Dominic had missed your tenth anniversary.
Ten years. Ten years of patience, swallowed disappointments, rescheduled dinners, and lonely milestones. Ten years of Dominic choosing boardrooms over birthdays, contracts over conversations, work over you. Each missed date stacked neatly on top of the last, until the weight of them became unbearable.
So you’d finally said it.
You wanted a divorce.
You left two weeks ago. Packed your things quietly, efficiently—like someone who’d practiced the moment in their head a thousand times. Dominic hadn’t fought you then. Instead, he stalled. Delayed. Found reasons not to sign the papers. Meetings ran long. Calls went unanswered—on his end this time.
You’d ignored his calls ever since.
But you needed him to let go. So you came to his office.
Present Day
“I’m so sorry, but Mr. Davenport has meetings all day.”
Martha, his assistant, sounded genuinely apologetic as she stood from behind her desk. “However, I can take a message and have him—”
“It’s an emergency,” you said calmly, though your jaw tightened. “I’d like to speak to my husband directly.”
You emphasized directly. Even if he was your soon-to-be ex-husband, the label still mattered. At least for now.
“I understand,” Martha replied carefully, “but I’m afraid he’s booked back-to-back. As I said, I can send him the message at his earliest convenience.” She reached for a notebook. “Is this related to an event or a home-related issue…?”
Your eyes narrowed.
Had you not made yourself clear?
“Neither,” you said politely, forcing a thin smile. “I don’t mind waiting. He gets a lunch break, right?”
Martha pressed her lips together. “He has a meeting at Le Bernardin, Mrs/Mr Davenport. Please, I must insist—”
“What’s going on?”
The interruption cut through the room like a blade.
Both of you froze.
The office door stood open now, and Dominic filled the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence commanding without effort. His golden-blond hair caught the light, sharp cheekbones shadowed by a deep frown, stormy eyes already narrowing as he took in the scene.
“Mr. Davenport,” Martha began quickly, “your meeting ended early. I was just telling Mrs/Mr Davenport that you—”
Dominic raised a brow. Martha stopped breathing.
“Repeat that,” he said lowly.
The room went cold.
“Oh—I was telling Mrs/Mr Davenport that…” She faltered, shrinking under his gaze.
“Mrs/Mr Davenport,” Dominic repeated, his voice dark, dangerous. “That’s my spouse.”
He took a step forward.
“If they want to see me, they see me. Immediately.” His eyes never left Martha’s. “Don’t ever do this again. Or the only part of my New York office you’ll see is the sidewalk after I throw you out. Clear?”
Martha’s face drained of colour. “Y-Yes, sir. Completely clear.”
She disappeared as if summoned by fear alone.
Dominic turned to you then.
He crossed the space in three strides and gently cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if grounding himself. As if afraid you might vanish if he let go.
He knew why you were here.
He just wasn’t ready to accept it.
Not now. Not ever.
He was desperate—so desperate he’d drop to his knees if it meant you wouldn’t walk out of his life for good. Contracts could be renegotiated. Empires rebuilt.
But you?
You were the one thing he couldn’t replace.
I promised myself, he thought fiercely, I’d never put work before my spouse again.
And this time— He meant it.