Slowly, I lifted my eyes to Maria. “What… was that?”
Maria met my gaze calmly. “Christina has been making inappropriate comments about Mrs. Sterling’s body.”
The words sounded unreal.
“Excuse me?” I said quietly.
Maria continued carefully. “She’s also commented on her hair.”
I stared at her. “What do you mean?”
Maria gestured toward the paused video. “She’s been forcing Mrs. Sterling to wear a wig.”
My mind blanked for a beat, barely able to process. "A wig?" I echoed, my voice hollow.
Maria nodded. My mind struggled with the information. When I finally spoke, my voice sounded distant even to myself.
“The curly hair Vani is wearing now…” I said slowly. “…is that a wig?”
Maria shook her head. “No, sir. That’s her natural hair."
For a second, I genuinely couldn’t comprehend what she was saying. My wife’s natural hair. Which meant— I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across my mouth. Vani had been wearing a wig this entire time without me noticing.
A strange mix of shock and guilt settled in my chest. How had I missed that?
How could I have been so blind to what hurt her most?
Maria watched me quietly as the realization sank in.
“She manipulated Mrs. Sterling into believing her natural hair wasn’t elegant enough,” Maria added gently.
I let out a long breath. The thought twisted something tight in my chest. Vani—who loved books and laughed easily—had apparently been convinced something about herself wasn’t good enough.
And I had never even realized.
“If you would like to deal with Christina later, you may want this video.”
I nodded. She forwarded the file to my phone. A moment later, it buzzed in my pocket. I didn’t bother checking it.
“Thank you, Maria. I’ll handle Christina,” I said calmly.
I stood there for another second, letting the anger settle into something colder and more controlled. Christina could wait. Right now, my wife was more important.
I all but ran to the library, knowing I'd probably find my wife curled with a book, completely unaware I had just learned what she’d endured.
My feet moved on instinct as I all but ran to the library, my pace increasing with each step. I didn’t slow down, not evenwhen I reached the double doors. My hand wrapped around the handle, and I pushed the door open, stepping inside.
The sight that greeted me immediately slowed my breathing.
My wife was curled up on the sofa.
One arm was tucked beneath her head while the other rested loosely against the book in her hand. The book had slid slightly toward her chest, her fingers still curled around the edge of the page as though she had been determined to finish it before sleep claimed her. Her legs were tucked beneath her. The moonlight filtering through the tall windows cast a warm glow over the room.
But it wasn’t the peaceful scene that caught my attention.
But what truly arrested me—what made my chest tighten painfully—was her hair.
My eyes drifted upward, immediately locking onto the mass of curls surrounding her head.
