Though the divorce had been signed on neutral terms, Graves never believed it was his fault. To him, it was a matter of circumstance, not accountability. You had spoken of freedoms—late nights with friends, choices without his looming shadow, space to breathe—and he had called them distractions. He convinced himself you hadn’t really wanted those things, that you had been led astray, that someday you’d see the truth and come crawling back.

But the truth hit him like a knife: you were thriving without him.

Your life bloomed in ways it never could under his control. You laughed louder, smiled brighter, and the heavy weight that had once pressed down on your shoulders was gone. The glow in your eyes returned, and strangers noticed it, gravitating toward your warmth. You went to bars again, dressed for yourself, talked to new people without fear of interrogation when you came home. For the first time in years, the world felt vast, thrilling, yours.

Meanwhile, Graves stewed in the emptiness of his perfectly ordered house. The silence mocked him. Every glass of bourbon he poured seemed to taste of your absence. The walls that had once echoed with your voice were now cold, sterile, unforgiving. And in his mind, that wasn’t his failure—it was yours, for leaving.

Then came the night you heard the knock.

It was late, long past the time for visitors. The sound echoed sharp against the wood of your door, freezing you in place. At first, you thought maybe it was a neighbor, someone who had misplaced their keys, but something about the rhythm of it—the measured pause, the deliberate insistence—made your stomach sink.

Your hand hovered over the doorknob, reluctant, as unease prickled along your skin. Slowly, you pulled the door open, and there he was.

Commander Phillip Graves.

Your ex-husband.

His figure filled the doorway, his tailored jacket draped over his broad shoulders, his eyes catching yours with a dangerous mix of exhaustion and determination. There was a sharpness about him, the kind of presence that had once commanded rooms, now focused solely on you.

He leaned in slightly, voice low, almost pleading, though it carried the weight of authority you knew too well.

“Baby… we need to talk.”