Selena placed her hand on the car door, hesitating before letting it fall.

The tension inside the car was suffocating.

Zavier, just back from his business trip and an obligatory stop at Larson Manor, was visibly drained. His hand rested on the steering wheel as the other rubbed at his temple. His tone was clipped, sharp with impatience. “How long are you planning to keep this up?”

By now, he was convinced she was just throwing a tantrum.

A chill seeped through Selena’s chest. She sat upright, staring out at the road ahead. After a long pause, she spoke with quiet intensity. “Zavier, I mean it. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Zavier’s head snapped toward her.

He was a striking man, his features sharp and faultless—precisely the kind of face Selena had once adored, had once yearned to touch. But now? No. Now, it stirred nothing in her. Not the faintest flicker.

His dark eyes fixed on her, unyielding. He exhaled through his nose, undid his seatbelt with a deliberate click. “Get out.”

The faint sound of the car unlocking filled the air. He didn’t wait for her response.

Selena opened the door immediately and stepped out, her back as straight as the resolve stiffening her spine. The villa’s entryway was dimly lit ahead of her, its glow casting long shadows over the path. Without looking back, she walked toward it, every step resolute, her divorce as inevitable as the steps leading her to that front door.

Zavier lit a cigarette and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, watching the smoke curl lazily upward before he finally stepped out and followed her inside.

The evening ended the way it often had lately—cold and unresolved.

That night, Selena slept in a guest room. Zavier, too annoyed to mollify her, changed into his sleepwear and went to bed alone. But as he laid there, his hand instinctively reached for the empty space beside him. The absence left an unfamiliar weight in his chest.

Once, no matter how distant or aloof he had been, Selena would crawl into bed and wrap her arms around him. Every night.

But not tonight.

*****

Morning sunlight edged its way through the curtains, its brightness piercing. Zavier sighed and raised a hand to shield his eyes, forcing himself awake.

Downstairs, faint noises broke the stillness—the familiar, hushed sounds of the housekeeper setting up the dining table. Ordinarily, these tasks were done collaboratively, with Selena often guiding the process, tweaking it just so. His breakfast was almost always her personal touch.

For a moment, that thought softened something inside him. He rose, went to the walk-in wardrobe, and began changing into a suit. His movements slowed mid-action as his gaze landed on the empty corner.

Selena’s suitcase was gone.

He opened the closet to confirm—it was unmistakable. Her favorite clothes, the ones she wore most often, were missing.

Zavier stood there, silent and still, staring at the neatly arranged row of his own garments before calmly shutting the closet door. His expression unreadable, he dressed as usual, fastening his watch as he descended the stairs. Once in the dining room, he asked flatly, “Where’s Madam?”

The housekeeper hesitated, her voice careful. “She left early this morning. Took her suitcase with her. She didn’t call for the driver.”

“She went out?”

He wasn’t expecting anything more. Seating himself at the table, Zavier reached for the black coffee and whole-grain toast arranged for him. But something on the open newspaper snagged his attention—it was hard to miss.

Headline after headline, bold and salacious, all splashed with his name alongside Scarlett’s. The photos, the calculated angles—it was a perfect storm designed to fuel speculation. He skimmed the pages with a detached air before setting down his cup.

“Did she read the paper before she left?” he asked the housekeeper.

The woman shifted uneasily. “Madam didn’t have breakfast before leaving.”

Zavier’s gaze flicked to her, sharp, and then away. He leaned back, picked up his phone, and dialed Sarah. His voice was measured. “About the news stories—deal with them.”

Sarah began to reply, but Zavier cut her short, his voice dropping a fraction lower. “And find out where Selena sold her wedding ring. I want it back by four this afternoon.”

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end. When Sarah spoke again, her voice was tentative. “That's impossible. Mrs. Larson loves you—why would she sell her ring?”

Zavier didn’t answer. He ended the call without another word, tossing the phone onto the table.

Staring back at him were the blunt headlines and Scarlett’s name. The toast in front of him might as well have been cardboard. His appetite had left with Selena.

*****

Selena had returned to her family home. Samantha, who had just finished preparing a steaming pot of soup, gawked at her in disbelief.

“What’s this nonsense?” Samantha demanded, gesturing at the suitcase. Her tone was sharp, wavering between disapproval and exasperation. “Every couple fights. And men—look, men straying occasionally isn’t the end of the world. Scarlett? Have you seen her? She’s a walking disaster. That face, that limp—she’s divorced, did you know that? There’s no way someone like her could threaten you.”

Selena didn’t flinch. Her smile was brittle, tinged with a bitterness Samantha couldn’t miss. “What standing do I even have in Zavier’s life?” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

She moved toward the soup, ladling it into the thermos container. “I’ll take this to Dad at the hospital,” she added, her tone calm, deliberate.

Samantha stared at her sister, a warning poised on her lips but never spoken.

After what felt like an eternity, Samantha wiped her hands with a dishcloth, her voice laced with exasperation. “If your father finds out you’re planning to divorce, he might just have a heart attack! Selena... Let’s take a step back. Even if you really can’t go on with him, do you think divorcing will suddenly solve everything? Tell me, with the Jacobs family in shambles like this, what are you going to rely on to get by?”

Selena quietly twisted the lid of the insulated container in her hands, deliberately slow.

When the lid was secure, she lowered her eyes and murmured, “I’ll figure it out. Selling my wedding ring should cover at least six months of Dad’s medical bills. As for my brother’s legal fees... I’ll sell this house. And I’ll find a job to support the family.”

Her voice trembled by the time she finished, her gaze brimming with unshed tears.

This house wasn’t just any house. It had belonged to her mother, and no matter how bleak things had gotten before, Selena had never touched it.

Samantha fell silent, stunned. Her lips pressed together tightly, her disapproval unspoken but palpable.

Once Selena had settled everything in the kitchen, the two women headed to the hospital.

Dominic Jacobs’s condition had stabilized after the latest treatments, though his spirits remained low. His worries lingered on his elder son, Sullivan, and what the future held for him.

Selena kept quiet about the divorce.

That afternoon, the attending physician stopped by during rounds.

Dr. Joseph Harrison, a neurosurgeon with an M.D. to his name and an unmatched reputation despite his youth, was a man who drew notice. Standing a clean six-foot-one, with a presence at once gentlemanly and commanding, he carried himself with the ease of someone who knew both skill and charisma were on his side.

After finishing the examination, his gaze flicked briefly to Selena. “Let’s talk outside.”

Caught off guard, Selena hesitated for a moment before setting her things down. She offered Dominic a gentle, reassuring smile. “Dad, excuse me for a minute. I’ll be right outside.”

A moment later, she and Dr. Harrison were standing in a quiet corridor.

Noticing the trace of anxiety in the way her hands fidgeted, Joseph gave her a calm, steadying smile.

Then, without preamble, he opened the medical file in his hands. “Last night, I discussed Mr. Jacobs’s case with the department heads. We all agree that his best shot at recovery is to undergo tailored rehabilitation therapy. Without it, regaining his prior condition will be next to impossible. But…” he paused, gauging her reaction, “…the cost will be significant. Think roughly $150,000 a month.”

To the Selena of today, that figure was a mountain she could barely see the summit of. A financial Everest.

But she didn’t waver. Her response was immediate, almost stubborn. “We’ll do it.”

Joseph closed the file, his expression unreadable, yet his gaze lingered on her longer than it needed to.

It wasn’t the first time their paths had crossed, though Selena no longer remembered. But he did.

Once upon a time, when she was still a little girl, he’d lived next door to her family. Back then, every summer evening without fail, the soft glow of string lights would illuminate the balcony outside Selena’s bedroom window. A small girl sat there, legs folded beneath her, gazing into the dusk with a face full of longing. For her mother. That, Joseph knew.

“Joe,” she’d ask him back then, “do you think my mom will come home?”

He never knew how to answer her then, just as he didn’t know how to answer her now. Watching her like this, he thought of the day three years ago when he’d returned home and seen the announcement of her wedding in the papers. He’d assumed she’d fallen into one of those rare types of love, the kind so powerful it made the ground shift. But now he knew it was a mirage. She was surviving, not living.

Zavier had drained her spirit, twisting it with his coldness, little kindness, and even less patience.

Joseph had just opened his mouth to say something when a crisp voice interrupted, sharp and cutting through the tension like glass tapped against stone. “Selena.”

She turned, startled.

It was Zavier.

Dressed sharply in a charcoal-gray shirt and black suit, his presence was as imposing as it was calculated. The gleam of Italian leather capped his stride, each step on the polished hospital floor landing with a clear, deliberate cadence.

As he reached them, Zavier extended a hand, his tone laced with languid condescension. “Joe, long time no see.”

Joseph’s lips turned up in the faintest smile as his hand met Zavier’s for the briefest of moments. “Mr. Larson, indeed—a rare sight.”

The handshake ended almost as soon as it began. Zavier turned, directing his attention to Selena. His words came with a faint air of command. “Let’s check on Dad.”

Two men, both still and poised, the tension between them unspoken but undeniably storming beneath the surface.

Selena seemed oblivious, or perhaps she simply chose to ignore it. She offered a respectful nod toward Joseph. “Thank you, Dr. Harrison. I’ll head back now.”

Joseph gave her a brief, knowing smile, but his eyes followed her as she walked away with Zavier.

The corridor fell silent between Selena and her husband as they made their way back to the room. She no longer played the role she used to, tiptoeing around him to seek his approval or temper his moods. Her decision had changed something; there was a quiet defiance in her now.

But as they neared the private room, Zavier reached out without warning. His fingers encircled Selena’s wrist, tugging her to an abrupt halt. Before she realized what was happening, she found herself pressed against the cold wall, trapped there by the breadth of him.

His gaze was dark, layered, a tangled mix of emotions he neither fully understood nor cared to name.

What sparked it—the way Joseph had looked at her? Like she was... something to him?

Zavier lifted a hand and traced the contour of her cheek, his touch jarring in its gentleness. Her skin, soft with an otherworldly pale glow, beckoned.

His voice came hoarse, low, yet threaded through with accusation. “What were you talking about with him?”

Selena tried to pull away from his grasp, but his hand only tightened, resolute. Her resistance drew her even closer to him until her body molded, unwilling, against his. Strength against softness—the contact burned.

And still, his grip didn’t falter.