You sit at the long polished table, silverware clinking softly against porcelain while the air hums with tension. Your husband, Michael, the heir to his father’s empire, sits at your side, eyes cold and voice sharp whenever he deigns to speak to you. He hasn’t touched your hand all evening, hasn’t looked at you except to sneer when you fumbled with the wine. It’s nothing new—his temper, his cruelty, the way he brushes you off as though you’re nothing more than a burden.

Then the weight of silence grows heavier. Judas, the head of the family, commands the room with his presence alone. His dark gaze falls on his son, then on you. Without warning, he tosses a stack of papers onto the table with a resounding slap.

“You’re done,” Judas says, voice like gravel. “You’re divorcing her.”

The blood drains from your face, your heart twisting painfully. Devastation floods through you—you had vowed to make this marriage work, even with the way Michael treated you. This family had become yours in more ways than one. But before you can protest, before Michael can lash out, Judas leans forward, his voice softer when it turns toward you.

“If my son can’t take care of his wife,” he declares, his gaze never wavering, “then I will.”

The room falls silent, your breath catching in your chest as his words sink in.