Chapter 1 Five Years of Love, All for Nothing

Waverly Knight was in a car accident. As she lay in the operating room, her mind flashed back to the moments before the crash and a photo on her phone.

In the photo, Beckham Lynch was holding another woman, his expression full of tenderness as if she were a long-lost treasure he had finally recovered. His eyes were filled with care and devotion.

Waverly had been staring at that photo in a daze when the accident happened.

She was Beckham's wife. But the woman in the photo? She was Beckham's first love.

Waverly had been married to Beckham for five years, yet she had never seen him look at her with such warmth. At that moment, her heart felt like it had been torn to pieces.

His first love had returned. And as for her?

What did she mean to him? Did she even have a place in his heart?

A desperate thought took root in Waverly's mind. She wanted to find out once and for all if Beckham cared for her, even a little.

When she opened her eyes, the white ceiling of the hospital room came into view. She was dazed and confused.

"You're awake." A cold, magnetic voice reached her ears.

Waverly turned her head and was met with a sharp, handsome face. Beckham's deep-set features exuded authority, and though his expression was blank, his eyes were naturally captivating.

But now, those eyes held no trace of warmth as they looked at her.

Waverly blinked in bewilderment and asked, "Who are you?"

She glanced around the room. "Where am I?"

Beckham's brows furrowed slightly as he scrutinized her, his gaze piercing as though trying to assess her condition.

Frightened by his look, Waverly feigned panic and stammered, "W-Why are you looking at me like that?"

Beckham quickly withdrew his gaze, his tone indifferent. "It's nothing. We're just friends."

Her last shred of hope crumbled. It felt like her heart had been shattered, leaving a gaping, bloody wound. She felt unbearable pain.

Five years of marriage. She had worked hard to be the woman he wanted—the perfect Mrs. Lynch. And all it amounted to was this?

"Friends?"

Every bit of love she had poured into this relationship was all for nothing.

Just then, the hospital room door opened, and a miniature version of Beckham entered. It was their son, Arthur Lynch.

He didn't even glance in Waverly's direction. He walked straight to Beckham instead. Looking up at his father, he said, "Dad, we need to go. Ms. Wells is waiting for us to watch her performance."

Waverly gripped the bedsheet tightly beneath her hands to keep her emotions in check.

A bitter irony struck her—this was the son she carried for ten months, the child she bore. Yet now, as she lay injured and frail, he wouldn't even glance her way.

Indeed, like father, like son. Arthur's whole world revolved around Sarah Wells, just like Beckham's.

People always said that boys struggled to empathize with their mothers. Now, Waverly understood that all too well.

Beckham treated her with indifference, and Arthur followed suit. At home, he wouldn't so much as smile at her. In public, he even avoided acknowledging her.

In Arthur's eyes, she was nothing but a woman who spent her days doting on her husband and child—an embarrassment.

Waverly sneered inwardly. She felt that they were truly cut from the same cloth. If that's how it was going to be, she was done.

Five years of love and dedication? She would let it all go for nothing.

When Waverly was discharged from the hospital, Beckham's assistant handled all the arrangements.

Still playing the part of someone with amnesia, Waverly looked at the assistant and asked directly, "Who are you?"

Jenna Jones hesitated momentarily before answering, "I'm Mr. Lynch's assistant. I'm here to take you home."

Waverly blinked innocently. "Mr. Lynch? Who's that?"

Jenna fell silent for a moment, then replied, "The man in the hospital room earlier. He's your husband."

Chapter 2 Passion

Waverly sneered inwardly, though her expression remained one of innocent confusion. She asked, "Then why did he say that we were just friends?"

Jenna hesitated. "That… I'm not sure."

She genuinely didn't understand what Beckham was thinking. His wife had been in a car accident and supposedly lost her memory, yet the first thing he said to her was, "We're friends".

It was almost surreal.

Waverly continued her act. "Could it be that we had an arranged marriage? Is that why he said that we're just friends?"

Jenna didn't respond.

The car pulled up in front of Rosewood Villa. Waverly felt a sharp pang in her chest when she saw the familiar mansion.

Images of Beckham holding Sarah in the photograph flashed through her mind. Her breathing grew labored.

She didn't know how she could simply stop loving him and wondered if she could let go of him that easily.

This was their marital home. Five years ago, after an unexpected incident where he had been drugged, and she had woken up in his bed, their families had rushed to arrange their marriage.

On their wedding night, Beckham told her bluntly, "I don't like you, but I won't do anything to hurt you. Let's just be a couple on paper only."

In other words, it was a marriage of convenience. There wouldn't be any love, just shared interests.

Waverly had agreed.

Over time, he subtly involved himself in her life. He chose her clothes, her meals, and even her accessories. She thought it was a sign that he was starting to care for her.

Her heart fluttered with hope, and she worked even harder to be a good wife.

Six months into their marriage, she became pregnant with Arthur. The prospect of their future together filled her with anticipation. But Beckham's attitude toward her remained distant. Only in bed did he show any warmth.

She couldn't help but lose herself in that fleeting passion. And yet, the moment she saw the photo of Sarah, it felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over her.

Every detail about Waverly—her hairstyle, clothes, and makeup—was a mirror image of Sarah.

No wonder Beckham had interfered in her choices. He was searching for Sarah in her. She had been nothing more than a stand-in. It took her five years to realize that her life had been a joke.

Unbidden, tears rolled down her cheeks.

Jenna noticed and asked, "Mrs. Lynch, are you alright?"

Waverly blinked in confusion. "Why am I crying?"

Jenna fell silent.

Suppressing her emotions, Waverly stepped into the villa. A maid immediately approached her and asked, "Madam, Mr. Lynch and Arthur will be home in two hours. Should we start preparing dinner now?"

For the past five years, she had taken care of everything—Beckham's meals, clothing, and daily needs. From cooking to picking out his accessories, she had handled it all herself, striving to be the perfect, attentive wife.

She believed that he would love her if she were gentle and caring enough. But it had all been her wishful thinking.

Waverly feigned confusion. "Huh? Why would I cook dinner?"

The maid froze. "Madam, are you feeling alright?"

Jenna stepped in to explain Waverly's supposed memory loss. The maid's gaze softened with pity when she heard this. "Madam, you should rest. We'll handle dinner."

Waverly pressed a hand to her temple. "I'm not feeling well. Where's the bedroom?"

The maid led her to the bedroom. As soon as she lay down, she began to think about her next steps.

The first one—divorce with Beckham. Without realizing it, Waverly drifted off to sleep, though her rest was anything but peaceful.

In her dreams, she relived five years of Beckham's cold indifference and control. And yet, in those rare moments of intimacy, he would gaze deeply into her eyes, his mesmerizing almond-shaped eyes filled with tenderness.

But then, in the next moment, he would whisper, "Sarah, I love you."

Waverly jolted awake, her heart heavy with sorrow and pain. Her breaths came fast and uneven.

Chapter 3 Then Let's Get a Divorce

At that moment, a cold gaze fell on her, and Waverly immediately turned to look.

Beckham's tall, commanding figure entered the room. As he walked in, he casually unbuttoned his shirt, the motion effortless yet exuding an inherent air of elegance and authority.

His sharp, chiseled features stood out, defined by a strong bone structure and thick, dark brows. Beneath them, his eyes carried a trace of cold detachment. His thin lips were pressed into a faint line, his demeanor distant and aloof.

Waverly slowly sat up, maintaining her amnesia persona. "You're my husband. Why did you say that we're just friends?"

Beckham paused mid-motion, his hand lingering on his shirt button. His cold eyes swept over her. "Because my marriage has no love."

Waverly pressed further. "Then why did we get married?"

Beckham replied bluntly, "It was an accident."

Under the covers, Waverly's hand gripped the bed sheet tightly. "And the child… Is he ours?"

Beckham's expression showed a hint of impatience. "That was also an accident. Don't overthink it."

"Perfect. Just perfect," Waverly thought.

It turned out that their five-year marriage was nothing more than a series of accidents to him.

Waverly felt a mix of pain and mockery in her heart. She lowered her gaze slightly, her delicate, pale face furrowing in confusion. "If that's the case, we don't seem happy together. I don't like you, and you don't like me. So, let's get a divorce."

With that, she lifted her gaze to meet Beckham's. She thought he would agree. After all, his first love was back. She was sure that he would want to marry her instead.

Naturally, Waverly would step aside.

Then she thought about Arthur. The image of her son's face, which was so much like Beckham's, flashed across her mind, and her chest tightened.

Waverly suppressed the discomfort in her heart and waited for Beckham's response. But the answer she was expecting never came.

Beckham's voice was cold as he said, "Even though our marriage was arranged, we've lived peacefully for five years. There's no need for a divorce."

Waverly nearly let out a sarcastic laugh. She couldn't believe he'd rejected the idea of divorce. What about his first love?

But she held back. She kept her expression blank and said, "But I don't like you. I don't even know you. How could we be happy living like this?"

Beckham's expression instantly darkened.

He strode toward her without warning, pushing her down onto the bed. Leaning over her, he lowered his head, his intentions clear.

Waverly immediately covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes widening in alarm. "What are you doing?"

Beckham frowned slightly. "Showing you how harmonious our marriage is."

Waverly could barely keep up her act. She couldn't believe this man. How shameless could he be?

He called her a friend and claimed they had no feelings for each other, yet he wanted to do something so intimate. She thought it was utterly ridiculous.

Was she nothing more than a tool for his physical needs to him?

Ignoring the sharp ache in her heart, Waverly shook her head firmly. "No. This kind of thing can only happen with someone I love. I don't love you, so you can't do this."

Beckham's frustration grew, his chest tightening with irritation. His voice turned even colder, and his eyes, usually so mesmerizing, were now devoid of any warmth as they bore into her.

In contrast, Waverly's clear eyes filled with fear. She shrank back, trying to avoid him.

Beckham's inexplicable annoyance surged. He stood abruptly and left the room in large strides.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, and Waverly exhaled a long, shaky breath.

Chapter 4 I Don't Want a Child Like You Either

Just a moment ago, Waverly thought that Beckham would force himself on her.

Slowly sitting up, Waverly frowned, her delicate brows knitting together. She wondered why Beckham had refused the divorce. After all, she thought he had wanted to marry Sarah.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Who is it?" Waverly quickly composed herself, putting on a look of innocent confusion as she glanced at the door.

The door opened, revealing a maid standing in the doorway. "Madam, are you hungry?"

Waverly felt slightly embarrassed and nodded. "I am."

The maid smiled. "Dinner is ready. Please come down and have some."

"Alright. Thank you."

Waverly silently applauded her own acting skills. She decided to keep it up until she got the divorce papers in her hands.

When she arrived in the dining room, she immediately noticed a small figure sitting stiffly on a chair. Small hands rested on his lap, and his young, delicate face showed no trace of emotion.

Hearing her approach, the boy turned his head slightly, lowering his gaze as he said flatly, "Mother."

A sharp pang pierced Waverly's heart.

Arthur had been sent to the Lynch family estate for training when he was just three years old. The rigid, military-style upbringing had robbed him of his childhood.

At first, he would cling to her whenever he came home. But over time, he began to distance himself.

When she tried to hug him, he would push her away with a look of resistance.

Eventually, he stopped allowing her to interfere in his life. Once, she organized his books for him, and he sulked for a week without speaking to her. His attitude toward her increasingly mirrored Beckham's indifference.

Suppressing the ache in her chest, Waverly asked curiously, "Are you my son?"

Arthur, already aware of her memory loss, showed little reaction. His childish face remained indifferent as he answered, "Yes."

Waverly nodded thoughtfully. "If that's the case, why didn't you care about me when I was in the hospital? It's as if I'm not even the one who gave birth to you."

Arthur was still young and less adept at concealing his emotions than Beckham. His small face froze for a moment when he heard her remarks.

Then, frowning, he said, "You gave birth to me—that's a fact. Don't say things like that."

As if displeased with Waverly's tone, he began to lecture her. "Please don't speak that way again. People might think you've lost your mind from staying at home too long."

Waverly tightly clenched her hands under the table, struggling to control her emotions.

Arthur's gaze was filled with undisguised disdain.

Taking a deep breath, Waverly furrowed her brows and said, "You're a rude child. Is that how you talk to your mother? No matter what, I'm still your mom."

In the past, she would have indulged Beckham and Arthur, always compromising. But now, she was done tolerating it.

The father's poor behavior had clearly influenced the son. If she didn't plan to stay, she no longer needed to cater to their bad tempers.

Arthur was stunned. "You…"

Waverly picked up her utensils and began eating. Without looking at him, she said, "That's enough. Don't talk to me. If I had a choice, I wouldn't want a child like you either."

Arthur's delicate face froze completely. His wide, innocent eyes filled with disbelief as he stared at her.

What did she just say?

The woman who, in his mind, had always been a pushover—devoted to her husband and son, with no individuality—was saying such things. This wasn't the mother he remembered.

She used to throw herself at him every time she saw him, hugging and kissing him, fussing over his every need. She would even ask how he was doing at the family estate.

He was at the estate where his grandparents lived. How could he possibly not be doing well there?

To him, her concern had always been annoying, unnecessary, and even disrespectful to his grandparents.

Chapter 5 If He Could Choose, He Would Want Sarah as His Mom

Arthur had gradually grown distant from Waverly. But that hadn't stopped her from showering him with affection, always looking at him with gentle eyes.

Yet now, she had said she wouldn't want a child like him!

Arthur couldn't describe how he felt. His lips pressed into a tight line, and his young face grew colder. If he could choose, he would rather have Sarah as his mom. Sarah, a renowned ballet dancer, always captivated the stage with her radiance.

Without saying another word, Arthur jumped off his chair and refused to eat dinner.

In the past, Waverly would have coaxed him, admitted fault, and done whatever it took to prioritize his well-being. But this time, Arthur stormed upstairs in a huff.

Waverly tightened her grip on her utensils as she watched him leave. Pain spread through her chest, mingling with a trace of bitterness.

This was the son she had loved and cared for wholeheartedly. Not only did he keep his distance from her, but he also lectured her, scorned her, and even tried to control her.

Pushing down her emotions, she continued eating.

Meanwhile, Arthur waited for Waverly to come and comfort him. But as the night passed, she never showed up.

…

Waverly enjoyed a long, relaxing soak in the tub. Ever since she decided to let go of her obsession with Beckham's love, she felt a newfound sense of freedom.

She wondered if she had been under some kind of spell for the past five years. She didn't know why she had believed that catering to his every preference and whim would make him fall for her.

She thought she had been utterly foolish. After all, to love someone, one must first love their self.

After stepping out of the bathroom, she went to the deepest corner of her walk-in closet and retrieved a phone she hadn't powered on in five years.

While it charged, she took a look around the closet.

Row after row of feminine dresses, all exuding a bland, subdued style. This was Sarah's aesthetic.

For five years, she had been playing the role of Sarah.

A glint of determination flashed in Waverly's clear eyes. She pulled down all the dresses and threw them into the trash.

She reminded herself that she was Waverly Knight, not someone's substitute!

Just then, her phone buzzed with a notification. She picked it up to find an anonymous text with an attached photo.

The image showed a dimly lit private room. Beckham was seated on a couch, his cold and sharp features partially illuminated. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, and a woman's hand rested on his chest while he gripped her slender wrist.

The dark lighting and suggestive composition amplified the intimate atmosphere. Only Beckham's chin was fully visible, but there seemed to be a faint curve at the corner of his lips.

Waverly's grip on the phone tightened, her fingers turning pale.

No matter how many times she reminded herself that she no longer wanted or loved him, her heart still ached.

Why had she fallen for such a cruel, callous man?

Waverly pressed her lips together as she saved the photo.

The next evening, when Beckham returned to the villa, he was greeted by the sight of Waverly sitting on the couch.

Her fair, delicate face was lightly made up, her previously curled hair now straightened and tied back in a ponytail. She radiated a completely different aura. It was fresh, clean, yet vibrant and strikingly beautiful.

She no longer appeared to be mimicking Sarah's gentle demeanor.

"You're just in time. Take a look at this," Waverly said as Beckham walked in, holding up her phone. On the screen was the photo from the previous night.

Beckham approached slowly, his almond-shaped eyes carrying a faint chill. His sharply defined face remained expressionless.

His brows furrowed deeply as he glanced at the phone on the coffee table.

"You had someone spy on me?"