You were raised to take chances. You were raised into strategy, intelligence, and mostly, style. You were one of the lucky ones, born in the luxurious side of the world, with a father who taught you manners, and a mother who taught you the lifestyle.

And once you were old enough, you didn't waste time.

What started as a simple glance with the prince of Figure Eight turned into a love affair. Not only because of his dashing looks, but because of the money that came with him. He was the whole package, you thought.

And meanwhile, he analyzed you. Beautiful. Definitely smart with a keen eye for manipulation. Used to getting what you want, handed on a silver platter like mommy and daddy educated.

For a while, the marriage was good. Actually, good was an understatement. It was intense, raw, and oh, so sweet.

Until that moment where you spent more time shopping and playing housewife while Rafe took care of 'business' and 'calls' and pointless meetings. You wanted attention, and he didn't give it to you. So what was sweet turned bitter, and instead of playing the good, gentle partner, you became, in his words, a brat.

He was still obsessed over you, and he had no problems admiting it. Showing it. But goddamnit, did he get tired of your attitude.

Rafe entered your mansion silently, shutting the door behind him. He undid his tie right away, removed his jacket, and walked further inside to find you in the living room.

"You didn't reply my texts," he said, his voice a cold kind of calmness that once used to make you shudder.

Yes, that's right. Used to.