KEIFER POV
She grabbed me by the collar, her grip clumsy, unsteady, but her eyes — even drunk — burned into mine.
"Jay, let me go," I said, voice sharp, clipped.
"You ruined my life," she spat, words slurred but heavy. "You… my so‑called family… all of you ruined my life."
The words hit harder than any bruise. I froze.
I wanted to argue. To tell her she was drunk, that she didn't know what she was saying. But the truth was, she did. She knew exactly what she was saying.
"I was stuck in a marriage I hate," she said, her voice slurred but sharp enough to cut through me. "You… that Fernandez family told me to change myself or their fucking company would be in danger, so they sold me off like I'm property."
Her words slammed into me, heavier than the collar she gripped. I froze, jaw tight, pride cracking under the weight of her truth.
I remembered those conversations.
The pressure.
The demands.
The Fernandez family, the company, the endless talk of reputation and control.
And I had let it happen.
I had stood there, silent, watching her change herself piece by piece until she was no longer the Jay I knew.
She had bent herself into obedience, into silence, into someone she wasn't.
And I had let it happen.
I had wanted it to happen.
Now, looking at her — drunk, chaotic, stubborn — I realized how much I missed the girl she used to be.
The girl who laughed too loud, who never asked permission, who burned brighter than anyone else in the room.
My chest tightened, guilt pressing heavier than pride.
I had ruined her life.
Maybe not with my hands, but with my silence, with my control, with my pride.
And now, even as she mocked me, even as she threw the truth in my face, I couldn't deny it.
I still thought she was beautiful.
I still felt something I shouldn't.
But this time, it wasn't just jealousy.
It was guilt.
And it was the terrifying realization that I might have loved her most when she was the very girl I helped destroy.
"I tried, Keifer. So damn much I tried," she said, her voice slurred but heavy, each word cutting deeper than the last. "I tried to keep this marriage… but now I have realized this is useless."
Her grip on my collar tightened, her eyes glassy but burning with something more than alcohol.
"I give up, Keifer," she said. "I thought maybe if I behaved how you wanted… maybe then you would try to see me not as property but as your wife. It's funny how I loved you but—"
She stopped, the words hanging between us like a blade.
I stood there, frozen, her confession echoing in my head.
She loved me.
Even after everything.
Even after the silence, the control, the ruin.
And I realized something I didn't want to admit.
I didn't want her to give up.
I didn't want this marriage to be useless.
For the first time, I wanted to fight for it.
Not to control her.
Not to silence her.
But to fight for her.
Because maybe I hadn't just ruined her life.
Maybe I had ruined mine too.
And maybe the only way to fix it was to give us — truly us — a chance.
She was asleep soon after, exhaustion pulling her under.
I stood there, staring at her, the weight of her confession pressing heavier than pride.
I pulled the blanket over her, careful, deliberate. And for the first time, I let the words slip out, even though she couldn't hear me.
"You know, Jay… I liked you, not loved you, when we were young." The words felt foreign, heavy, but I let them out anyway. "Maybe I fell in love with you because of your stubbornness… or the way you spread love to everyone."
I sat on the edge of the bed, guilt gnawing at me.
When she married me, I thought she changed.
I thought marriage had tamed her.
The loud, chaotic girl I met at eighteen was suddenly quiet, obedient, reshaping herself into the perfect wife.
And I told myself that was what I wanted.
But the truth was, she hadn't changed for herself.
She had changed for me.
For my family.
For their company.
And I had let it happen.
Now, drunk and defiant, she was clawing her way back to the girl she used to be.
And I hated how much I liked it.
Because it meant admitting that I had been wrong all along.
I leaned closer, whispering into the quiet room. "I thought you changed when you married me. But you didn't. I changed you. And I'm sorry. Maybe I ruined your life… maybe I ruined mine too. But I want to give us a chance. A real chance."
She didn't stir.
She didn't hear me.
But the words were out.
And for the first time, I felt the weight of my guilt shift into something else.
Resolve.
I was about to leave when she held my hand. Her grip was small, unsteady, but it stopped me in my tracks.
"Do you want me to stay here?" I asked, voice low, clipped.
She didn't respond. Instead, she suddenly stood, moving toward the dresser, fingers tugging at her clothes.
"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, jaw tight.
She shot me a look, sharp, mocking. "What do you think, genius? Obviously I'm not about to sleep wearing this dress."
My chest tightened. "Don't change here," I said, voice clipped, commanding.
"I want to," she shot back, defiant, her tone sharper than her movements.
She pulled at her top, tossing it aside, her stubbornness louder than the silence between us. I froze. God, she really wanted me to lose control. I turned away, jaw tight, eyes closed, forcing myself to breathe.
"Mark Keifer fucking Watson," she said, her voice sharp, mocking.
"What now?" I asked, clipped.
"Give me your shirt," she demanded.
"Why?"
"Because I don't have anything good to wear."
"So you think my shirt will look good on you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"No. I just like your shirt color," she shot back. "Take it off. Now."
It wasn't a request.
It was an order.
I clenched my jaw, pulled the shirt off, and handed it to her.
She slipped it on, the fabric loose against her frame.
God, she looked… different.
Not obedient.
Not quiet.
Alive.
Defiant.
Herself.
"Not bad. You have a good body," she said, smirking, her eyes locked on mine.
I opened my eyes fully, and there she was — standing in front of me, close, too close.
Her gaze burned into mine, stubborn, chaotic, unrelenting.
And then, suddenly, she kissed me.
Hungry. Fierce.
I froze.
For half a second, my pride held me still.
Then I kissed her back.
What can I say? I am a man too.
I picked her up, my movements clipped, deliberate, and carried her to the bed.