droom, never "our" bedroom. Arthur had his own sprawling suite at the other end of the penthouse, a sanctuary I was only allowed to e

mall and insignificant until I crawled back, begging for his attention. My lips twisted into a bitter, humorless smile. It used to work. For ten years, it

ce, didn't sting. It felt... peaceful. Liberating. I was free of his suffocating control, free of t

rrace. I walked into the sprawling dining room, the long, polished table gleaming under the crystal chan

void of emotion. "Cook, please prepare Alyssa's usu

owledged them directly. In the past, this small gesture would have softened me, made me believe he still cared, that there was a path back to his good

ling. "Thank you, Arthur," I said, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside. "But I'd

nne told me you were quite upset yesterday. I understand you're grieving your mother, but this melodrama is unnecessary. You're b

." I met his gaze, refusing to back down. This was new territory for me. I had always

voice. "Don't push me. Deanne is invaluable to m

ked at him. The perfectly sculpted jawline, the piercing blue eyes that had once held so much a

nd of ambition and charm. He' d made me feel like the most important woman in the world, showering me with attention, whispering promises of a future together. He' d promised me the world, a future where I' d be by his side

hifted, his promises had faded. His tenderness had become rare, replaced by a cool, detached affection that felt mor

them, laced with a bitter irony. "Deanne, I mean. She's perfect for you.

t just then, the dining room doors swung open. Deanne, of

precise, "your eleven o'clock is

es. He glanced at me, a brief, dismissive look, and then foll

ght a battle against cotton. My words, my anger, my pain-they simply dissipated in his carefully constructed world