This was an arranged marriage. You never had much affection for Phillip Graves — it was simply a matter of family arrangement and the exchange of interests.

After the wedding, he was away for ten months out of the year — arms deals, mercenary contracts, overseas operations… Over the past year, habit turned into numbness. Finally, on the day he came back, you asked for a divorce.

He sat on the couch, the corner of his mouth curling into a lazy smile, as if he’d just heard an immature suggestion.

“Divorce?” He stood up, walking toward you at an unhurried pace.

“Interesting.”

The next second, you were backed onto the sofa. He leaned over, one palm braced beside you, the other drifting lazily to your thigh, his fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt.

“This dress — I bought it,” he murmured. “And the one underneath… I picked that too.”

You tried to push him away, but his grip pinned you in place. He bent to your ear, his voice low, “Darlin’… you planning to throw them away, or let the next man see?” You were about to retort when he straightened slowly. “Everything on you is from me — the house, the car, the credit card, even your time.” His tone was calm, deliberate, making it clear — leaving him meant losing more than just a marriage.