Agape Lane stared out the high-rise office window, the city lights casting a golden glow on her bronze skin. Below, the buzz of life continued—cars weaving through intersections, late-night diners flickering with neon signs, the pulse of the city mirroring the rhythm of her own fast-beating heart. From the 38th floor of the Harmonique Fashion House, it was easy to believe she was on top of the world.
Everything about Agape spoke of elegance and control: from her sleek high ponytail to the perfectly tailored ivory suit that hugged her curves. She was the kind of woman who made people stop and stare, not just because of her beauty, but because she carried power like a second skin.
And yet, in this moment, she couldn't shake the uneasy flutter in her chest.
Patrick hadn't called.
For three nights in a row, his usual 9 p.m. calls were silent. It wasn't like him. Patrick Cole, CEO of Cole Enterprises and the man who had stolen her heart three years ago, was nothing if not consistent. Charming, driven, generous—and, until now, unwaveringly attentive.
She tried to dismiss it, telling herself he was swamped with a merger or that his phone had died. But excuses were growing thin. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been distracted, his touches brief, his smile lacking the warmth she'd fallen for.
Agape exhaled sharply, forcing herself to turn away from the view. She had a deadline to meet.
Her assistant, Samantha, poked her head through the office door. "Boss, the final samples for the Spring line just came in. Want me to bring them in?"
"Yeah," Agape replied, adjusting her collar. "Let's take a look."
Within minutes, fabric samples and sketchboards flooded the long marble table in her office. Samantha, petite but fierce with her box braids tied in a bright scarf, laid everything out with military precision.
"These silks came from Milan," Samantha said. "But this batch... something's off. Feel this."
Agape ran her fingers across the fabric, then raised an eyebrow. "It's thinner. Cheaper. We're not using this."
"I thought you'd say that. I'll call the supplier."
As they worked, Agape's phone buzzed.
Patrick.
She inhaled, paused, then picked up.
"Hey," she said, her voice softer than usual.
"Hi, love," Patrick replied. There was a delay in his tone, a kind of awkward affection. "Sorry I've been off. Work's a mess."
"I figured," Agape murmured. "But you're okay?"
"Yeah. Just exhausted. I'll make it up to you this weekend. Dinner at Merlo's?"
She hesitated. "That's... your favorite, not mine."
A silence.
"I just thought we could talk. Really talk," he said.
"Okay," she replied.
When she hung up, Samantha raised an eyebrow.
"Trouble in rich-man paradise?" she asked with a smirk.
Agape sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't know. He's being weird. Distant."
"Girl, that man better not be playing games," Samantha said. "You deserve someone who worships the ground you walk on, not just someone who shows up with a bottle of wine and excuses."
Agape gave her a small smile. "It's probably nothing. I'm just stressed."
But even as she said it, a seed of doubt had already taken root.
---
That Saturday, she dressed carefully for their dinner. A crimson off-shoulder dress hugged her like a second skin, her heels clicking with authority as she entered Merlo's, the upscale Mediterranean bistro that Patrick frequented. She spotted him immediately—tall, dark-haired, and devastatingly handsome in his navy suit.
He stood to kiss her cheek. "You look amazing."
"Thanks," she said, sitting across from him. "You look... tired."
He laughed a little. "That obvious?"
They ordered—his usual sea bass, her preferred gnocchi—and made stilted conversation about work, politics, and the newest art exhibit downtown. But something was off.
Patrick kept glancing at his phone.
When he excused himself to take a call, Agape watched him from the corner of her eye. His face was tense, voice hushed. She caught a name.
"Naomi."
Agape's fork froze halfway to her mouth.
He returned a few minutes later, apologizing, brushing it off as a client emergency. But the name echoed in her head.
She let the evening pass without confrontation. She smiled, laughed, even let him kiss her hand as he walked her to her car. But the warmth had gone cold.
Back home, Agape paced her apartment. Modern, chic, and cold—it no longer felt like home. She poured herself a glass of red wine and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the framed photo on her nightstand. The one of her and Patrick, arms entwined at a charity gala, smiles radiant.
Was it all a lie?
She opened her laptop.
Typed: Naomi Cole Enterprises
Her screen filled with company reports, social media profiles, a few images. And then—
A tagged photo.
Patrick. Arm-in-arm with a woman. Younger. Curvier. Dressed in a silky blue dress. Caption: "Congratulations to Naomi – the face of our newest campaign."
Agape's stomach dropped.
She clicked through more.
Photos of Naomi at Patrick's events. At the company retreat. On what looked like his private balcony.
Her throat tightened.
Naomi wasn't just a model.
She was the concubine.
Agape slammed the laptop shut.
She had spent years building a life with this man, believing in their love, supporting his ambitions. And now?
She wasn't sure who she hated more—Patrick, or herself for not seeing it sooner.
But one thing was clear:
This wasn't the end of her story.
It was just the beginning of war.