The cool glass in my hand was slick with condensation, mimicking the chill that had settled deep in my bones. I brought the rim to my lips, savoring the bitter, complex flavor—a fitting backdrop to the thoughts that were spiraling in my mind. Every sip seemed to echo the tension coiled within me, the way a tightly wound spring hums before release.
It was plain to see how Victor would react if my actions negatively impacted the Grayan family. The fallout would be swift, ruthless, and absolute. His fury was a familiar rhythm, almost comforting in its predictability. Every calculated strike, every gleam of malice in his eyes—it followed a pattern I could anticipate.
He will desperately seek a means to attack the Serenity family. And he will probably start with me.
I took another measured sip, the liquid burning a fleeting path down my throat. To be honest, I'm not worried about anything Victor might do. He is a wolf, predictable in his hunger. The danger he represents is immediate, yes, but finite. I have endured him before; I can endure him again.
Victor and the Grayans aren't the problem.
I set the glass down, the faint clink echoing the gravity of the situation. The sound seemed to ripple through the room, marking the boundary between comfort and calculation. The true threat always lies higher, concealed in the elaborate, gilded structures of power. It is not the wolves at the edges, but the hands that shape the throne itself.
Behind the Grayans is the Royal Court.
A panorama of the sprawling, baroque city flashed in my mind's eye—a grand stage for petty rivalries and deadly ambition. The streets shimmered under lantern light, grand spires clawing at the night sky. Beneath the opulence, every whisper, every favor, every slight was a calculated move in a game with stakes higher than life itself. Specifically, the Prime Minister is under Father's thumb, a marionette whose strings could twist destinies without warning.
There's a high probability that either Father or Victor will act with the Prime Minister's backing... And if that happens, there's no telling how big a problem it might become. Not even the Serenity family could fight against the kingdom and win.
I imagined the corridors of power, the veiled threats that lingered behind embroidered curtains and polished floors. One misstep, one poorly timed move, and all that I held dear could be swept away as easily as the finest dust.
My gaze drifted down to my hand, where the ornate pattern on the glass felt suddenly fragile. The etched lines, intricate as they were, seemed almost to mock me with their permanence in contrast to the volatility of the world outside. The tension in my jaw tightened, and I could feel my fingers clench involuntarily around the base of the cup.
Given that, and my promise to Iansa, it'd be safest for me if I were to be cleanly excised from her life now.
A drop of water, a tiny splash of reality. Plop. I could almost hear the sound of her sinking deeper into the cleansing, cold water—my Iansa. A weight of sorrow pressed down on me, but beneath it simmered the resolve that had carried me through countless storms.
For her, I would sever the tie. For her, I would endure Victor, Father, and the entire Royal Court. But for her, I also knew I had to push her away, to make myself a distant memory, a safe shield. The Grayans might strike at me, but they would not touch the one I had sworn to protect.
---
I stood in the vast, opulent foyer, the cold marble beneath my feet reflecting the chandeliers' distant, trembling glow. Each polished tile mirrored the fractured calm I carried, a pale echo of the storm brewing inside me. My back was rigid, a wall against the tide of doubt and fear that threatened to spill over, and yet I forced the stillness, the illusion of control.
I heard her approach, the soft, deliberate steps that I had memorized over countless nights. A pause—a subtle hesitation that betrayed her curiosity, her worry, her unspoken question. A wave of familiarity washed over me: the scent of soap, lingering faintly on her skin. Is she just returning now, having spent all that time in the bathroom after running out earlier?
I let the thought hang, sharp and intrusive, before I carefully sculpted my voice into something flat, devoid of the warmth she expected. "I was drinking for quite a while, too." Each syllable was a brick in the wall I was building between us.
I turned slightly, just enough to catch her expression—the fierce set of her jaw, the fire burning behind her eyes. I had to maintain this distance, this cold professionalism, this emotional detachment that I had honed for moments like this. The fate of the Serenity family, tangled as it was with power and threat, was secondary to Iansa's safety, and the only way to ensure that was to sever our ties entirely.
"If you were on your way to the bedroom, go ahead. I have some more work to do in the office."
Her reaction was instantaneous. The sharp, disbelieving look that crossed her face cut briefly through my resolve. "Shouldn't that be flipped?" she challenged, her voice a mixture of confusion and restrained indignation.
I faced her fully then, letting the silence stretch, letting my expression harden into something unreadable. In the end, whether or not she understood, whether or not this was her intent… the timing of this divorce could not have been more opportune. What had once felt like the bitter failure of our fragile, forced arrangement had become my greatest tool—a cover, a necessity, a shield. I needed to cut her out before the political struggle with Victor and the Royal Court swallowed us both. And given that, and my promise to Iansa, it would be safest if I were cleanly excised from her life now.
She continued, voice laced with frustration, a mirror to my own conflicted heartbeat. "I should be doing the work. None of this will be of any use to us once we split."
Her words clung to me, a desperate plea tangled in hope, but I couldn't let them reach their mark. That work would only tether her to the danger. I had to make her leave. I had to make her hate me, if only to protect her.
"Why don't you go to bed and rest instead of sticking your nose in my business?" I said, letting the whipcrack sharpness of my tone carry the finality of my intent. Harsh. Dismissive. Necessary.
She stopped short, breath caught in a silent gasp. A heavy silence descended between us, broken only by the faint echo of my own command. Then, with the whish of her silk nightgown brushing against the floor, I heard her steps begin to retreat.
"Go to sleep first. I won't be back until later," I called after her, forcing the words past the tightening in my chest. There was a muffled sound in response, followed by another step, then the pause that always heralded the deeper, unspoken confrontation.
She turned back, her face now a mask of hurt and pride. Her hand rose, fingers curling into a tight, desperate clench—a silent, fragile question.
A bitter, humorless sound escaped her lips. "HA!"
The challenge was there, defiant and sharp, but beneath it, I heard the raw, trembling truth, the question I had spent every moment of the night preparing to answer with silence. Her next words, barely a whisper carried on the whish of air, struck deeper than any political maneuver, any court intrigue could:
"Are you serious about this divorce?"
I met her gaze, held it, let the lie settle like stone in my eyes. I said nothing. The silence itself became my confirmation. The severing was complete.
Absolutely—I can expand this
Her question—"Are you serious about this divorce?"—had been a demand for truth, but my silence was the most honest answer I could give: Yes.
But she pressed further, relentless, seeking something beyond the words I withheld. "Do you really want to get divorced?"
I kept my back to her for a moment longer, staring into the grand, empty room. The chandeliers' soft glow reflected on the polished marble, casting fractured shadows across the walls. I couldn't look at her—not when my own resolve warred with the raw, hurt confusion blazing in her eyes. I had to choose the words that would sever, not explain; words that would cut her loose, not reveal the truth behind my actions.
"We have to."
The soft fabric of her gown whispered against the floor, a sound like a disappointed sigh—a whish—as she moved.
"'HAVE TO'?" Her voice trembled, laced with disbelief and a rising fury. "WHAT IS IT?"
She closed the distance between us in a few hurried strides. I felt the heat radiating off her, the angry, vibrant presence pressing behind me like a living weight.
Why does Eiser need this divorce outside of his promise to Grandma?
The thought echoed in the spaces between us. I knew she was agonizing over the logic, trying desperately to pinpoint some reasonable explanation for my sudden cruelty. And I felt it—a surge of frustrated sympathy. This is so frustrating. She needed a reason, a motivation, something tangible to fight against. But I couldn't give her the real reason—the danger, the threat lurking in every political shadow. So I gave her a shield of bitterness instead, a lie strong enough to make her retreat safely behind it.
"WHAT'S THE PROBLEM? WHAT IS IT?!" she demanded, voice straining, urgent, a crescendo of fury and desperation. "If you told me it was to keep your promise to Grandma, at least I'd understand. What else could it be?"
I made the mistake of turning, if only for a moment. My body executed a sharp pivot, and suddenly I was face-to-face with her passionate accusation. Her eyes—usually so clever and calculating—were wide, luminous with hurt and disbelief. She was beautiful in her anger, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the carefully constructed wall around me trembled. Almost.
She attacked with precision, aiming at the worst possible reasons, trying to provoke me into revealing the truth.
"Why? Finally sick of cleaning up after my family's messes? Is that why you toyed with me for a while, before getting sick of me too? Now that you've had your fun, do you find me and this house a bore and want to leave it all behind?"
"Serena "
My voice was a low warning, a single word meant to halt the spiraling accusations. I knew she was tearing herself apart, seeking the answer she so desperately craved, but the sting of her words was salt on a hidden wound I could never expose.
"THAT'S ENOUGH."
Even as I recognized her provocation, my blood ran cold with the necessity of restraint. I clenched my fists—not because of her words, but because I had to stand here and let her believe them. To let her think that I was that kind of man. The thought of her believing I could be so callous, that I could treat her life as trivial amusement, was unbearable.
How could she ever believe I'd think of her that way?
She didn't relent. She took two more forceful strides, her bare feet slapping softly against the marble, the thin fabric of her gown rising and falling with her breaths.
"IF I DON'T GO THIS FAR, YOU WON'T EVEN BOTHER GIVING ME A RETORT!"
She was right. And that was why I could give her nothing. I offered no explanation, no defense, no softening of my resolve. I held her gaze instead—hard, cold, unyielding—and let the silence do the work of truth. The cruel, unflinching silence confirmed her worst fears about me.
It was necessary. It was the only way to ensure she would finally hate me enough to walk away, untouched by the dangers I could never show her, safe in the shadow of my sacrifice.
Serena pov
I watched him turn, jawline sharp and unforgiving in the pale glow of the chandeliers. His name left his lips—"Iansa"—cold, clipped, formal, a single word meant to silence me.
"THAT'S ENOUGH."
Enough? Enough of trying to understand why the man who had promised to stand by me was now jettisoning our marriage with two clipped words: "We have to."
The refusal to offer a legitimate reason was a heavier blow than any accusation I could hurl. "HAVE TO"? What is it? My voice trembled as frustration boiled into raw, white-hot rage. He was treating me like a bothersome child, not the partner whose life had become entwined with his, the one he had vowed to protect.
Why does Eiser need this divorce outside of his promise to Grandma?
I needed a reason, a tangible enemy I could fight, a logic to anchor my furious mind. If he had simply said it was because of that promise, I could have accepted the political reality, understood it, even mourned it. But no. He stood there like a statue in a dark, expensive suit, immovable, unyielding, forcing me to claw the truth from the dirtiest corners of my imagination.
"WHAT'S THE PROBLEM? WHAT IS IT?! If it was to keep your promise to Grandma, I could understand. What else could it be?"
The silence stretched between us, absolute and suffocating. I caught the subtlest flicker in his eyes—anger, perhaps—but at what? Was it me, or the invisible pressures that seemed to govern him? He wouldn't speak. He wouldn't justify himself. He wouldn't even give me the courtesy of acknowledgment.
This was maddening.
"Why? Finally sick of cleaning up after my family's messes?" I hurled the first grenade, watching his reaction closely. Nothing. Not a flicker.
"Is that why you toyed with me for a while, before getting bored of me too?" The second accusation landed closer, aimed at the pride I knew he guarded like a fortress. Still nothing.
Anger twisted further, coiling in my chest. I took two more purposeful strides, closing the space between us until I could feel the chill radiating from his rigid form. I needed to see a single crack, a sign of humanity, a trace of guilt or regret.
"Now that you've had your fun, do you find me and this house a bore and want to leave it all behind?"
He interrupted me again, voice low, clipped, the only acknowledgment my words had made.
"Serena That's enough."
Enough? It would only be enough when he stopped this cruel, deliberate madness.
"IF I DON'T GO THIS FAR, YOU WON'T EVEN BOTHER GIVING ME A RETORT!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the marble walls, carrying my rage into every corner of the cavernous foyer.
He did not move. His gaze remained locked on me—stern, condemning, unyielding. I glimpsed the shadow of his thought: Even though I know she's trying to provoke me into an answer, it makes me angry. How could you ever believe I'd ever think of you that way?
He was angry because I challenged his character—but he was proving every insult true by acting the dismissive tyrant I accused him of being. The hypocrisy, the deliberate cruelty, set my blood on fire.
Rage, pure and blinding, finally eclipsed the pain. I could not endure his cold, silent judgment any longer. It wasn't enough that he hurt me; he had to destroy every belief I held about our love, our partnership, our life together.
With a choked, furious sound, I struck out.
SMACK.
My hands flew up—not in a gentle, pleading gesture, but seizing the lapels of his jacket, knuckles white as I gripped the dark, expensive fabric. I held him tight, yanking his face down toward mine, forcing him to meet the wild, uncontained intensity in my eyes.
"Tell me what this is!" I hissed, breath ragged, words sharp as shards. "Tell me you don't mean this. Tell me I'm not a bore. Don't just stand there like a ghost!"
But he remained immobile. Unyielding. Cold.
He was letting me strike him, letting me rail, letting me pour every ounce of my fury into him, offering himself as the necessary villain.
And then it hit me, that final, sickening realization:
He is doing this deliberately. He wants me to hate him.
This preserves Iansa's raw, escalating fury while making the psychological dynamics and stakes intensely clear.
I stood perfectly still as her hands released the tight clench on my lapels, the fabric sliding back into place. The physical contact had ended, but the furious, wounded intensity of her presence remained, lingering like a storm that refused to dissipate. She had struck me—not with brute force, but with an impact that rattled my very core. I deserved every sting.
How dare you make me return to my room alone… without even properly explaining the reason why?
Her unspoken accusation branded my conscience like fire. She was right. I was acting the coward. A monster cloaked in civility. But the alternative—telling her the truth—would place her squarely in the path of danger that even the combined influence of the Serenity family could not deflect. Every truth I could offer would only make her a target.
I looked down, closing my eyes for a fleeting moment against the brilliance of her pain. Then, carefully, I reached out, taking her wrist in my hand. Not to restrain her, but to draw her close, offering a faint echo of comfort amidst the storm. Slowly, I pulled her in until her slight frame pressed against my suit, her head tucked beneath my chin.
Just how pathetic do you want to make me feel?
"Serena" I murmured against her hair, the one name that broke the rigid control I had imposed over myself—a name that carried every vow, every promise I was sacrificing for her safety.
She pushed slightly, tilting her face toward mine, eyes shining with unshed tears, desperation, and an unyielding need for understanding. She spoke, not of contracts, papers, or political necessity, but of us, of our life together. She produced a photograph from a memory I had treasured, a fragment of intimacy in her room, our sanctuary in the early morning quiet.
"All other reasons aside… do you not realize the significance of my opening up that space and sharing it with you?!"
Her voice trembled beneath the weight of her history, of the trust she had placed in me. She had shown me her parents' bedroom—a sacred, untouchable space she had kept sealed since their deaths—and invited me to be part of it.
"Do you know how much courage it took for me to open those doors? Do you understand what it meant for me to open up my parents' bedroom… and decide that you and I would use it together?"
I remembered the day clearly: the hesitant hope in her eyes, the quiet reverence of her trust. That fragile faith she placed in me weighed heavily on my chest now.
*"All other reasons aside…" Her voice softened to a near whisper, "do you not realize the significance of my opening up that space and sharing it with you?!"
I closed my eyes briefly, leaning my forehead against hers. She thought I was discarding our partnership because of boredom or my family's old promise. I couldn't correct her. I had to let her believe the minor cruelty—the slight, manageable misunderstanding—so she would never glimpse the catastrophic reality.
I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, forcing my eyes to harden into the resolute, implacable expression I had worn throughout our confrontation. Inside, terror and despair flared.
"Iansa," I repeated, low and urgent, the word a warning veiled as a name. "The Grayan family will soon make their move."
I had to give her a glimpse of the storm—just enough to instill caution—but frame it in a way that would drive her away from the epicenter of danger, away from me.
"Now that they know we're cornered and at risk of bankruptcy, they won't hesitate to resort to all sorts of underhanded means." I paused, letting the weight of financial and political ruin settle over her like a suffocating fog. "To get the ball rolling, they'll come after me first."
I released her wrist, letting my hand rest gently on her shoulder, a final anchoring touch in a storm of lies.
"After that, it'll be the hotel, then the manor, and your money…"
The list of threats was a prophecy of devastation. The only way to preserve her life, her home, and her fortune was to remove her from the center of the Serenity conflict—from me.
I met her eyes, forcing every ounce of gravity, of danger, into them. My silence carried the weight of truths I could not speak. The divorce had to happen now, before the Grayans fully committed to war. It was my last, bitter act of protection, the ultimate sacrifice cloaked in cruelty.
I had thrown the first part of the truth at her—the Grayan threat—and now I watched as her mind, so sharp even in distress, began to process the implications. Every subtle twitch of her brow, every narrowing of her eyes, revealed the gears turning, the puzzle pieces of danger slowly clicking into place. I had to give her just enough information to make the divorce seem necessary, without exposing the full scope of my plan, without letting her glimpse the catastrophic reality that I alone could bear.
*"The Grayan family will soon make their move,"* I told her, the words carefully measured, painting a picture of financial and material ruin—an approximation of the storm, rather than its full fury.
She pulled away slightly, not out of anger this time, but out of sheer disbelief. Her voice, though still tinged with frustration, took on a more logical, defensive cadence. *"SO WHAT?! I'M NOT AFRAID!"*
She was magnificent in her defiance—proud, fierce, unyielding. And yet, beneath that brilliance lay a dangerous naivety about the true nature of power in this kingdom, the shadow games that governed everything behind the gilded facades. I reached for her hand again, not a grab this time, but a firm, deliberate hold—a tether between her courage and the reality I needed her to see.
*"I won't lie down and take that from them! Why should I worry about what the likes of them might do?"* she continued, her tone challenging, spirited, the same indomitable spark that had drawn me to her from the start.
*"If this were simply a fight between the Grayan family and the Serenity family,"* I conceded, acknowledging the weight of our centuries-long power, *"there would be no cause for concern."* I let the truth hang in the air for a moment, just long enough for her to feel a sliver of reassurance.
But then, I shifted, dropping the veil. *"But the Grayans have the might of the Royal Court at their back."*
Her eyes widened slightly. She had always been one of the few who retained a genuine, unshakable respect for the Crown—an idealist who still trusted in honor, tradition, and the sanctity of loyalty.
*"That'll never happen,"* she countered, shaking her head. *"We have had a trusted relationship with the Royal Family for generations. Consider the long friendship between Grandma and the former Queen, for one."*
She clutched at history and tradition like a life raft, seeking an anchor in the storm. I had to tear that illusion away with careful precision, to show her the true gravity of our position.
*"More importantly,"* she pressed, her voice regaining its force, *"given the scale of my family's contributions to this kingdom, unless we've committed something as grievous as treason, they wouldn't dare cross us. The Royal Family is now powerless."*
The cold knot in my gut tightened. She was dangerously wrong. The power vacuum was far more volatile than she realized. I had been privy to information that confirmed it: the Prime Minister—my father's puppet—wielded the real authority behind the throne.
*"Just as the Serenity family has enjoyed a close friendship with the Royal Family for generations,"* I stated, voice firm, gaze locking with hers, *"the Grayan family has maintained ties to the Privy Council, and the Prime Minister, who holds the real power in the Royal Court, is completely on the Grayans' side."*
Images of grand, ornate halls flashed through my mind—not symbols of the King, but of corruption and influence that bent the kingdom to its will. *"Specifically, the Prime Minister is under Father's thumb."*
*"If things don't go their way, they will definitely get that faction involved,"* I continued, each word deliberate, a hammer driving truth into place. *"If they intervene in this matter, it will snowball, and you'll be in even greater danger."*
She still fought against it, desperation evident in the way she clutched at my hand. *"What does their involvement matter when I have done nothing wrong…"*
*"It's possible,"* I cut her off sharply, finality in my voice. *"There's a high probability that either Father or Victor will act with the Prime Minister's backing… and if that happens, there's no telling how big a problem it might become. Not even the Serenity family could fight against the kingdom and win."*
I had no choice. She had to remain untouched, pure, removed from the looming political carnage. I would be the sacrifice. I would be the shield. The only path to her safety—the only way to preserve her life, her fortune, her peace—was through a clean, bitter divorce that severed every connection, including the one I treasured most.
---
*"Do you know how many times I saw while I was growing up… how my family made innocent people appear guilty and destroyed their lives?"* My voice was low, deliberate—a steady current of cold water poured over a scorching wound. I didn't need to look at her to know the intensity burning in her eyes. For the better part of the conversation, I had avoided her gaze, staring down at the polished marble floor as if the answers to my miserable existence were etched there.
The memories rose, thick and acrid as smoke, choking me with their weight.
*"So many people died that at one point, all those rocks scattered in the garden were no longer enough."*
My mind flashed back to that garden—not a place of peace, but a memorial of shame, where my ancestors marked their victims with stone markers. They had run out of space. Each rock a life stolen, a story erased, a sin engraved in cold granite.
And then came the worst of it—the moment that had frozen my heart and cemented my resolve.
*"And the horrible, miserable sight my innocent mother made… when she finally returned home."*
The image was a fractured mirror in my memory: my father, younger, smiling with charm, shaking hands over a deal that masked cruelty; my mother, devastated, shrouded in shadow and grief, clutching herself, broken by what my family had inflicted. The guilt of my lineage was a suffocating shroud, a green, poisonous mist seeping up from the dark earth of my past.
*"This is a fight that will hold you hostage. To me, it's not even worth debating."*
My words became a wall, a barrier erected to protect her. I had to sever the chain that connected her to my poisoned roots.
*"I won't even leave the smallest sliver of possibility for you to become their prey."*
I finally lifted my gaze, taking in her silhouette against the window. Moonlight kissed her hair, turning it into a cascade of silver-black silk. Her expression, however, was not fear—it was quiet, fierce defiance. She met the weight of my words with unflinching strength.
*"For now, it's best if you and I are apart. I need to become someone completely devoid of any ties to your family, to be exact."*
I clenched my jaw. The decision tasted like ash in my mouth, bitter and final. Yet it was the only way to ensure her survival—the only way to truly fight my family without exposing her to their venom.
*"Also, I plan to keep the promise I made to Iansa that I would keep you safe."* I invoked the name of the one who mattered most, the one anchor in all of this chaos, a desperate plea for her to understand.
*"That's why we need this divorce."*
Her response came immediately, sharp, unwavering. She would not be dismissed, could not be sidelined. She stood in her silken gown, shoulders bare, the moonlight tracing the elegant line of her figure—a portrait of power, hurt, and resolve.
*"I have zero intention of not going through with it, all right?"*
She did not mean the divorce itself. She meant the fight. She meant to stand by me, not apart. Her defiance, her refusal to yield, cut through the carefully prepared distance I had built.
I swallowed, the tightness in my chest unbearable. My only move—my only defense—was to end the confrontation, to enforce the distance I had spent months cultivating. I turned my back to her.
*"TURN."*
I took the first step away, deliberate, heavy with the weight of inevitability.
*"STEP."*
Her eyes burned into my back, unyielding, unwavering. The echoes of my footsteps filled the silent, ornate hall, each step a reminder of the growing gulf between us.
*"STEP."*
I didn't hear her move. I only felt the silence—the steadfast presence of her, standing her ground. I took another step, putting a distance between us that felt vast, endless, insurmountable, a physical manifestation of the barrier I had built to protect her from the storm I could not prevent.
---
Absolutely—I can expand this
I watched his back, rigid and unforgiving, as he took those first few steps away. Each footfall struck the floor with a crisp authority, each echo a hammer blow against my chest. My lungs felt tight, my heart a drumbeat against my ribs.
"ALL RIGHT… FINE."
The sound of his voice—low, reluctant, weighted with restraint—made me freeze, despite the resolve I had steeled myself with. He paused, framed against the moonlight spilling across the polished marble floor. The shadows played across the angles of his face, sharp and unyielding.
"If we need to part not because of anything between us, but some external force…"
My eyes narrowed. He was making this about protection, about survival, about the storm he believed I could never weather. He was trying to erase the us we had fought to build, reducing everything we had shared to a calculated risk.
"...and if you're that determined…"
He was waiting. He needed me to agree, to validate the sacrifice he thought necessary.
I drew a deep, shuddering breath, the cold air of the enormous hall stinging my lungs, settling in my chest like ice. The words I needed to speak—words that would wound us both—burned on the tip of my tongue. I released them anyway.
"FINE. LET'S GET DIVORCED."
I stepped forward, my thin slippers whispering against the polished floor. My voice, though steady, carried a calculated detachment, a clarity that belied the storm roiling inside me.
"This entire marriage started off on the wrong foot, so we might as well end it."
The lie tasted like iron in my mouth. I watched his reaction, the tension coiling through him, his handsome face unreadable, his distant blue eyes heavy with emotion. I felt the immense, wretched sadness radiating from him, but I pushed past it. I needed leverage. I needed him to understand the price I was paying, the control I had wrested from despair.
"It hurts my pride and makes me feel wretched, but I can endure one more blow."
I took another step, closing the small space between us. My delicate foot brushed against the polished leather of his shoe, grounding me in the truth I refused to ignore.
"BUT IN RETURN…"
His expression shifted ever so slightly—a flicker of caution, maybe surprise. He had assumed I would crumble, that I would agree and vanish, leaving him to bear the burden alone. He was wrong.
I stood close enough now to feel the residual warmth of his body. He was still tall, commanding, the man I had always desperately wanted to protect, even as he insisted on protecting me—from him, from our history, from our shared danger.
"...PROMISE ME ONE THING BEFORE YOU GO."
I did not wait for him to ask, did not allow the hesitation to hang in the space between us. I had to force contact, to leave a mark he would carry, a memory too strong to erase.
With a decisive, quick motion, I wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my cheek against the solid warmth of his suit jacket. My fingers clutched at his sides, pulling him close, anchoring myself to him in this fleeting, fragile moment.
Let me be the last thing you feel.
It was a hug that carried both despair and absolute resolve. A vow without words. A promise that no piece of paper, no arrangement, no bitter divorce could truly sever what had been forged between us.
The divorce may be Chapter 91—but this was not the end of our story.
This was the end of Chapter 91.