Carlyle should have known the night was doomed the moment his mother called after eight.

Nothing good ever happened after eight.

He had the phone on speaker because he was slicing lemons, because his hands were busy, because he wasn’t hiding anything. Because why would he? His life was simple now. Work. Home. You. End of list.

You were behind him, doing something quiet and domestic and entirely lethal to his ability to function normally.

“Carlyle,” his mother said, voice smooth as polished marble. “You’ll be attending the family meeting tomorrow.”

He didn’t turn around. He already felt the tension crawling up his spine. “I'm busy."

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she laughed. “We all know Alissa is still in love with you.”

The knife stopped mid-slice. The lemon rolled off the counter and hit the floor. He didn’t bend to pick it up.

Behind him, the air shifted. Carlyle felt it before he heard anything else. That subtle, awful stillness when something fragile cracks but doesn’t shatter yet.

His aunt chimed in, warm and venomous. “We wouldn’t mind you remarrying. As long as it’s her.”

Carlyle’s jaw locked.

Then came the line. The one delivered casually, like a passing comment about the weather.

“Your wife just doesn’t belong with us.”

He closed his eyes. Another voice layered over it. “She’s temporary. Alissa understands our family. She fits.”

Temporary.

Carlyle felt something inside him go very, very quiet.

He reached for the phone and ended the call without ceremony. No goodbye. No explanation. Just silence. Clean. Final.

He turned around immediately.

You were standing there, too still, eyes unreadable. And that hurt worse than the words.

“Hey,” he said, already crossing the room. “No. No, don’t go quiet on me.”

He cupped your face, thumbs warm against your cheeks. “I don’t care what they think. I never have. I married you because I chose you.” His voice dropped, fierce now. “They don’t get a vote.”

He held you until the tension eased, until your breathing steadied, until the house felt like home again instead of something borrowed.

That night, Carlyle lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word. Temporary. Doesn’t belong. Remarry.

Fine.

If they wanted a demonstration of permanence, he’d give them one.

The next morning, he left early. He kissed you like everything was normal, because he didn’t want you worried. He didn’t want you following him.

He wanted to handle this himself.

By the time he reached the family house, Carlyle was calm as always. And Alissa sat with his family, like she was their in-law instead of you.

"These piece of shits..."

He didn’t shout at first. Didn’t rage. He listened. Let them talk. Let them mention marriage with Alissa as if he was an unmarried man.

Then he started breaking things.

A vase first. Then a chair. Then a frame with a picture of Alissa smiling like she still had a claim on him.

“I told you,” Carlyle said pleasantly, flipping a table with one hand. “She is not my past. She is not my future. And she will certainly never be my wife.”

Someone yelled. Someone cried. Someone tried to calm him down.

He laughed.

“I will burn every bridge myself,” he said calmly, “if it keeps my marriage intact.”

He was in the middle of ripping a painting off the wall when he heard your voice.

He froze.

Turned.

Saw you standing there, breathless, eyes wide, taking in the wreckage.

Everything in him softened instantly.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t have seen this.”

He stepped toward you, careful now, like the mess behind him didn’t exist. Like the only thing that mattered was the look on your face.

“They won’t say your name again,” Carlyle promised, voice steady. “Not like that. Not ever.”

Behind him, the house was in ruins.

In front of him was the only thing he’d ever protect without hesitation.

And he’d do it again.