Chapter One – A House of Lies
The early morning sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Park Avenue penthouse, casting golden streaks across polished marble and brushed chrome. It was the kind of light that could almost convince someone they were living a beautiful life.
Helen Ross stood at the kitchen island, motionless, her hand wrapped around a cooling mug of tea she had forgotten to drink.
At twenty-six Helen had the kind of presence that made people pause. Her face was finely structured—high cheekbones that gave her an aristocratic air, a softly pointed chin, and full, expressive lips that no longer smiled freely. Her skin was fair, porcelain-like, with a natural flush on her cheeks that deepened when she was upset—as she was now. Her deep-set hazel eyes, once filled with warmth, had dimmed into a weary, guarded stare. Thick chestnut hair tumbled in loose, romantic waves past her shoulders, carefully styled even though she hadn't left the apartment in days.
She was tall—around five-nine—and willowy, with an elegant figure she had once embraced. But lately, Helen wore her curves like armor, covering them with perfectly tailored clothes. This morning it was a cream silk blouse and charcoal trousers, a look chosen out of habit, not desire.
She looked like the woman Steven Ross had always wanted her to be—graceful, understated, untouchable.
But inside, something had cracked.
It started as a simple task. She had needed a receipt—one Steven claimed was on their shared cloud drive. A receipt of goods that have been purchased by customers from Steven's business. She had typed in the password, clicked through folders she had seen countless times before.
But then she saw a new folder. It was simply labeled: "Val".
She hadn't meant to open it.but She had to.When she opened it she saw.Dozens of photographs first.
In the photograph she saw Steven and Valerie—his ex-girlfriend. At a private beach resort. Their skin glistening under the sun, laughing with beers in hand. Steven shirtless, toned and grinning, arms around Valerie's waist. Valerie wore a bikini, raven-black hair cascading down her back in waves, her body toned, curvy, tanned, unapologetically confident.
She was beautiful. Sensual. Effortlessly bold.
In the photo they looked happy—intimate. Like lovers on a secret honeymoon.
Helen's chest tightened as her eyes locked on one image in particular—Steven lying back on a lounge chair and Valerie was sitting in his lap.She was kissing him on the cheek and they were both laughing in a romantic manner.Helen's fingers trembled as she scrolled down.Then came the texts.
One seared itself into her memory like a scar:
> "You are the sweetest woman I have ever met. You are sweet on bed and you make me crazy. You make me feel alive."
Helen's throat closed. Her vision blurred in tears. She clutched the edge of the counter to stay upright.
Steven had been married to her for seven months. And yet he called Valerie his "sweetest woman."
The secret affair had started only one months after their wedding. She realized now that her marriage had been built on sand from the very beginning.Steven who was having a secret affair with Valerie did not know that Valerie was already pregnant for him after he slept with her.
Steven had once promised Valerie that he will marry her and divorce Helen when he was drunk at a party night.This made Valerie to take the secret affair she is having with Steven very serious.She desperately loves Steven and will be willing to do anything to get him back.Valerie loves Steven for his handsomeness an his wealth which she never helped him to build.Valerie was desperate to be with Steven because he is wealthy.
As Helen was reading, she saw a message of Steven telling Valerie she was the only woman who made him feel "wild." Saying Helen had become "too quiet, too proper," that she was "like a porcelain doll—beautiful, but cold."
He mocked her. Mocked the very grace and patience she had cultivated to be the wife he wanted.
Helen's eyes stung.
No children had come from her marriage with Steven—because he had wanted to "wait." And Valerie, too, bore no child of his, despite the fantasy Helen had often tormented herself with. But the betrayal was still unbearable.
Helen realized that for four months now,Steven have been using her for his sexual satisfaction and anytime he wants to have sex with her he uses condom because he told her that he does not want kids for now.She realize that Steven was only in love with his ex.The love for her was no more there again like before.
She looked at her reflection in the kettle's stainless steel surface. The woman staring back at her looked elegant but hollow.Her face was full of sorrow and pain.Her eyes were red and her face were swollen.
She remembered all the nights Steven came home late, whispering excuses about client meetings. The impersonal sex. The emotional absence. The way he praised her in public but ignored her in private.
It had all been a lie.
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Steven Ross—CEO of StratCore Ventures and the polished face behind the popular e-commerce platform www.strateCore.com—was hailed as a visionary in the digital retail world. From books and electronics to watches, utensils, and non-perishable foods, his company promised convenience at the click of a button. But behind the sleek website and media praise, few knew the truth: Steven wasn't the mastermind he appeared to be.
It was Helen who had the vision. She had sparked the idea, encouraged Steven to launch the company, and stood by him when early losses piled up. While Steven wore the title of CEO, it was Helen who worked tirelessly behind the scenes, overseeing operations and identifying opportunities for growth. She was the backbone of StratCore Ventures—the real reason behind its success.
Yet Steven had paraded her like a silent partner, the ideal face to present to stakeholders. Privately, he chased distractions, including Valerie, with the recklessness of a man who mistook luck for genius.
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Helen wasn't a woman to fall apart easily. But this? This wasn't just cheating. It was betrayal of the deepest kind. Emotional, spiritual, complete.
The front door clicked open just after noon.Steven came into the house.Sure! Here's a sample description of a character named Steven in a novel.
Steven stood tall, with a lean frame that suggested both resilience and quiet strength. His dark brown hair was always slightly tousled, as if he had just stepped in from the wind, and his sharp, thoughtful eyes—blue like an overcast sky—seemed to miss nothing. A faint scar traced the edge of his jaw, a silent reminder of a past he rarely spoke about.
Helen didn't turn around.She stood rooted to the same spot at the kitchen island, the laptop still open in front of her. The room was silent but thick with the weight of betrayal. Steven's footsteps echoed through the hall—confident, heavy, the gait of a man who believed the world belonged to him.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway moments later, briefcase in one hand, suit impeccable, tie loosened just slightly like he'd had a long day negotiating million-dollar deals. His eyes flicked to her, then to the laptop, and something in his expression shifted—briefly, almost imperceptibly.
Then he smiled. "You're up early. Everything okay?"
Helen's eyes snapped to him, cold and blazing all at once.
She turned the screen toward him without a word. A still photo of Steven with Valerie—her arms looped around his neck, both of them soaked in sun and affection—filled the screen.
Steven's smile vanished. He dropped the briefcase to the floor with a dull thud.
"I found your little love story," Helen said, her voice trembling, not with fear, but fury. "You really couldn't be bothered to even hide it properly?"
Steven said nothing, his jaw tight.
"You said she was just an ex. Ancient history, remember? A friend." Helen's voice cracked, bitter laughter escaping. "Turns out she's your very current secret vacation partner. The woman you've been texting like a horny teenager. The one you called your 'sweetest woman.'"
"Helen—"
"No!" Her voice sharpened, cutting through his attempt. "Don't say my name like you care. Don't pretend to be sorry. I read everything, Steven. Every disgusting message. Every photo. Every lie you fed me while you crawled back to her."
Steven's expression turned hard. "So what, Helen? You've been spying on me?"
"I was looking for a receipt," she hissed. "You led me there. And now I know everything. The affair. The promises. You said you'd divorce me for her."
"You're twisting things," he said coldly. "It wasn't serious."
Helen scoffed, tears welling. "Not serious? Then why does she believe you're hers? Why is she willing to 'do anything' to get you back?"
Steven's mask of calm slipped. His voice rose. "Maybe because she's not boring! Not some cold, quiet ghost floating around the apartment all day. Valerie is alive. She knows how to laugh. How to dress. She doesn't make me feel like I'm married to a damn statue."
Helen flinched as if he'd struck her.
Steven stepped closer. "You're dull, Helen. You dress like you're going to a funeral every day. You don't do anything anymore. You don't work. You just sit here like a watchdog, tracking my every move."
"You made me this way!" she shouted, sobbing now. "You wanted the calm, obedient wife. You wanted someone beautiful and composed. I gave up everything to be that for you. I built your company with you, and you pretend I'm nothing but a background decoration!"
Steven shook his head. "You didn't build anything. You gave advice. You played assistant. That's all."
Out of anger a slap came before she even realized she'd raised her hand.But Steven caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was tight—too tight—and his eyes narrowed.
"Don't try that again," he said darkly. "If you ever lift your hand to me again, I swear I'll throw your damn things onto the street before you blink."
Helen's breath caught in her throat. His threat was real. It wasn't just words.For a long moment, they stood like that—her arm frozen in his grasp, his face inches from hers, rage simmering between them.
Then, he dropped her wrist and stepped back.
"I'm leaving," he said coldly.
He turned and walked out the front door, leaving behind silence, shattered illusions, and the faint scent of expensive cologne.
Helen stood alone, tears dripping from her chin onto her silk blouse.
The door shut.
But something inside her opened.She moved slowly toward the bedroom. Her feet were numb. Her movements automatic.
She opened the closet, took down her favorite suitcase—the leather one her mother had given her after grad school. She began packing. Not with panic, but with quiet, deliberate focus. A cashmere sweater. A few simple blouses. Her journal. Her sketches. Her late mother's engagement ring, tucked safely in a velvet pouch.
She left behind the Cartier watches, the diamonds, the luxury gifts meant to distract.
When she zipped the suitcase closed, it felt like sealing off a chapter of her life.
No confrontation. Not yet. Not today.
She walked to the front door, pausing only once to look around the apartment. It was Lifeless.Exactly like the life Steven had forced her into.
As she closed the door, Helen felt the last tendrils of her past slipping away.
She felt vengeance and power because she knows her worth and she believes that she can make Steven pay back for what he has done.
She knows that her leaving Steven will be a great loss to him but at that point she was angry and felt like dealing with Steven.
And for the first time in four months,Helen Ross was no longer anyone's wife.She was her own.
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The penthouse was still.Steven Ross entered the apartment, loosening his tie as he stepped across the marble floor. It was nearly midnight. He expected the usual: Helen seated on the velvet chaise with a book open in her lap, a glass of wine nearby, maybe the faint scent of lavender from her diffuser. She rarely waited up anymore, but her presence always lingered—warm, poised, calm.
Tonight, it was gone.
He moved through the apartment, calling her name once, casually. No reply. The silence pressed against him like a weight. Something was off. Her coat wasn't on the rack. Her favorite heels were missing from their spot by the door. Her jewelry tray was empty.
A dull throb stirred behind his temples.
Steven moved through the bedroom, checking the closet.
Half of it was bare.
His pulse quickened. The suitcase. The missing garments. The absence of her favorite perfume. It wasn't just a night away.
Helen was gone.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, the realization sinking like a stone in his gut.
She knew.
He hadn't needed confirmation. The moment he saw the closet—orderly but stripped of her essence—he understood. She had seen something. Found something. Felt something he never thought she would dare embrace: betrayal.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, fingers trembling. For a man who had always appeared in control—charismatic, commanding, sharply dressed in tailored suits—Steven suddenly looked... older. Exhausted. Like the foundation beneath his carefully constructed world had cracked.
His phone buzzed.
It wasn't her.
It was Valerie who sent a message saying,"are you still coming today?".
He ignored it.
For the first time in years, her name disgusted him.
He stood slowly and walked to Helen's vanity—an elegant glass table with delicate gold trim. A photo frame still sat there. Him and Helen at his sisters birthday party, five years ago. She was radianting in happiness and excitement, her smile bright, her eyes full of a devotion he hadn't deserved. He looked smug beside her, already drifting away.
The guilt hit him like a punch to the chest.
God, what had he done?
Helen wasn't just his wife. She was the quiet force behind every one of his victories. The woman who read his contracts when his lawyers missed fine print. The one who noticed which investors were bluffing at poker nights. The woman who calmed him during PR disasters, reminded him who he was when he lost sight of himself.
She was the steady flame behind his throne—and he had extinguished her.
Now, the cold was setting in.
Steven staggered into the kitchen, poured himself a drink, but his hands shook too much to lift the glass. He leaned against the counter, staring at nothing, haunted by memories.
The first time she fixed his tie before a board meeting.
The way she stood beside him when he almost lost his company two years ago when they were still single.
Her laugh—the real one—when they used to dance barefoot in their old apartment, before the money made everything stiff and scripted.
He sank into a stool and buried his face in his hands.
He had thought Helen would never leave. That she would stay, like a lighthouse in his storm, always forgiving, always loyal.
But now she was gone.
And for the first time in his life, Steven Ross felt something he couldn't negotiate, buy, or charm his way out of.
Loss.
The apartment, once a symbol of power and perfection, felt like a museum of regret.
He was alone—and this time, it was his fault.
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