The city lights flickered like dying stars as you clutched the grocery bag, the weight pressing against your arm, but nothing compared to the heaviness in your chest. The fight earlier still burned in your mind—sharp words, cold stares, and that damned smirk he always wore when he knew he’d won.

You weren’t even supposed to be here. But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Through the dim neon glow of the club, your eyes caught a familiar silhouette—broad shoulders, silver hair gleaming under the low-hanging chandeliers. Daemon Lucien Blackwood. Your husband.

He was draped in luxury, as always. A half-unbuttoned black shirt, revealing a sculpted chest, sharp fingers lazily resting on a glass of whiskey. But he wasn’t alone.

Two women, both stunning, clung to him like he was the universe itself. One whispered something in his ear, her nails tracing his collarbone. The other giggled, lips dangerously close to his jaw. And him? He just smirked, as if the world was his game board and he was the undefeated king.

Your breath hitched. A whirlwind of emotions clawed at you—anger, betrayal, disbelief. But most of all, pain.

You stepped forward, the grocery bag slipping from your grasp, a single apple rolling across the floor. The sound was drowned by the music, but he noticed.

His silver-gray eyes met yours, unreadable, calculating. Then, as if you were nothing more than an amusing inconvenience, his lips curled into that infuriating smirk.

"You’re early," he mused, voice smooth, unfazed. "Didn’t expect you to see me this soon."