My wife, Sophia, valued promises above all else. So after her best friend passed away, she promised to take good care of her friend’s younger brother, Alex—and she truly treated him as the most important person in her life. At every social event, she brought Alex along. She bought him the most expensive watches, arranged the best jobs for him, and even when I worked nonstop for 72 hours to secure a major contract for the company, she didn’t hesitate to give all the credit to Alex. Eventually, everyone came to believe that Alex was her real husband, while I was just some shameless other man, constantly clinging to her in a pathetic attempt to take his place. Then, the earthquake struck. I rushed into the collapsing building where she was trapped to save her, only to have my leg crushed beneath the rubble. But without a second thought, Sophia chose to save Alex, who had only suffered a minor scratch. Hearing my desperate cries for help, Sophia frowned and shouted, “At a time like this, you’re still trying to compete with Alex? He can’t get hurt! I promised Bella I’d take good care of him! Figure out how to save yourself!” Sophia valued promises above all else. But on our wedding day, she had also promised that she would never let me be harmed. As I watched the two of them supporting each other as they walked away, my consciousness slowly began to fade. --- The Sinclair family mansion loomed against the evening sky like a monument to old money and older pride. Marcus Steel stood at the entrance, straightening his modest suit jacket—the only decent one he owned—while luxury cars deposited guests dressed in designer labels he couldn't pronounce, let alone afford. Three years. Three years of this. He pushed through the heavy oak doors into the grand foyer, where crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors that probably cost more than most people's houses. The air smelled of expensive perfume, aged drink, and subtle contempt. "Well, well. Look who decided to grace us with his presence." Wellington Radcliffe's nasal voice cut through the ambient chatter. The man appeared at Marcus's elbow, his tailored tuxedo immaculate, his smile vicious. "I thought maybe you'd gotten lost on the bus ride over." "I drove," Marcus said evenly. "In that thing?" Wellington laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "I've seen better vehicles in junkyard commercials. Honestly, Marcus, it's embarrassing. This is a Sinclair family event, not a charity drive for the homeless." Marcus's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Experience had taught him that engaging only provided more ammunition. The dining hall sprawled before them, a cathedral of wealth where a table stretched beneath more chandeliers, set with china that gleamed like fresh snow. Family members and distinguished guests mingled in clusters, their conversations a symphony of business deals and social maneuvering. And there, at the center of it all, sat Sophia. His wife. The woman he'd married in what felt like another lifetime. Sophia Sinclair—he'd taken her name, another source of family mockery—sat poised and perfect in a midnight blue gown that probably cost more than Marcus earned in six months. Her dark hair fell in elegant waves, her posture radiating the refined grace that came from generations of breeding. She was beautiful in the way expensive art was beautiful: admirable, untouchable, cold. Beside her sat Alexander Grant, twenty-four years old and insufferably handsome in his designer suit. He leaned close to Sophia, whispering something that made her lips curve—not quite a smile, but the closest thing to warmth Marcus had seen on her face in months. "Your seat is over there." A servant appeared at Marcus's elbow, gesturing toward the far corner of the table. The spot where they seated distant cousins nobody cared about. The spot that screamed: You don't belong here. Marcus made his way to the corner chair, feeling eyes track his movement like predators watching wounded prey. Conversations didn't stop, but they shifted—became pointed, theatrical. "I heard he's been looking for work again," someone stage-whispered. "Third job this year." "Can you imagine? Sophia, a Saintess of the holy bloodline, married to a man who can't even hold down basic employment." "It's tragic, really. She could have had anyone. Senator Morrison's son was interested. The Whitmore heir practically begged for her hand." Marcus settled into his chair and reached for the simple wrapped package he'd brought—his gift for Grandfather Sebastian. Inside was a carefully prepared dish, a recipe passed down from his own grandmother. It wasn't expensive, but it was made with care, with memory, with the kind of love that couldn't be bought. He set it on the table and immediately regretted it. Beside the dish sat a parade of extravagance: a jade sculpture that probably belonged in a museum, bottles of drink older than Marcus, a golden Buddha statue that gleamed with ostentation. His simple wrapped package looked like a child's crayon drawing hung next to the Mona Lisa. "Is that a lunchbox?" Marcus Sinclair's voice boomed from the head of the table. The patriarch stood, glass of whiskey in hand, his silver hair and commanding presence demanding attention. "Someone brought Grandfather Sebastian a lunchbox for his eightieth birthday?" Laughter rippled through the room like a wave. "Actually, Father, I believe it's homemade food," Elena Sinclair added, her tone dripping with false sweetness. The matriarch examined her manicured nails as if bored by Marcus's existence. "How... quaint. How very... peasant chic." More laughter. Louder this time. Grandfather Sebastian himself peered down the table at the package, his weathered face creasing with disdain. At eighty, he still commanded respect through sheer force of personality and three generations of accumulated power. "Homemade food?" He said it like Marcus had presented him with garbage. "What am I, some commoner eating leftovers? Take it to the kitchen. Feed it to the dogs." "The dogs?" Wellington chimed in, always ready to pile on. "Are you sure that's safe, Grandfather? Marcus's cooking might bring them bad luck. Might turn their fur gray or something." The room erupted in cruel amusement. Marcus felt heat crawl up his neck. He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't sure—when Sophia's voice cut through the noise. "That's enough." Two words, spoken with the kind of authority that came from being born a Saintess. The room quieted instantly. Marcus's heart lifted for just a moment, hope blooming— "Let's not waste time on trivial matters," Sophia continued, her eyes not even flickering toward Marcus. "Alexander has prepared something truly special for Grandfather's celebration." And just like that, the hope died. Alexander stood, smooth and confident, producing an elegant wooden box. "Grandfather Sebastian, it's an honor to celebrate your eightieth year. I've secured something I hope is worthy of the occasion—a century-old wild ginseng root, authenticated and certified. It's said to extend life and vitality." He opened the box with a flourish. Inside, cradled in silk, lay a gnarled root that looked like it cost more than Marcus's car, his apartment, and his entire existence combined. The room gasped. Someone actually clapped. "Alexander!" Marcus boomed, his face lighting up. "My boy, this is extraordinary! The thoughtfulness! The generosity!" "Such filial piety," Elena cooed. "You're like the grandson we always wished for." "This is what respect looks like," Grandfather Sebastian declared, accepting the box with genuine pleasure. "This is how a real man honors his elders. Unlike some people who show up with kitchen scraps." His eyes finally landed on Marcus, cold and dismissive. Sophia rose from her seat, graceful as water, and touched Alexander's arm. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice carrying that rare warmth again. "Your constant support means everything. Sophia was right to trust you to my care." "Anything for you," Alexander replied, his tone intimate enough to make Marcus's stomach turn. Marcus watched his wife stand there, her hand on another man's arm, her smile reserved for someone who wasn't her husband. He watched the family fawn over Alexander like he'd descended from heaven, while treating Marcus like something stuck to their shoes. "Sophia," Marcus said quietly, trying to catch her attention. She turned, and for a moment their eyes met. But instead of acknowledgment or support, he saw only a warning: Don't embarrass me further. Then she looked away, returning her attention to Alexander and the family's continued praise, and Marcus understood with perfect clarity what the last three years had truly meant. He was not her husband. He was her burden. Her mistake. The thing she tolerated because she'd made some vow about destiny and saintess intuition that she now clearly regretted. Around him, the dinner celebration continued, a symphony of laughter and mockery, of luxury and cruelty, of everything that reminded Marcus Steel exactly where he stood in the Sinclair family hierarchy: At the bottom. Always at the bottom. With nowhere to go but further down. The banquet hall glittered like something out of a fever dream—all crystal chandeliers and polished silver, tables groaning under the weight of gourmet dishes that cost more per plate than Marcus earned in a month. Drink flowed freely, the bottles bearing vintage dates older than some of the guests. Jewelry sparkled on every wrist and throat, enhanced with cultivation energy that made precious stones glow with an otherworldly light. And there, at the head table beneath the largest chandelier, sat Sophia. She'd changed into an elegant emerald dress that hugged her figure perfectly, making her look like some fairy-tale princess. Her Saintess aura radiated from her skin, a soft golden glow that made her appear ethereal, untouchable. Divine. Alexander Grant sat close beside her—too close—serving food onto her plate with practiced intimacy. He murmured something in her ear, and she actually laughed. A real laugh, musical and light, the kind Marcus hadn't heard from her in over a year. "Perfect pair, aren't they?" someone whispered nearby. "Born for each other," another voice agreed. Marcus sat at the smallest table near the entrance, separated from the main gathering by what felt like miles of polished floor. His table was meant for overflow guests, distant relatives nobody cared about, people who needed to be present but not seen. He pushed food around his plate mechanically, tasting nothing. "Marcus!" Victoria Sinclair's voice rang out, Sophia's cousin, all false sweetness and genuine malice. "How's the job search going? Still looking after all this time?" Conversations quieted. Heads turned. The predators smelled blood. "I'm exploring opportunities," Marcus replied carefully. "Exploring opportunities," Wellington Radcliffe repeated with a snort. "That's corporate speak for 'unemployed for three years.'" Laughter rippled through the hall. "Now, now," Wellington boomed from the head table, his voice carrying effortlessly. "Let's be fair. Marcus helps with household chores. That's... something. Every great woman needs someone to handle the domestic duties." More laughter, sharper this time. "He does the laundry beautifully," Elena Sinclair added, examining her drink glass. "I've seen the sheets. Very crisp. Perhaps that could be his career path—professional laundryman." The humiliation burned through Marcus's chest like acid, but he kept his face neutral. Three years had taught him how to swallow rage, how to smile through contempt. "Speaking of careers," Wellington continued, standing now, commanding the room's attention, "Alexander here closed three major deals this month! Three! The Whitmore contract, the offshore expansion with the Chen family, and that tricky negotiation with the Morrison Group. The boy's a natural!" Alexander waved off the praise with practiced modesty. "I only did what Sophia trained me to do. She's the true genius behind the strategy." "You're too modest," Sophia said, her voice warm in a way Marcus hadn't heard directed at him in months. "I couldn't have done it without you. You're invaluable to me." Invaluable to me. The words struck like physical blows. Marcus's hands clenched beneath the table. She'd never said that about him. Never called him invaluable, necessary, important. In three years of marriage, he'd never been anything but a burden she tolerated because she'd made some misguided promise about destiny and Saintess intuition. "A toast!" Grandfather Sebastian raised his glass, his voice still strong despite his eighty years. "To Alexander Grant—a young man who understands how to treat a Saintess properly! Who knows what true strength and capability look like!" Crystal clinked. Voices rose in agreement. Marcus's glass remained on the table, untouched. Dessert arrived in waves of culinary artistry—delicate pastries that looked like jewels, chocolate sculptures too beautiful to eat, fruits carved into impossible shapes. The staff moved with choreographed precision, serving the head table first, working their way through the hierarchy. Marcus's dessert arrived last. Naturally. Then Alexander stood, and the room fell silent with anticipation. "Sophia," he said, his voice carrying that smooth confidence of someone who'd never been denied anything. "I saw this and thought of you." He produced a velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate crystal necklace that caught the chandelier light and threw rainbows across the ceiling. The centerpiece was a flawless diamond, suspended in an intricate web of silver and smaller crystals that seemed to pulse with faint holy energy. "It reminded me of your pure and radiant spirit," Alexander continued. "The way you bring light to everyone around you." Gasps echoed through the hall. Someone actually clutched their chest like they might faint from the romance of it all. Sophia's eyes glistened. Actual tears. "Alexander, I... I don't know what to say. It's beautiful." "May I?" He gestured to the necklace. She turned, sweeping her hair aside, exposing the elegant curve of her neck. Alexander fastened the necklace with careful fingers, his hands lingering just slightly too long on her shoulders. "Perfect," he murmured. "Absolutely perfect." Sophia touched the pendant, then turned and embraced him. The hug lasted three seconds too long to be merely friendly. Marcus's vision blurred at the edges. "To Alexander Grant!" Grandfather Sebastian's voice rang out again. "A true gentleman who knows quality when he sees it!" Everyone rose. Glasses lifted. Voices joined in celebration of a man who wasn't family, wasn't even trying to be subtle about his intentions, but who everyone clearly preferred to the man Sophia had actually married. Marcus remained seated at his forgotten table, hands clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, nails digging crescents into his palms. The party began winding down. Guests congratulated each other on a successful evening. Business cards exchanged hands. Plans were made for future gatherings. Then Sophia stood, calling for attention. The room quieted instantly—a Saintess commanded respect through mere presence. "Thank you all for celebrating Grandfather's birthday," she began, her voice clear and gracious. "Your presence means everything to our family. I especially want to thank Mother and Father for organizing this beautiful event, and Grandfather for allowing us to honor his remarkable life." She continued through the list: thanking distant cousins for traveling, thanking business partners for their loyalty, thanking the staff for their excellent service. "And finally," Sophia's voice softened, took on that warmth again, "I want to thank Alexander Grant for being my rock during difficult times. For his unwavering support, his brilliant mind, and his constant presence when I needed someone I could truly rely on." The words hung in the air like a verdict. She didn't mention Marcus. Not once. Didn't acknowledge his presence, his existence, his three years of enduring this family's contempt. As if he wasn't even there. The party dispersed. Guests filtered toward the exit. Marcus waited until the crowd thinned, then followed Sophia toward the private family wing. He found her in the hallway, still wearing that crystal necklace Alexander had given her. "Sophia." She turned, her expression cooling the moment she saw him. "What?" "Why?" The word came out hoarse. "Why are you treating me this way?" "Treating you what way?" She crossed her arms. "I've given you everything, Marcus. A home, status, a place in one of the most powerful families in Eastmere State—" "You didn't mention me," he interrupted. "In your speech. You thanked everyone except your husband." "I made a sacred promise to Bella," Sophia said, her voice hardening. "To protect her brother, to ensure he succeeds. Everything I do is to honor that vow. If you can't understand the importance of a Saintess's sacred duty, then you're even more common than I thought." "What about your duty as a wife?" "Don't you dare lecture me about duty!" Sophia's holy power crackled in the air, making the hallway lights flicker. "I've given you everything! What have you given me? You're unemployed, powerless, worthless! You contribute nothing while I build an empire! The least you can do is support my obligations to people who actually matter!" The words hit like hammered nails, each one finding its mark with surgical precision. Marcus stared at his wife—this cold, beautiful stranger who wore his wedding ring while calling another man invaluable—and something inside him snapped. His vision went red. With a roar that came from three years of swallowed rage, Marcus turned and stormed back into the banquet hall. The remaining guests looked up in alarm. The dessert table still stood, pristine and perfect, loaded with crystal and fine china. Marcus grabbed the edge and overturned it. The crash was spectacular. Crystal shattered. China exploded across marble. Expensive desserts splattered like abstract art. Guests screamed and scrambled back. Sophia rushed in, eyes wide. "Marcus, what are you—" "If I'm worthless," he snarled, "then nobody celebrates!" He spotted Alexander near the entrance, the man's perfect face showing shock for the first time all evening. Marcus moved. His fist crashed into Alexander's jaw with three years of accumulated fury behind it. The cultivator went down hard, not expecting a "common man" to have such strength. Marcus didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Every punch released another memory—another humiliation, another dismissal, another moment of being invisible in his own marriage. "Marcus, stop!" Sophia recovered, rushing forward. Her Saintess powers flared, golden light filling the hallway. But she didn't pull Marcus away. Instead, she threw herself over Alexander's body, shielding him with her own. "Are you insane?!" she screamed, her eyes glowing with holy power. "You're hurting Bella’s brother! I promised to protect him!" I promised to protect him. The words echoed in the sudden silence. Marcus stepped back, chest heaving, knuckles bleeding. He stared at his wife kneeling on the floor, protecting another man with her body and her powers, choosing Alexander over him with crystal clarity. "And what about your promise to me?" Marcus asked quietly. "On our wedding day, you promised to honor me. To forsake all others. Remember?" Sophia's face twisted with guilt and anger. "That was before I knew what you really were! Before I realized I married someone who would never amount to anything!" The entire family stood frozen in doorways, watching this brutal dismantling of a marriage. Marcus looked at his wife—really looked at her—and saw the truth he'd been avoiding for three years. She'd never loved him. Maybe she'd convinced herself she had, maybe her Saintess intuition had shown her something she wanted to see. But whatever had brought them together had died long ago, suffocated under the weight of her family's contempt and her own growing resentment. "I see," he said softly. "You've already made your choice." Then the building began to shake. The building's tremor started as a low rumble, the kind you feel in your bones before your brain registers danger. Then the world lurched. Crystal chandeliers swayed violently, their thousand prisms throwing chaotic light across walls that suddenly weren't straight anymore. The floor buckled beneath Marcus's feet like a living thing. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered in cascading waves. Then the screaming started. "Earthquake!" someone shrieked. Panic erupted instantly. Guests in their designer clothes and glittering jewelry stampeded toward exits like cattle, all pretense of civilization abandoned. High heels snapped. Men shoved women aside. The carefully cultivated veneer of upper-class civility cracked and fell away, revealing the animal terror underneath. Marcus's instincts overrode everything else—the humiliation, the rage, the bleeding knuckles from Alexander's face. His body moved before his mind caught up, turning back toward the banquet hall, fighting against the tide of fleeing bodies. "Sophia!" His voice cut through the chaos. "We need to get out! Now!" He could see her through the crowd, still in that emerald dress, Alexander beside her clutching his bruised jaw. The building groaned, a sound like a dying giant, and a section of ceiling collapsed twenty feet to their left. Marcus pushed forward, shoving through the panicked mass. "Sophia!" But Alexander was already there, his hand clamped on Sophia's arm with possessive urgency. "Sophia, stay close to me!" Sophia's eyes blazed with golden light. Her Saintess powers erupted in a brilliant flare, holy energy cascading from her skin like liquid sunshine. The air shimmered, and a barrier of golden light formed around her and Alexander—a perfect dome of divine protection. Debris fell. A chunk of marble the size of a car door crashed down directly above them. The barrier deflected it effortlessly, the holy energy sending the rubble skittering harmlessly aside. "Marcus!" Sophia's voice rang out, and for one desperate second, hope surged in his chest. "The barrier can only protect two people! Find your own way out!" The words hit harder than any of the falling debris. Marcus staggered, the crowd pressing around him, elbows and shoulders driving into his ribs as people fought for survival. Through the chaos, he watched his wife's golden barrier shimmer and pulse, protecting her and Alexander with divine power while leaving him exposed to the collapsing building. "Sophia, please!" He reached toward her, twenty feet feeling like miles. "Just expand the barrier!" "I can't!" She was already moving toward the emergency stairwell, pulling Alexander with her. "It takes too much holy energy! Alex is injured because of you—I have to protect him!" Another massive tremor. The floor tilted at a sickening angle. A support beam tore free from the ceiling with a shriek of tortured metal, trailing electrical wires that sparked and hissed. It crashed down in an explosion of concrete and dust, the shockwave picking Marcus up and hurling him backward into a pile of debris. His head cracked against something hard. Stars burst behind his eyes. When his vision cleared, he was half-buried in rubble, concrete dust filling his lungs. "Sophia!" The word came out as a cough, barely audible over the building's death throes. "Help me!" Through the smoke and swirling dust, he could see them ahead—Sophia and Alexander bathed in that golden protective glow, moving steadily toward the emergency stairwell. They looked like angels ascending to heaven while the world burned around them. Marcus clawed his way out of the debris, every muscle screaming. His left arm throbbed—sprained or broken, he couldn't tell. Blood ran down his face from a gash somewhere in his hairline. He stumbled forward, following the golden light like a moth to flame. The stairwell entrance appeared through the smoke. Sophia and Alexander were already halfway down, the golden barrier lighting their path. Marcus reached the entrance, started down, when the building gave another violent lurch. The stairwell buckled. Metal railings tore free. Concrete steps crumbled like sand. "Move! Move!" Alexander's voice echoed up from below. "The whole thing's coming down!" They emerged from the stairwell into what must have been a lower level—Marcus couldn't tell anymore, the building's geography had become a nightmare maze of collapsed walls and twisted metal. Smoke filled everything, making his eyes stream. Through the haze, he saw it: a narrow opening in the rubble ahead, maybe four feet high and three feet wide. Beyond it, the faint glow of emergency lights. A way out. But the gap was collapsing. Even as Marcus watched, chunks of concrete fell from the edges, making the opening smaller with each passing second. Sophia and Alexander reached it first. They stopped at the entrance, and Sophia turned back. Her eyes met Marcus's through the smoke and darkness. For one heartbeat—one single moment suspended in time—Marcus thought she would help him. That despite everything, despite the humiliation and the cold indifference and the way she'd chosen Alexander over and over again, she would remember their wedding vows. Remember that she was his wife. Then she turned to Alexander. "Alex, go first!" Her voice carried that same desperate urgency she'd never used for Marcus. "You're injured and need medical attention! I promised Sophia I'd protect you! I can't break that vow!" Alexander hesitated, looking back at Marcus. There was something in his expression—not concern, not sympathy. Something else. Something that looked almost like satisfaction. Triumph. "What about Marcus?" he asked, but the question felt performative. Empty. "He's strong! He'll find another way!" Sophia was already pushing Alexander toward the gap, her barrier expanding just enough to shield him from the collapsing edges. "Go! Now!" "Sophia!" Marcus's roar tore his throat raw. He ran, stumbling over debris, his injured arm hanging useless. "I'M YOUR HUSBAND! HELP ME!" Alexander squeezed through the opening, his body protected by Sophia's golden light. She followed immediately, not even glancing back, her holy energy illuminating the path to safety. Marcus reached the gap just as she disappeared through it. He threw himself forward, hands grasping at the edges— And caught one glimpse of them on the other side. Sophia had her arms wrapped around Alexander, her golden barrier cradling him like a lover protecting her beloved. They stood in a pool of emergency lighting, safe, whole, together. Alexander's head rested against her shoulder. Her hand stroked his hair with a tenderness Marcus had never received. "Sophia!" Marcus's hand stretched through the gap toward them. "Please! Don't leave me!" She looked back then. Their eyes met one final time. And Marcus saw the truth in her gaze: she'd made her choice long before tonight. Maybe weeks ago. Maybe months. The woman he'd married—if she'd ever really existed—was gone. In her place stood a stranger who valued a promise to a friend more than her vows to her husband. "I'm sorry," Sophia whispered. But she didn't move. Didn't extend her powers. Didn't try to save him. Then the floor gave way beneath Marcus's feet. The sensation of falling was almost peaceful for a moment—weightless, dreamlike. Then reality crashed back in the form of concrete and steel and darkness. He plummeted into the building's collapsing guts. Above him, tons of debris followed, blocking out the light. A steel beam caught him across the ribs. Something sharp tore through his leg. Pain exploded everywhere at once, too much to localize, too much to process. The world became a chaos of crushing weight and suffocating darkness. Marcus couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but lie there as the building finished its death throes around him. His last conscious thought, as the black wave rose to claim him, was crystalline in its clarity: I came here to save her. And she left me to die for him. Then there was only darkness.
