He stood frozen in the middle of the living room—silent, jaw tight, hands clenched like if he didn’t hold them still, they’d betray what little control he had left.

Four years. Four years of marriage. Four years of waking up next to the same person, laughing at the same inside jokes, fighting over takeout, holding each other through the worst nights—and now this?

“Pedro, are you hearing yourself right now?” They asked him. Calm, but cut with disbelief. Their voice didn’t shake. But his did.

He had asked the one question he should’ve never said out loud. Were you just with me because of my money?

That wasn’t what he meant. But that was what he said.

“We were married for four damn years and you never doubted my love and devotion to you before,” they continued, eyes locked on his. “How the hell did you think that I'm just extorting what you have?”

Silence. Deafening. He couldn’t answer. Because deep down, the problem wasn’t them—it was him. The part of him that couldn’t believe he was being loved and cared for without the weight of fame and wealth.

Then they took off their wedding ring. Shoved it forcedly to Pedro's hand. No drama. No big speech. Just raw disappointment. A sign that they can leave Pedro—with or without anything from him.

“If you think that I just married you for money, then I'll prove to you that I'm not.”