He was like an arrow notched to the bowstring—impossible to hold back.

And beneath him, Selena was all supple warmth and soft curves. Even if Zavier didn’t love her, he couldn’t deny that her body still held its allure.

He felt justified, poised to claim her.

“Zavier,” she said, hands pressing firmly against his shoulders, her breath uneven. “I haven’t taken my pills this week. I could get pregnant.”

Her words stopped him.

However much he wanted this, he hadn’t lost his sense of control. A child had no place in his marriage to Selena—at least not now. It wasn’t part of the plan.

After a beat, he snorted, the sound derisive. “You think things through a lot, huh?”

Her weak resistance barely registered with him. Zavier braced one arm against the mattress beside her, the other reaching for the nightstand. He pulled open a drawer, retrieving a small, unopened box marked with three letters prominently printed on the front.

Just as he was about to tear the wrapper, his phone rang.

Ignoring it, Zavier worked single-handedly to open the box, leaning down to kiss her. Selena turned her head, refusing to yield, shaking it back and forth to evade him. The phone kept buzzing incessantly.

Finally, Zavier picked up, irritation plain on his face.

His mother, Madam Larson, spoke on the other end, her tone cool and clipped. “Zavier, your grandmother isn’t feeling well. Come back to see her. And bring her with you—your grandmother’s been asking for her lotus root cakes.”

It seemed, like the old or the meek, Madam Larson didn’t care much for either of them. Her chilliness was evident.

Zavier’s hand pressed down on Selena’s frame as he listened, his dark eyes observing her from his vantage point. He seemed to weigh something before responding. “I’ll bring her over shortly.”

Hanging up, he straightened and began to dress. “Grandma’s sick. She wants to see you. Whatever tantrum you’re planning, save it for later.”

Selena lay limp on the bed, strengthless. After a while, she rose as well, quietly putting on her clothes.

Zavier zipped his trousers, his gaze settling on her slender back and, briefly, on the unopened box sitting by the headboard. His lips pressed thin before he left the room without another word.

When Selena descended the stairs, she saw him smoking in the car.

The horizon held the last hues of dusk, the dim light washed in muted amber.

Selena had dressed in a white silk blouse paired with a black skirt of the same fabric. The hem fell to her ankles, revealing just a sliver of pale, delicate calf that seemed almost translucent under the fading light.

She moved to sit in the back seat, but Zavier leaned over to open the front passenger door. “Get in.”

She had no choice. Silently, she complied.

The black Bentley glided past the villa gates, Zavier steering with one hand, seemingly focused on the road. Occasionally, as he checked the rearview mirror, his gaze darted toward Selena.

Three years of marriage, and she had rarely ridden in his car. Now, steeped in thoughts of divorce, she had even less inclination to speak.

The silence hung heavy between them.

Half an hour later, the car pulled into a sprawling estate nestled against the hillside. The ornate black gates opened, and the entire villa lit up, glowing as brightly as daylight.

After parking, Zavier turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Grandma’s health is fragile. She can’t handle any drama. You know what to say.”

Selena stepped out of the car, her voice cold. “Don’t worry yourself.”

He watched her retreating figure for a moment before catching up in a few long strides. Grabbing her hand, he felt her instinctive resistance. He only tightened his grip. “Don’t forget what you just promised.”

Selena’s fingers curled faintly, but in the end, she didn’t pull away.

In the grand hall, Madam Larson awaited their arrival. When she saw them enter hand in hand, her brows knitted—just a fleeting tic of disapproval—but she quickly masked it, her tone cool and detached. "Dr. Henderson just left. You should go see her."

With that, her gaze shifted to Selena.

"Mother," Selena greeted softly.

It was a long moment before Madam Larson deigned to respond, and even then, it was grudging, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment.

Under normal circumstances, Selena might have felt the sharp sting of rejection, but now, she found herself strangely unbothered. If even Zavier's indifference no longer fazed her, why should this? A voice at her side drew her from her thoughts.

"Let’s go see Grandma," Zavier said.

In the bedroom, the frail figure of Madam Larson lay propped against the headboard, her quiet moans filling the room. The moment she saw Zavier and Selena enter, her cloudy eyes brightened with unmistakable delight. "Oh, I’ve been waiting and waiting, but finally, my little Lena is here," she exclaimed, her joy betraying a kind of earnest desperation.

Zavier gave Selena a gentle push forward. He leaned slightly, his voice low as he spoke near the old woman’s ear. "I heard you weren't feeling well, Grandma, so I brought her over to see you."

Madam Larson beamed, her wrinkles folding into a mosaic of mirth.

But then, a mischievous glint sparked in her eyes. She cupped her hand behind her ear and raised her voice in mock confusion. "What? You’re saying you two are working on giving me great-grandchildren, is that it? Zavier, forget about me—I’m old enough to endure, but babies, now that's urgent business."

She knew exactly what she was doing, and Zavier’s narrowed gaze flicked briefly toward Selena. Yet Selena ignored the bait, refusing to play along with whatever charade he had in mind.

After exchanging a few polite words with Madam Larson, Selena rose to her feet. "I'll make some lotus root cakes," she announced and left the room.

As soon as Selena’s figure disappeared from view, Madam Larson's jovial demeanor crumbled. She sank back into the pillows, her sharp eyes snapping back to Zavier.

"Zavier," she began, her tone pointed, "what’s going on with that Scarlett? I can understand occasional indulgences, but fireworks? Really? Watch yourself, boy, or your wife will get jealous and start making a scene."

Her expression shifted, somber now. "You’d better pay more attention to Lena’s family too. Don’t act like some uninvolved outsider. If you keep up this cold indifference, people have a way of slipping through your fingers."

Zavier offered a few vague, noncommittal replies, neatly sidestepping the issue of the fireworks. Likely Scarlett’s handiwork, he mused. Still, he saw no need to elaborate.

They chatted a while longer before Selena returned, bearing a tray of delicately arranged lotus root cakes. Zavier’s gaze lingered on her as she entered the room. Despite the domesticity of the task, her clothes remained pristine, her bearing effortlessly poised—a picture of elegance and grace, a woman who could have walked straight out of a society portrait. She was… perfect, really. And yet, he felt only the faintest flicker of admiration before the moment dissipated, leaving him oddly hollow.

Grandma Larson, on the other hand, was effusively pleased. She sampled a piece, nodding approvingly before pivoting to her perennial fixation. "Zavier, you’re going to be thirty soon. All your childhood friends already have two kids each. When are you going to give me a great-grandchild?"

Selena said nothing.

Zavier nonchalantly toyed with a piece of the cake. "Lena’s still young. Let’s give it another couple of years."

The old woman’s expression tightened for the barest second. Her sharp instincts told her there was more beneath the surface, but she chose not to press further, letting the subject slide—this time.

*****

Dinner was at Larson Manor, but by the time they left, it was already late.

As Zavier buckled his seatbelt, he cast a glance at Selena. Her petite face was turned toward the car window, her profile illuminated by the dim glow of streetlights outside. Against the ethereal backdrop of the night, her skin appeared almost translucent, soft and luminous.

He watched her in silence, then pressed down lightly on the accelerator.

The sleek black Bentley rolled forward with measured control, headlights slicing through the darkness. Streetlamps blurred past them in even rhythm. He seemed in no hurry to reach their destination, his driving deliberately unhurried, as though searching for the right moment to speak.

Finally, after a long pause, his voice broke the quiet. "Tomorrow, I'll arrange to have your father transferred to Larson Group's hospital. He’ll have the best specialists treating him."

He hesitated for half a beat before continuing, his tone surprisingly soft. "And... if you ever need money, just let me know."

There was no denying the conciliatory nature of the offer. It was by no means affectionate, but for Zavier, it was significant. He didn’t love her, not even close, and the fact she had once schemed her way into this marriage still bristled on some level. But he also wasn’t inclined to sever ties. Replacing Selena would be more trouble than it was worth—for his lifestyle, for Larson Group’s image, for their stock prices.

Besides, he had grown accustomed to her presence. Add to that her beauty, her impeccable figure—at least in bed, he didn't mind her company in the slightest.

This thought was still playing in his mind as the car slowed to a stop at a red light. For a moment, he glanced at her again, sidelong and calculating.

Resting one hand lightly on the steering wheel, he added, "Sarah won’t be coming to the house anymore. As for your jewelry, keep it. I’ll handle her personally."

Selena listened to him without interruption. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, the blast of the car’s air conditioning sinking deep into her bones. She didn’t shiver, but the tightness in her posture hinted at discomfort.

Three years of marriage had taught her more than a few things about Zavier. She understood his temperament well enough to know that these concessions were his version of an olive branch. Logically, she should feel grateful. They were, after all, no small gestures.

But gratitude eluded her. None of this—his promises, his compromises—made a difference, not really. He hadn’t spoken Scarlett’s name, hadn’t addressed the glaring betrayal she represented. His proposed arrangement still left Scarlett—and the tangled specter of their connection—woven irreparably into their lives.

Selena was tired. She didn’t want to live out the rest of her years tethered to a loveless marriage, trapped within these gilded walls.

"There’s no need," she replied quietly, her voice even. "My father is fine where he is."

Her response was clear, deliberate. She wasn’t interested in his gestures or his conditions. She wasn’t interested in staying.

Zavier caught the undertone immediately. Frustration flashed in his eyes as he snapped back, his patience unraveling. "Don’t forget the terms of our prenup. If you file for divorce, you won’t see a single dime."

"I’m well aware," she shot back without hesitation.

The curt reply stung more than he expected. His temper cooled as fast as it had flared. He fell silent, unwilling—or unable—to continue.

Twenty minutes later, the Bentley rolled into the gated driveway of their villa. The night stretched cold and still as the car came to a smooth stop. Zavier said a quick word to the gatekeeper. "Lock the gates. Don’t let so much as a fly out."

The man hesitated, his brow furrowing with curiosity, but Zavier didn’t wait to elaborate.

The car continued toward the house, pulling into the driveway with practiced ease. Selena reached for the seatbelt buckle, ready to step out. But the resounding "click" of the car’s locks engaging froze her in place.

Zavier’s hand rested firm on the control, his gaze dark as the intent behind the action settled heavily in the confined space between them.