Replacing My Heartless Husband

I spent a million dollars on plastic surgery for a disfigured actor, molding him into the spitting image of my husband, Julian Sterling, before signing him to a contract to be my companion.

I thought Julian wouldn't care.

After all, during our seven-year marriage, I collapsed from overwork in my office while he was vacationing in Europe.

The day my mother passed away, he was at a charity gala, basking in the adoration of the media.

When I had a skiing accident and was rushed to the emergency room, the doctors warned my life was in danger. His only response was to have his assistant send a black card with a terse message: "It's fine as long as she's not dead."

He was a Wall Street tycoon who could move markets with a flick of his wrist, and he was notoriously cold and heartless.

Just when I had resigned myself to playing the part of the dutiful wife, a tweet sent the internet into a frenzy.

Julian—a man so obsessed with his career he saw women as mere distractions—had abruptly canceled a press conference for half his corporation's projects. The reason? To jet off around the world with an influencer named Chloe, someone he’d just met.

So I ran. I vanished from his world completely.

Just as I was beginning to find solace in the gentle affection of Julian's stand-in, the door to my apartment was kicked open. Black-suited bodyguards instantly sealed every exit.

Julian, his bespoke suit cutting a sharp figure under the glaring lights, strode toward me. With bloodshot eyes, he ripped me from the other man's arms.

"Elara, have you had enough of this nonsense?"

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1

"So, this is your new toy?" Julian’s voice was dangerously low.

"This face," he snarled, turning to the actor. "Only Chloe deserves to look like me."

Julian stared at the face identical to his own, then used a shard of glass to carve deep gashes into the man's face—a mirror of his own—slashing until the bone was visible.

"Elara, you've truly outdone yourself."

Behind him, Chloe murmured, "Julian, it's no use ruining him. She'll just find another one."

Julian turned to me, a terrifying viciousness in his eyes I had never seen before.

"What are you trying to do—"

Before I could finish, a blinding pain shot through me.

He seized a marble ornament and brought it crashing down, shattering the bones in my hand.

"A lesson, Elara," Julian said, his voice frigid.

Without a backward glance, he took Chloe by the hand and left.

I looked down at the blood streaming down my wrist.

My hand. The very foundation of my career.

Now, it had been destroyed by his own hand.

As I walked out of the hospital, I saw Julian gently helping Chloe out of the OB/GYN clinic.

She was pregnant.

Seven years ago, on our wedding night, I had asked him, "Julian, when should we have a baby?"

Without looking up from his documents, he had replied, "I don't like children."

It turned out he didn't dislike children; he just disliked having them with me.

When Chloe saw me, she gave a faint tug on Julian's sleeve, tears instantly welling in her eyes.

"Julian, she's scaring me… I feel faint."

"Elara."

He looked at me, his eyes like chips of ice. "So, kneel and apologize to Chloe."

I was stunned.

"Didn't you hear me?"

His voice grew colder. "Kneel. Apologize for what you did."

His shout echoed down the street, drawing a crowd of curious and pitying onlookers.

As their gazes bore down on me, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me.

Fine. I'll kneel.

I slowly sank to my knees, my injured hand hanging limply at my side, the fresh gauze already seeping with blood.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice mechanical.

Chloe rushed over, feigning concern as she offered a hand. But as she leaned in, she dug the point of her stiletto into my injured hand.

"Elara, what are you doing? Get up, quickly."

"Enough!"

I shoved her away, instinctively protecting my hand.

Chloe stumbled backward and fell, a crimson stain spreading from beneath her skirt.

"Chloe!"