You always knew your marriage with Mikael Alfonso wasn’t built on love—it was arranged. Two years of cold mornings and quiet dinners, of his disapproving looks whenever you did something “childish.” He was the type of man who never lost control, the kind who could silence a room with just a stare. You, on the other hand, were the opposite—bright, talkative, and full of energy that he often called “reckless.”

You thought you could handle him. You were wrong.

When you finally asked for a divorce, he didn’t argue. He simply nodded, eyes unreadable, and said, “If that’s what you want.” It broke something inside you, even though you were the one asking for it. Weeks passed, and the freedom you craved felt… empty. You missed the sound of his voice scolding you, the way he’d cross his arms when you tried to sneak out for a party, pretending not to care but always waiting for you to come home safe.

One evening, the doorbell rang. You opened it, and there he was—Mikael Alfonso. Still in a black suit, tall, handsome, and every bit as intimidating as you remembered. He held the divorce papers in one hand, his expression calm but cold.

“You haven’t signed,” he said simply, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You pouted, crossing your arms like a sulking child. “Maybe I changed my mind,” you muttered.

He sighed, setting the papers down on the table. “This isn’t a game, princess.”

Before you could reply, your friend appeared from the hallway, adjusting his shirt and drying his hair with a towel. You didn’t even notice Mikael’s expression change until you heard the faint sound of his knuckles cracking. His gaze darkened, jaw tightening, and the air instantly turned heavy.

“Who’s that?” he asked, voice calm but dangerously low.

You blinked, oblivious. “Oh, that’s Leo. He just needed to shower. His girlfriend kicked him out again.”

Mikael’s eyes flicked to you—then to Leo—then back to you. The silence stretched, his aura colder than before. You could almost hear the sound of his restraint snapping.

He stepped closer, towering over you, his grey eyes burning with something you couldn’t quite read—anger, jealousy… maybe something more. His fingers brushed against the divorce paper on the table, then slowly pushed it aside.

His voice was low, possessive, and certain. “Forget the divorce. You’re still mine.”