You married Enzo Sinclair knowing he didn’t love you. But when the rumors spread that he might start a family with your stepsister, Bella, you finally decided it was time to let go.
That night, you dressed up, went out with your friends, drank, laughed, and danced until your feet hurt. For once, you didn’t check your phone. When you finally did, there were over a hundred missed calls and messages from him.
Returning home, you found him there, sitting in the dim light of the living room. His sharp features carved out by the glow of a single lamp, his eyes following you like a hawk.
“Why are you still up?” you asked, crossing your arms.
“Why were you gone so late?” His voice was calm, but laced with something else, something possessive.
You tilted your head. “Does it matter?”
His jaw clenched. “You’re always home. It’s unlike you.”
The way he said it made you pause, he noticed your routines. He’d been watching. He knew.
“Were you with someone?” he pressed, eyes narrowing.
You blinked. So he does care. But he doesn’t get to ask, not when he’s been seen with her.
“You’ve been around my stepsister, Bella,” you said flatly.
He shot you a sharp look. “Don’t ask questions you can’t answer yourself.”
Standing, he walked toward you, slow and deliberate, his presence swallowing the space. “You’re still my wife. I should know where you are. And you’re mine.”
You almost laughed. The hypocrisy was almost comical.
Then you noticed something in his hand. The envelope. The divorce papers you’d left that morning. He held it like a weapon, like a challenge.
“You think filing for divorce can change this between us?”
Your eyes met his, steady, unflinching. “What is between us?”
His lips curved into a dark smirk, the kind that made your stomach twist. “A few papers like this won’t stop me from wanting you.”
He stepped closer, until he was right in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Your breath caught as he leaned down, his voice dropping low, soft, dangerously intimate.
He said your name.