Three days later, Zavier returned to Bayfield.

Dusk had settled, the sky bruising into shades of evening. A sleek black town car rolled smoothly into the driveway of the estate, its engine purring to a halt.

The driver exited first, moving to open the rear door.

Zavier stepped out, his movements efficient and unhurried. Even as the driver reached for the luggage, Zavier stopped him with a cool remark: “I’ll take it up myself.”

As soon as he entered the house, one of the staff approached him, their expression cautious yet informative. “Sir, Mr. Jacobs had an accident a few days ago. Mrs. Larson hasn’t been herself… she’s upstairs.”

The Jacobs family’s troubles—he already knew. His jaw tightened subtly, frustration flickering across his otherwise composed face. With his luggage in tow, he ascended the grand staircase without a word and pushed open the door to their shared bedroom.

Selena was seated at the vanity, her back to him, meticulously organizing her things.

Zavier let the suitcase drop beside the wardrobe with a muted thud. Tugging his tie loose, he sank onto the edge of the bed, his gaze fixed on his wife’s reflection in the mirror.

She had always been like this—quiet, orderly, mindful of the smallest domestic details. From baking delicate pastries to keeping their home immaculately arranged, Selena played the role of homemaker to perfection. And yet, in his eyes, her delicate beauty and enviable figure aside, what was she but an elevated housekeeper?

Several long moments passed in silence.

Neither spoke a word. Zavier, fatigued from his journey, had no particular inclination to start a conversation. He eventually rose and walked into the adjoining walk-in closet to retrieve his robe, heading straight for the bathroom. While the shower’s steady rhythm filled the room, his mind wandered lazily. Selena was always so pliant, so easy to quell. By the time he finished his shower, he was almost certain her usual softness would resurface—she’d unpack his things, settle her emotions, and revert to the devoted wife he was accustomed to.

Of course, he thought this with unwavering certainty.

Yet when he stepped out of the bathroom, droplets still trailing down his skin, the suitcase remained untouched, exactly where he had left it. That alone was enough to signal trouble.

Zavier draped himself onto the sofa, picking up a magazine from the coffee table and flipping through it with casual disinterest. After a contemplative pause, he broke the silence.

“How’s your father?” His tone was nonchalant, an afterthought. “About that night... I’ve already reprimanded Sarah.”

The words were delivered without weight, without sincerity.

Selena lowered the object she was holding, the quiet click of it settling on the vanity the only sound. Through the mirror, her gaze met his, clear and unyielding.

Zavier’s reflection stared back at her—sharp features, aristocratic composure. Even in something as informal as a bathrobe, he carried the kind of tailoring that belonged only to men accustomed to wealth and power.

She studied him long enough for her eyes to sting. Then, with a calmness born of exhaustion, she finally said, “Zavier, let’s get a divorce.”

The words—calm, deliberate—did what no argument could have. For the first time, he froze.

He had expected her displeasure from that night, of course. When the news of Mr. Jacobs’s accident reached him, he’d promptly dispatched Sarah to the hospital, though Selena had conspicuously refused the gesture. Her silent defiance in the aftermath was unusual, but he hadn’t thought much of it. She would simmer down, wouldn’t she? She always did.

And yet, this—this was uncharted territory.

Reaching for a cigarette case on the coffee table, Zavier plucked one out and lit it with methodical slowness. The initial curl of smoke lingered in the air as he spoke, his voice tinged with disdain.

“A few days ago, you said you wanted to work. Now it’s a divorce? What’s next, Selena?” He laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of humor. “Mrs. Larson, tired of her privileges? Feeling restless?”

“Selena, step outside for a moment, really take a look. Do you know how many people out there slog through twelve-hour shifts, scraping together a few thousand just to pay rent? And here you are, living in a twenty-thousand-square-foot estate. Mrs. Larson, what more could you possibly need?”

His words were cutting, calculated—but Selena met them with quiet, simmering resolve. Her lips trembled faintly as she tried to smile, but all that emerged was a fractured laugh.

“Mrs. Larson? Is this what being Mrs. Larson looks like?”

She stood abruptly, pulling him toward the walk-in closet. With a swift tug, she opened the cabinets, revealing row upon row of gleaming jewelry drawers—all locked tight with security codes.

Selena gestured toward them with a raw, biting sarcasm. “Show me another ‘Mrs. Larson’ who has to get her husband’s secretary’s approval before wearing so much as a bracelet! Who has to fill out request forms for every dollar she spends! Who doesn’t even have cab fare, Zavier—cab fare! You call this being Mrs. Larson?”

Her voice broke, but she pushed on, steeling herself. “Yes, my family went under, and yes, you give me ten thousand every month. But every time I take that check, it feels like... charity. Like I’m nothing more than some cheap plaything, tossed a bone of courtesy after being... used.”

The biting truth twisted in the air as Zavier’s patience snapped. “That’s how you see it?” His words came low, dangerous.

He grabbed her chin, pulling her closer. His lips curled into a cruel smile. “A cheap plaything, huh? Tell me, what kind of cheap woman fails so miserably at even pleasing her man? You don’t resist, you don’t submit—you’re no more than a whimpering kitten, Selena. And where do you think a kitten like you is going without me? A divorce?”

Her attempt to pull free only tightened his grip. Between clenched teeth, he demanded, “Where’s your wedding ring?”

Selena didn’t flinch as she answered, her tone like steel wrapped in silk. “I sold it.”

She took a breath, steadying herself. “So, Zavier, let’s not drag this out. Let’s divorce.”

It was a declaration as much as it was a plea, but voicing it left her hollow. She had loved this man for six years. She had twisted herself into pretzels to stay, to endure. But that night... everything changed. The fireworks, the revelatory anguish—they’d burned away what little illusion she had left.

Zavier’s response wasn’t reasoned rage. It was instinct—it was territorial. Before she could retreat farther, he caught her by the waist, lifting her off the ground with unrelenting resolve. A few strides and they were at the bed. He deposited her unceremoniously onto the mattress, pinning her there with his weight.

His face loomed close, the warmth of his breath grazing her cheek, the rough timber of his voice wrapping around her ears.

“This is about Scarlett, isn’t it? Admit it, Selena. What other reason would you have for giving up what you schemed so hard to get? All this time acting coy, and now you want out?”

Crushed beneath him, Selena’s frame shuddered. Still—still, even now—he thought the past was her doing. The depth of his blindness staggered her.

Zavier’s palm cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing over her trembling lower lip, before he surged forward—hungry, possessive. He kissed her hard, seeking not warmth, but conquest.

For a moment, Selena froze. Then the truth snapped into focus: this was not reconciliation. This was control.

“No,” she gasped into the onslaught. “Zavier, stop. You can’t—”

He silenced her with another kiss, his voice rasping between breaths. “We’re still married, Selena. What’s stopping us?”