The Broth She Left Behind

Prologue On our third wedding anniversary, Charles Vance didn't come home. He spent the entire night at the hospital, watching over Natalie Vance, his first love who had been in a coma for three years. The next day, he demanded that I move out of our home so Natalie could move in. I loved him for three whole years. Back then, to save his life, I smashed through the car window with my bare hands until they were bloody and torn. But in his eyes, his savior had always been Natalie, while I was just a greedy gold-digger who leveraged a debt of gratitude to force my way into the Vance family fortune. I endured three years of his cold indifference. Now that Natalie was awake, I was finally ready to let go. What Charles didn't know was that the person who truly saved him had always been me. And this time, I was done with him. Harper's POV It was already two in the morning. I sat at the end of the long dining table, facing a feast that had gone completely cold. Today was our third wedding anniversary. My phone screen suddenly lit up. I glanced down. It was a fresh notification from an entertainment news outlet. [Vance Enterprises CEO spotted at hospital late at night, suspected visiting Natalie Miller. Charles Vance has reportedly stood vigil by her side throughout her three-year coma.] Though the photo was somewhat grainy, I instantly recognized Charles's back. He was wearing the bespoke charcoal trench coat I had ironed for him that very morning, walking toward the hospital with his head down. Another photo in the article showed a smiling woman standing on a stage, glowing like a radiant pearl in her element. I recognized her at once. Natalie Miller. The first love who had lived in Charles's heart for an entire decade, the woman who had supposedly risked her life to save him in a car crash three years ago, leaving her critically injured and comatose ever since. I stared at that picture for a long time. Three years of emotional abuse and relentless humiliation had long reduced whatever spark remained in my heart to cold, dead ash. A sudden wave of nausea hit me, probably from the cold pot of creamy chowder sitting on the table. I stood up, flipped my phone face down on the table, picked up the platter of pan-seared sea bass, and scraped it straight into the trash can. Next went the glazed ribs, the garlic roasted shrimp, and finally, the chowder. The china clattered against the bin with dull thuds. The mixed food waste immediately gave off a sour, ruined smell. I loaded all the dishes into the dishwasher and pressed start. The roar of running water filled the kitchen, drowning out the empty silence of the mansion. Once that was done, I washed my hands, dried them, and turned to head into the guest bedroom. The next morning, at seven-thirty. The front door clicked open. Charles was finally back. Perhaps from staying up all night, faint dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, yet his expression remained as cold, aristocratic, and arrogant as ever. He took off his coat and habitually headed to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. His gaze inadvertently fell on the half-open trash bin, brimming with the remnants of an abandoned feast. Charles stopped in his tracks. He turned around, just as I was walking out of the guest room. I wore a faded beige loungewear set, my long hair loosely gathered in a clip, my eyes sliding past him without lingering for even a second. "Did you cook last night?" Charles asked, his voice laced with faint impatience. He had always believed I was a vain, scheming woman. In his mind, I had taken advantage of Natalie's coma three years ago, pulling every dirty trick in the book to pressure his mother, Mrs. Vance, into forcing him to marry me. Because of that, anything I did was, in his eyes, just a calculated attempt to curry favor. "I threw it out." I walked to the kitchen island, poured myself a glass of warm water, and answered in a completely flat tone. Charles frowned. He probably expected me to break down like I used to, tearfully explaining that it had been our anniversary, or red-eyed and demanding to know why he hadn't come home. But I said nothing. I didn't even look at him. His arrogance couldn't stand being ignored like this. "Harper, drop the hard-to-get act," Charles scoffed, loosening his tie. "You've occupied the position of my wife long enough. Stop scheming for things that don't belong to you." My fingers tightened around the glass. I looked up, finally meeting his eyes head-on. "Okay," I said, taking a sip of water and swallowing down the dryness in my throat. "I know." Charles's frown deepened. He stared at me coldly for a couple of seconds, as if searching my face for any crack in the facade, but he found nothing. He turned around, walked toward the walk-in closet, and slammed the door shut. I stared at the heavy oak door, slowly setting down my glass. It would all be over soon, I thought.Harper's POV Deep in an old, rundown alley in South Brooklyn. Wearing rubber gloves, I was scrubbing down a grease-stained stainless-steel prep table with everything I had. This was a tiny diner I had just leased. It wasn't big—barely three hundred square feet, with peeling paint on the walls—but the rent was cheap. My phone rested on the windowsill, streaming the midday news. "...Breaking news: professional dancer Natalie Miller, who has remained in a vegetative state for three years following a severe car crash, miraculously woke up this afternoon. Sources report that Charles Vance, CEO of Vance Enterprises, has already rushed to the hospital..." My hands froze on the table. Murky water dripped from the rag, sending ripples through the dirty water in the bucket. I glanced at the screen just in time to see Charles sprinting into the hospital building. He was moving in such a frantic hurry that his tie was skewed and his dress shirt sleeves were shoved up his forearms. In all our three years together, I had never seen him lose his composure like that. So, when a man truly loved someone, he didn't care about keeping up appearances. And because he didn't love me, he could maintain the cruelest elegance and cold detachment every time he tore me down. I took a deep breath. My lungs filled with the distinct smell of grease and dust lingering in the old alley. I locked my phone screen, rinsed the rag clean, and went back to scrubbing the stubborn grime off the steel. With every stroke, it felt like I was scraping away a layer of whatever was left in my heart, until the surface reflected my sweat-drenched face. That evening, Charles came home. It was the first time in six months that he had stepped through our front door before nine at night. I was sitting on the living room sofa, labeling cardboard boxes with a black marker. Hearing the door open, I didn't look up, only quietly capped the pen. I assumed he was here to ask for a divorce. Now that his leading lady was back, an extra like me should have exited the stage long ago. Charles walked over to the coffee table and looked down at me from above. Faint red veins still webbed his eyes, but his expression had already hardened back into his usual aloof arrogance. He tossed a manila folder onto the glass table with a sharp slap. "Natalie just woke up. The doctor says she needs absolute quiet. A hospital environment isn't suited for long-term recovery," Charles said in a frigid tone, as if delivering a corporate directive. "This house is closest to the hospital and her rehabilitation center." I looked at the folder and remained silent. "Move out tomorrow," Charles continued, his tone brook no argument. "Move into the old townhouse up in North Bronx. Vacate the master bedroom for her." I looked up, meeting that handsome yet heartless face. My heart was already dead, but the sheer absurdity of it still hit me. Kicking out your current wife to give the marital home to your ex-girlfriend to recover—only a man arrogant to his very core like Charles Vance could do something like this. "What about the divorce?" My voice was quiet, stripped of anger, carrying nothing more than pure curiosity. Charles's brows instantly knotted into a tight scowl. He glared at me as if he had just heard a pathetic joke. "A divorce?" He sneered, his eyes brimming with disgust. "Natalie just woke up. Her body is still frail. If I file for divorce right now, what will the press say about her? How will the public view her? Are you trying to get the whole world to brand her as a homewrecking mistress?" In his mind, everything I did was a calculated scheme. If I brought up divorce, it had to be a tactic to manipulate him, or a vicious attempt to kick Natalie while she was down.Harper's POV Looking at his sharp, defensive glare over Natalie, I suddenly felt hollowed out. It was all so utterly pointless. "Fine. I'll move," I said, standing up and picking up a cardboard box by my feet. "I've already cleaned out the master bedroom. I didn't have much to begin with anyway. I put on fresh sheets. She can move in whenever she wants." Charles froze. "Harper, you'd better not play any games with me," he threw coldly at my retreating back. The guest room door clicked shut, cutting off his voice. I leaned against the wood and closed my eyes. *Charles, I'm just finally setting myself free.* The old townhouse in North Bronx was a low-end development Vance Enterprises had built years ago. Due to its remote location and aging infrastructure, it had been neglected for ages. Hauling two suitcases behind me, I stepped into the overgrown front yard against the biting autumn wind. This was the sum total of everything I had accumulated over three years of marriage. Two suitcases of old clothes, a few cookbooks, and a debit card meant for opening my diner. The money in that account came from what I had pinched from grocery budgets and the meager monthly allowance I received as Charles's wife. As for the luxury jewelry and haute couture gowns the Vance family had bestowed upon me, I hadn't taken a single piece. Those things didn't belong to me; they belonged to Charles Vance's wife, and I wouldn't be holding that title much longer. Pushing the front door open, a choking wave of mildew hit my face. No one had lived here for years. The furniture was draped in heavy white sheets, and cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling. I didn't complain, nor did I stop. I rolled up my sleeves, hauled a bucket of water from the bathroom, and began a deep clean. Wiping tables, mopping floors, washing curtains. I turned myself into a spinning top that couldn't stop. Because the moment I slowed down, the violent images of that crash from three years ago would flood my mind against my will. The ground soaked in blood. Charles's fading breaths. In my desperation to pull him out, I had smashed through the shattered car window with my bare hands, ripping them to shreds. And just as I finally dragged him free and collapsed from sheer exhaustion, Natalie, who happened to be passing by, rushed toward us. When I woke up in the hospital, the narrative had flipped. Natalie was the heroic savior of the Vance family heir, while I was painted as a greedy opportunist—a woman who had leveraged her brother's medical expenses to claim Natalie's deed, blackmailed Mrs. Vance, and forced her way into the family. Mrs. Vance had held my brother's surgical funds over my head: "Your brother's life is in my hands. Keep your mouth shut and play the stand-in. Charles needs a respectable wife, not a low-class nurse. With Natalie comatose, this title is your hush money." I had accepted it. For my brother's sake, I swallowed all the humiliation. I foolishly believed that if I just did enough, if I laid my heart bare before him, Charles would understand the truth one day. Reality, however, had delivered a resounding slap to my face. "Cough... cough..." The dust caught in my throat, sending me into a harsh coughing fit that brought tears to my eyes. Leaning heavily on the mop, I gasped for air. Staring at the cold, empty house, I suddenly burst into self-deprecating laughter. I was laughing at my own stupidity.Charles's POV Back at the downtown penthouse. I sat on the sofa in the master bedroom, looking around the pristine room. Harper truly hadn't taken a single item belonging to the Vance family. In the walk-in closet, the season's designer collections my assistant had picked up still hung in neat rows, untouched, with the tags still on. The vanity was spotless—not a drop of perfume, not a single tube of lipstick left behind. Every trace of her presence had been completely scrubbed from the house, as though she had never lived here for three whole years. My frown deepened. I loosened my tie, walked to the window, and lit a cigarette. Through the drifting smoke, my gaze turned cold. I didn't believe for a second that Harper had actually given up. How could a woman who sold her soul for money let go of the title of "Mrs. Vance" so easily? She was waiting. Waiting for me to reach out to her in the Bronx, waiting for me to compromise. I would never give her that satisfaction. Proud as I was, how could I bow my head to a woman I despised? I was certain that within three days, Harper would come running back, dropping to her knees and begging me to let her stay. Yet three days passed. Then five. Then two full weeks. Harper seemed to have vanished into thin air. Not a single phone call, not a single message. On my phone, the chat window with Harper remained frozen on the text she had sent two weeks ago: [Are you coming home for dinner tonight?] Staring at that message, a strange, suffocating restlessness stirred in my chest. I hadn't gone to the Bronx to check on her even once, actively suppressing the urge to have someone look into her. I refused to let myself care about that woman. Until the day of Natalie's discharge drew near. Two weeks later, Natalie was officially discharged from the hospital. I hosted a lavish banquet for her at the Vance family estate. Officially, it was to celebrate her recovery, but everyone in New York's elite circles knew the real reason. The true mistress of the Vance family was back. As my legal wife, Harper was required to attend. It was a direct order from my mother. "Natalie just woke up, and the media is watching closely. Even if you have to fake it, you will put on a show of harmony!" My mother's voice over the phone was as commanding and sharp as ever. Dressed in an understated black velvet gown, Harper arrived at the estate right on time. She wore no jewelry whatsoever, appearing simple and aloof, entirely out of place among the glittering crowd. She knew that the moment she walked into the ballroom, she would see Natalie and me surrounded by people at the center of the room. I was dressed in a tailored black suit, standing tall. I was leaning down slightly, listening to Natalie speak from her wheelchair, a hint of indulgence playing on my lips—a gentleness I had never once shown Harper. Natalie wore an ivory designer gown. Though still somewhat pale, her fragile, delicate demeanor instantly brought out the protective instincts in everyone around her. "Harper's here," someone called out. The room fell silent in an instant. Every gaze turned on her like a sharpened blade, filled with ridicule and barely concealed scorn. I looked up, my eyes cutting through the crowd to land on Harper. She had gotten thinner. That was my first thought. The black dress that had once fit her perfectly now hung loosely on her frame, making her look paper-pale. Yet her spine remained straight as a rod.Charles's POV When Natalie saw Harper, a flicker of something complex crossed her eyes before she instantly masked it with a gentle, grateful smile. She signaled her nurse to wheel her over. "Harper, you're here." Natalie stopped in front of her, her eyes rimmed with red. She reached out a frail hand and grasped Harper's hand, which was hanging by her side. "Harper, thank you so much," Natalie said, her voice soft yet loud enough for the onlookers nearby to hear clearly. "These past three years, I was lying in a hospital bed, helpless. You took care of Charles in my place and fulfilled the duties of a wife for me. These years... you must have suffered." The speech was delivered flawlessly. It seemed sweet and considerate, but every single word staked a territorial claim. She was reminding everyone that Harper was nothing more than a stand-in, a convenient placeholder performing her duties. Now that she was awake, the placeholder was expected to leave. Murmurs and quiet chuckles rippled through the crowd. "Miss Miller is far too kind, actually thanking her. If Miss Miller hadn't risked her life to save Mr. Vance back then, how could that woman ever have had the chance to marry him?" "Exactly. Now that Miss Miller is back, let's see how much longer she can hang on." I stood behind Natalie, my gaze locked onto Harper's face. Subconsciously, I was bracing for her to lash out. She had always been stubborn; in the past, whenever I gave her the slightest cold shoulder, hurt would flicker across her eyes. Faced with such an overt claim of ownership from Natalie, she would surely feel humiliated. She would snap back, or at least show some sign of distress. Yet there was nothing. Harper's expression remained as still as stagnant water. She even curved her lips into a picture-perfect, completely emotionless smile. She let Natalie hold her hand for a second, then, slowly and firmly, pulled her fingers free. "It was no trouble," Harper said, meeting Natalie's eyes. Her voice was steady and crisp, ringing out clearly in the hushed hall. "I am Charles Vance's legal wife. Taking care of my husband was simply my duty." The room plunged into dead silence. Natalie's face paled slightly, her practiced smile nearly slipping. Harper hadn't thrown an insult or lost her temper; she had merely stated a cold, undeniable fact. *Legal wife.* Those two words landed like a quiet slap across the glowing pedestal of Natalie's "first love" status. My pupils constricted sharply. Looking at Harper's flat, dead eyes, I felt a sharp sting in my chest, as if I had been pricked by a needle. That unexplainable surge of irritation washed over me once again like a tidal wave. There was no jealousy in her eyes. No hurt. She didn't even look at me. She was acting like a total bystander, coldly citing a legal contract that was about to expire. "Alright, now that everyone's here, let's begin dinner," my mother interjected smoothly, shooting Harper a cold, warning glare. Throughout the entire banquet, Harper sat in the corner like a ghost. Nobody went over to talk to her, and she simply ate her food in silence. Toward the end of the evening, I walked over to her. A faint scent of alcohol and Natalie's signature gardenia perfume clung to me. "How much longer are you going to keep throwing this tantrum?" I demanded in a low, displeased murmur, my arrogance bleeding through. I was convinced that her retort earlier had just been an attempt to grab my attention. Harper set down her fork and turned her head to look at me. Her eyes were so clear, so detached, that it almost stung to look at them. "Mr. Vance," she finally spoke, but the way she addressed me had changed completely. "I'm not throwing a tantrum. The dinner is over, and I should head home. I have an opening tomorrow for my diner, and I need to get up early to prep the broth." I froze. *Mr. Vance? A diner?* Before I could process what she had just said, Harper had already stood up, brushed past my shoulder, and walked straight out through the grand double doors without looking back. She left me staring at her resolute, fragile silhouette.Charles's POV By the time the reception ended, the night wind carried the bitter chill of late autumn. The driveway outside the Vance estate was lined with luxury cars as guests exchanged polite farewells. Harper hadn't brought a coat; her thin black velvet dress looked frail against the gusts of cold air. Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she walked past the prying eyes of the crowd toward the curb, seemingly waiting to hail a ride back to the Bronx. *Honk!* My black Maybach rolled up smoothly beside her, and the rear window slid down to reveal my stony face. "Get in," I ordered through the biting wind, my tone as commanding as always. Harper glanced at the driver's seat. There was no chauffeur; I was behind the wheel myself. Her eyes lingered on the empty passenger seat for half a second before she calmly refused. "No need. It's easy enough for me to grab a cab. Shouldn't you be with Natalie?" At the mention of Natalie, my brows knitted tightly. Just minutes ago, Natalie had gently insisted that I go home early to rest rather than escort her back, projecting the image of a gracious and considerate partner. In contrast, Harper's cold detachment and defiance felt like nothing more than petty, jealous petulance. "I said get in. Don't make me lose my temper in front of the estate and turn the Vance family into a public spectacle." My voice dropped dangerously, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Harper didn't argue further. She opened the rear door and slid inside, her movements brisk and efficient, never glancing toward the front passenger seat. The moment the door shut, the cabin fell into a suffocating quiet. The Maybach merged onto the highway, heading north toward the Bronx. The heater was blasting, making the car stiflingly warm. A faint trace of gardenia still hung in the air—Natalie's scent. Harper rolled her window down an inch, letting the freezing wind cut through the heat, and turned her head to watch the city lights blur past outside. I watched her in the rearview mirror. She leaned back against the leather seat, her profile pale and her jawline set tight. She didn't demand to know why I had spent so much time with Natalie. She didn't complain about how dilapidated the Bronx townhouse was. Nothing. She was like a doll stripped of every emotion, so quiet it was unnerving. That silence stirred a rising wave of frustration within me. Over the past three years, whenever we shared a space, Harper had always searched desperately for things to say to me. She would ask if work was exhausting, if my stomach was still acting up, looking at me with that cautious, hopeful gaze, trying to coax out the slightest warm reaction from my cold face. Now, she wouldn't even spare me a glance. "Why haven't you been texting me lately?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. The moment they left my mouth, I caught myself off guard. I had intended to warn her not to cause trouble for Natalie, yet what came out was something that sounded absurd even to my own ears. Harper turned her head slowly, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were as still as a dead pond, devoid of any ripple. "I didn't want to bother you," she answered flatly, her voice carrying no hint of spite or grievance, as if she were simply stating an objective truth.