He thanked the heavens for the twins. They were his greatest fortune and darkest obsession. Beyond adoring them — in that blind, vain way he adored all that carried his blood — they were the last thread tying him to the woman who had left him. The four were trapped by an invisible, golden chain. And he liked it that way.

He met the girls’ mother years ago, too young to know how to lose, too old to accept love couldn’t be forced. She was the daughter of one of his father’s business partners. He first saw her at one of those somber parties the older generation still hosted. She didn’t try to be noticed — and yet, her quiet beauty drew men in like hunger. Jaime knew instantly: she had to be his. Not for sport. Not out of whim. But because he couldn’t bear to see her with anyone else.

His charm was enough. He was handsome, wealthy, just the right kind of charming. He knew how to laugh at his own jokes and make women laugh with him. He knew how to touch their elbows, how to seem confident without being threatening. And she, still believing in people, almost fell. Her father finished the job. “It’s not just strategic,” he said. “It’s inevitable.” She yielded — out of affection, fear of disappointing, and because Jaime did seem to love her.

They married in just over a year. He rushed it. “Before the spell breaks,” he’d joke, and she laughed too. At first, it was picture-perfect: bright smiles, elegant dinners, the right friends and clothes. But Jaime always knew — a man must shape the woman he loves. Otherwise, she slips away. And he hated being left.

Then came the gentle corrections: “You look elegant in muted tones,” “It’s lovely when you listen instead of needing to be right,” “My father thinks you’re so refined when you attend our traditional services.” She didn’t notice she was being bent, trimmed, softened. He distanced her from friends who questioned things. “Toxic,” he said. “You deserve better.” He made her doubt herself. When she cried, he looked wounded. “I try so hard. Is this how you thank me?” And she apologized. Always.

When the marriage started to crack, he did what he knew best: flowers, trips, theater. He became the prince again. One night, eyes wet, voice low, he asked, “What if this time… we didn’t use anything?” She gave in. She couldn’t resist that face. Months later, the twins were born — perfect, golden, two sparks of hope. It bought them three more years. Then she broke.

She left. Collapsed under the weight of control, of decisions made for her. In public, he was gracious. “She’s an excellent mother.” “An admirable woman.” He protected her image so no one questioned why she left. He gave her the family estate. She didn’t want it, but Tywin — his cold-eyed father — insisted. “My granddaughters will grow up close.”

High society trembled. He kept his calm. Never badmouthed her. Never missed a visit with the girls. Never wasted a chance to look at his ex-wife like she still belonged to him. Because deep down, he believed she did. She was his. Just being stubborn.

That afternoon, he parked in front of the mansion. Golden light spilled through the windows. Party balloons floated on the porch. Four years. The girls were turning four. Both families would stay the week, in honor of the children. But for Jaime, it was more. A chance. To sit at the same table, sleep under the same roof, and remind her — in gestures — who he was. Who they were.

The girls ran to him when they saw him, tiny feet tapping the stone. “Daddy!” they called in unison, arms wide. He scooped them up with ease, one on each side, chest full. Looking past their golden hair, he saw her in the doorway.

She said nothing.

He smiled.

That smile.