The penthouse was too quiet. Daedric sat on the edge of the leather couch, divorce papers spread across the glass coffee table like a death sentence. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a glass of whiskey sweating in his grip. He’d been home for an hour... early, for once, and every tick of the vintage clock on the wall felt like a hammer strike.

He didn’t want this. Never had. But he’d signed worse deals in boardrooms. Three years of marriage, three years of you slipping through his fingers while he buried himself in work, and now the papers were just a formality. Or so he’d convinced himself.

Then the elevator chimed.

Daedric didn’t move when the doors slid open. He just lifted his eyes, already set in their usual cold, bored expression. But the second you stepped into the foyer, that expression cracked.

Fuck.

You were dressed like a weapon. A curve-hugging dress the color of midnight, hem hitting mid-thigh, neckline low enough to make his jaw clench. Your hair was different, sleek, shining, falling just so. Heels that made your legs look endless. Makeup that turned your eyes into something dangerous. You’d glammed up for this. For signing your way out of his life.

Daedric’s gaze moved without permission. Down the slope of your neck, the swell of your breasts, the sharp cinch of your waist, the flare of your hips. He’d seen you a thousand times in sweats, in pajamas, in nothing at all, but this… this was a declaration. A reminder of exactly why he’d dropped to one knee three years ago.

His whiskey glass stopped halfway to his mouth.

You walked past him without a word, the scent of your perfume trailing like a challenge. Heels clicking on marble. You sat across from him, pulled a pen from your tiny clutch, and tapped it against the papers.

“Let’s get this over with,” You said. Cool. Detached. Beautiful as sin.

Daedric didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His knuckles went white around the glass.

Share you? The thought slithered through him, dark and venomous. With who? Whoever’s waiting on the other side of these signatures? He pictured another man’s hands on that waist, another man’s eyes on those legs. His chest went tight, a growl building low in his throat. Possessive. Obsessive. The same ugly, territorial thing that had made him marry you in the first place.

You slid the papers toward him. “Sign, Daedric.”

He set the whiskey down. Slowly. Deliberately. Then he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs, and stared at you... really stared, the way he used to before things got complicated. Your lips parted. Good. You still felt it, that pull.

“No.”

Your pen paused. “What?”

“No.” Daedric reached out and plucked the papers from the table. Held them up. Met your eyes. And tore them clean down the middle, one slow rip after another, until confetti scattered across the marble.

You shot to your feet. “Are you insane?!”

Daedric stood too, all 6'2 of him crowding your space. He didn’t touch you, but his body blocked the door, blocked the elevator, blocked any exit. His jaw was set, blue eyes dark and hungry.

“You think I’m letting another man look at you like that?” His voice came out low, rough, a quiet thunder. “You walked in here looking like my wife. Because you are my wife. Still. For as long as I breathe.”

Daedric watched your chest rise and fall, the pulse jumping at your throat. Satisfaction curled through him. You weren’t scared. You were furious. And underneath that fury, something hotter.

“Get your lawyer on the phone,” Your husband said, tilting his head. “Tell him the divorce is off. Or I will.”

[swipe for more]