Two days later, Selena sold the house.

The mansion, valued at fifty million dollars, had been slashed to twenty-eight million by the buyer. Aunt Samantha raged, calling the buyer greedy and unscrupulous.

But Selena gritted her teeth. “Sell it.”

Her brother didn’t have time to wait. Between the lawyer’s fees and the gaping financial hole left in the Jacobs family’s wake, the crushing pressure left her no real choice.

After the sale, she managed to secure a visit with Sullivan.

Sullivan, once the epitome of charm and elegance—beloved, pursued by society’s most well-connected daughters—now looked drawn and weary. They spoke through a sheet of glass, and the separation between them felt as tangible as heartbreak.

“Find a lawyer named Hank Moore,” he said.

“Lena, he can help me. He can help you too.”

Selena wanted to press for answers—who was Hank Moore, and why did he matter so much? But their time was up. Guards escorted Sullivan away before she could ask more.

As they led him out, Sullivan turned back, his gaze softening, filled with an ache he didn’t bother to mask. Selena—his baby sister, once the Jacobs family’s brightest jewel—was now running herself ragged trying to save what little was left of their name.

He had seen the papers. He understood exactly what she was up against.

“Brother…” Selena rose to her feet, gripping the metal rail until her knuckles whitened. “Brother!”

Sullivan held a finger to his lips and mouthed two soundless words: Be careful.

Selena stood there long after he disappeared from view. When she finally sat again, her legs felt like lead.

Hank Moore.

Yes, she had to find Hank Moore.

*****

The moment Selena left the detention center, her phone buzzed. The caller was from that job training institute. The voice on the other end was courteous, almost deferential: “Mrs. Larson, we regret to inform you that we currently don’t have any openings.”

Selena listened quietly, then hung up.

She didn’t need to think hard to figure out what had happened.

It was Zavier’s doing. He was forcing her back.

She wouldn’t delude herself into believing he had softened, that he had grown attached to her over time. Zavier Larson required a wife for convenience: someone to serve his every whim, someone to bolster the Larson Group’s public image. To him, Selena was nothing more than a tool—an accessory, utterly disposable outside her utility.

Her phone rang again, this time with an unfamiliar number.

She answered, only to hear Zavier’s voice on the other end. Cold and composed, it carried its usual unyielding authority.

“Selena, we need to talk.”

*****

By noon, the September sun hung high, unrelenting in its brilliance. But the warmth never reached Selena's bones.

Half an hour later, she entered the towering Larson Group headquarters. Sarah, Zavier’s executive assistant, greeted her personally in the lobby, escorting her all the way to the executive floors without so much as a smirk to betray her thoughts.

“Right this way, Mrs. Larson,” Sarah said as she opened the door to Zavier’s office.

Inside, sunlight cascaded through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating every sharp line of Zavier’s striking features. He sat at his imposing desk, engrossed in paperwork, his every movement imbued with an effortless grace. Even Sarah, despite her professionalism, couldn’t resist glancing twice.

“Mr. Larson, Mrs. Larson is here,” Sarah announced.

Zavier lifted his gaze, sweeping his eyes over Selena. A week had passed since they’d last seen each other. She still carried that same slender elegance, but now there was an unmistakable shadow of exhaustion beneath her beauty.

Not that it softened him. Zavier Larson had never been one to let sentiment dictate his actions.

Turning to Sarah, he gave the faintest inclination of his head. “Leave us. Close the door.”

When the door clicked shut, Zavier leaned back slightly, his expression edged with mockery.

“A whole week,” he began, his tone barbed. “Finally, I get to see Mrs. Larson. Won’t you sit down? Or have you forgotten where the sofa is? You used to spend so much time arranging pastries, finding every excuse to send them up—don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”

“Zavier, I didn’t come here to reminisce,” Selena said flatly.

His gaze narrowed, scrutinizing her every shift in tone, every flicker of emotion. Then, he smirked—cruel, calculating.

“So, you’re here to beg?”

He reached for the cigarette box on his desk, pulling one out with practiced ease. As he lit it and took his first drag, his eyes stayed locked on hers, unwavering.

The sight of Zavier smoking, the faint smirk playing on his lips, carried a dangerous allure. When he looked at someone like that, it was enough to unsteady even the most resolute.

Smoke curled lazily upward as he exhaled. His voice came quieter, almost conversational.

“Before you got here, I did some quick math. Given the Jacobs family’s current state, you’d need to make at least three or four grand a month just to cover your father’s medical costs. That’s assuming you also pawned your wedding ring. Sounds about right, doesn’t it?”

Selena didn’t flinch. Her face was carved from stone.

“As long as Mr. Larson is willing to show a shred of mercy, I’ll find a way.”

Zavier let out a low laugh. “Mr. Larson, is it? Last week, you were in bed clinging to my neck, purring like a kitten. And now it’s ‘Mr. Larson’? How impressive, Selena—just a few days and you’re someone else entirely.”

Selena knew then: he had no intention of letting her go.

Her voice dropped, barely audible. “There’s no love between us, Zavier. I walked away from our marriage without asking for anything. You’ve suffered no loss. Isn’t it about time? You could find someone younger, someone more beautiful, and marry her instead.”

Zavier crushed the cigarette between his fingers, his stare now sharp enough to cut.

“And leave you with the title of Mrs. Larson, gallivanting around town while you make me look like a goddamn fool? Is that your plan?”

The disdain in his voice was so sharp it made her blood boil.

Her composure cracked. “If you won’t divorce me and you won’t stop destroying me, then you leave me no other choice!”

At those words, Zavier’s expression turned lethal, his features dark and unyielding like iron struck cold.

Before Selena could react, he was already at her side. His fingers gripped her delicate chin, and his voice dropped to a dangerous, low murmur near her ear. "Did you mean you’d go sell yourself?"

Selena's entire body trembled.

She didn’t deny it.

Zavier laughed—not with humor but with a sharp, cutting edge. Leaning closer, his voice softened, intimate as if whispering sweet nothings between lovers. "Who could you sell yourself to? Here in Bayfield, wearing the title of Mrs. Larson, let’s see who would dare touch you."

Selena's face turned ghostly pale.

Zavier knew when to pull back. He released her chin, his fingers now brushing tenderly against her cheek. "Come back and be Mrs. Larson again, and we’ll go back to how we were."

The tendons in Selena’s slender neck stretched taut with tension.

And then, as if by accident, her gaze flicked to the enormous bookcase across the room. There, gleaming under the soft light, was a pristine, strikingly new violin on display.

She remembered the tabloid stories. The president of the Larson Group had reportedly spent an outrageous twenty million dollars on a rare violin—all for a woman’s smile.

So, it was this violin.

Selena laughed bitterly. Go back to how things were?

Go back to days spent catering to his every whim, desperately trying to win his approval and receiving nothing but indifference in return? Go back to enduring even his secretary’s dismissive attitude? Go back to sharing her husband with others?

No.

She wanted none of it.

The bitterness drained from her laugh, leaving her expression frostier than ever. Her words came slowly, each one deliberate. "That Mrs. Larson you want? Find someone else to play the part."

With that, she turned to leave.

But before she could take another step, her body was pulled back. His arms closed around her slim waist, his angular face pressing into the space just behind her ear, where the faint scent of his aftershave lingered—an unmistakably male aroma, designed to unsettle, to seduce.

"Divorce?" His voice was almost playful, edged with mockery. "And who’s going to satisfy you after that?"

Shame washed over Selena. She struggled, frantic to break free.

No one else might know the truth, but Selena did. For three years, she had been Mrs. Larson. She knew better than anyone.

The Zavier Larson who outwardly seemed the epitome of a refined businessman—classy, composed—was someone else entirely behind closed doors. Crude. Brutal. At times, she wondered if something was deeply broken in him.

He was pushing her too far now.

At last, Selena snapped. Her hand flew up, and she slapped him across the face.

The air turned brittle, suffused with shock.

It was the first time she had ever hit him. Likely the first time anyone had. And for the famously superior Zavier Larson—a man who emanated power and control—it was probably unthinkable that the source of the blow would be his once-docile wife.

Zavier's temper was explosive by nature. His face darkened instantly, the shift as sudden and stark as a storm cloud eclipsing the sun.

The heat of their earlier closeness evaporated, leaving only an icy abyss.

He grabbed her chin again, harder this time, forcing her to face him. His voice, now stripped of warmth, might as well have been carved from ice. "You’ve grown bold, haven’t you? Striking me now?"

His sneer deepened. "You really want this divorce?"

"Selena," he spat her name, as if it left a bitter taste on his tongue. "Three years ago, you schemed to marry me. And now, three years later, you’re scheming to leave me. What—do you think the Larson family’s gates are some revolving door, or that I’m just some accommodating fool you can manipulate at will?"

Selena froze. Her entire body felt chilled, her blood turning sluggish in her veins.

At last, Zavier was saying what he had always felt. The truth crackled between them like static.

He hated her.

He hated Selena for the accident that had forced him to marry her. That simmering resentment—it was the reason why, even when the Jacobs family fell to ruin, even when he had the power to save them, Zavier had done nothing but stand idly by.

Selena didn’t bother to dredge up past arguments or clarify old misunderstandings. What would’ve been the point?

Instead, her lips trembled for a moment before she managed to speak. Her voice was subdued, yet resolute. "Zavier, back then, it was my mistake. I was foolish enough to love you."

Not anymore.

She said no more. Her focus shifted to fixing her rumpled clothes, smoothing each wrinkle he had left behind.