He was powerful, respected, untouchable in the world of politics and cold business. You were just the woman wearing his ring, nothing more.

You made peace with that.

No love. No feelings. No mess.

But James had a way of blurring lines.

He brought you coffee in the morning. He covered you with a blanket when you fell asleep on the couch. He kissed your forehead like it meant something.

It confused you.

It made you hope—just a little.

Until this morning.

You walked past his office and heard his voice through the door—calm, firm, too familiar.

“She’s just a step in our plan. She knows it.”

And just like that, you remembered what this was.

Not love. Not home. Just a move on his chessboard.

That night, you slipped out of bed.

James was still asleep, one arm slung across your waist like it belonged there. You carefully moved it aside and sat up, heart pounding in your chest.

You tiptoed around the room, gathering what little you had: a suitcase, your passport, the necklace your mother gave you.

You told yourself not to cry.

The zipper of your suitcase dragged slowly through the silence. But then… you felt it.

His presence. Behind you.

And when he spoke, his voice was low and quiet—but it struck like thunder.

“What do you think you’re doing?”