
Her phone buzzed on the seat beside her.
Unknown number.
She hesitated. Then she picked up.
"Hello?"
A beat of silence. Then:
Darling. I was wondering when we'd speak."
The voice was velvet dipped in ice. Female. Elegant. Perfect diction, like pearls strung together. Familiar in the way perfume clings to a room long after someone's gone.
Sophia straightened. "Who is this?"
"Oh, come now," the woman purred. "Surely Leon's wife knows the name of the woman who was meant to be Mrs. Cheng."
Silence.
Vivienne Laurent.
Former darling of the elite. Heiress to the Laurent shipping empire. The one who wore red at every gala and left ashes behind her. The woman the Chengs had once chosen—before something cracked behind closed doors.
Before Leon married Sophia.
"Oh, darling," Vivienne said, I want what you have—and I'm not afraid to tell you I'll take it."
Sophia didn't blink. "That's unfortunate. Because what I have? Doesn't belong to you."
Vivienne laughed, sharp and cruel. "You think this is yours? Leon? The Cheng name? The penthouse you parade around like you belong there?" She scoffed. "Sweetheart, you're not even a proper scandal. You're a placeholder. A footnote. A delay in destiny."
Sophia leaned back in the seat, voice like silk wrapped in steel. "Funny. He seemed to marry me quite willingly."
Vivienne's tone dropped. "He married you out of anger. Out of ego. And when he's done licking his wounds, he'll come crawling back to where he belongs—with me. So, here's what's going to happen, Sophia."
A pause. Then the real Vivienne emerged—stripped of polish, feral beneath the gloss.
"You're going to annul this farce of a marriage. Publicly. Gracefully. Before you embarrass yourself and him any further."
Sophia's jaw tightened. "And if I don't?"
Vivienne's voice turned venomous.
"Then I'll make your life a living hell. I will ruin you, piece by piece, until no one in this city whispers your name without pity or laughter. I will dig through your past, your family, your secrets. I will bleed you socially until all that's left is the echo of the girl who tried to sit on a throne meant for me."
"You sound desperate."
"I sound inevitable," Vivienne hissed. "You think you've seen power? I am power. I'm the legacy. I'm the heir. I am the rightful Mrs. Cheng—and I will not watch a woman with no pedigree, no presence, no purpose, pretend to be something she's not."
Sophia didn't flinch. "Then maybe you should stop watching and start walking away."
Vivienne let out a slow breath, calm returning like poison settling into wine.
"You have three days," she said coldly. "Walk away before I make sure you can't even find the door."
Click.
The call ended.
But the declaration burned in the air like perfume set on fire.
Sophia stared at her reflection in the tinted window—face unreadable, lips unmoving. But her pulse thundered in her ears.
Three days.
The clock had started ticking.
And Vivienne just declared war.