She wanted to cry—God, she wanted to cry—over the little arguments, over the past few days that felt like one long, endless ache. But her tears betrayed her, refusing to fall. Instead, a strange bitterness began to bloom inside her chest, turning everything heavy, dull, and sour.
She had once been a law student, a shining star in her batch, graduating with Latin honors. Everyone thought she was destined to take the Bar and conquer it. But she never even got the chance. Instead, she married a man—not for love, not for dreams, but for the sake of salvaging her father's reputation. She told herself it was for family, for duty. But deep down, she knew it was because she was never a good daughter to him… and this was the only way she could make up for it.
There had been moments—dangerous, fleeting moments—when she wanted to run away. Drake had offered her an escape, a one-way ticket to London where he himself was preparing for the Bar. She had imagined it—freedom, love, a future of her own making. But then, she would remember her mother's last will and testament, the words that bound her to promises she could not break. Her mother's wishes still clung to her heart, heavy as chains.
Her father? They shared a fragile, volatile bond—a love-hate relationship built on misunderstandings and years of distance. But her mother… oh, her mother. At the thought, her tears finally came, rushing down like rain.
"Mommy…" she whispered into the stillness of her bedroom, the word cracking in her throat. She pressed her face into her pillow, her sobs muffled but aching all the same. "Why? This isn't the married life I wanted…" She curled deeper into her blanket, hiding from the world, hiding from herself.
---
George, in another room, sat in the dim light, restless. Sleep would not come—not tonight. He didn't want to fight with her, not when they'd barely begun this strange, awkward life together. This was not how he'd imagined it. He had hoped for civility… perhaps even friendship.
"Friendship?" he muttered bitterly to himself. The word felt hollow.
He told himself he hadn't wanted this marriage either—not truly. Only her mother had pushed for it. And yet… somewhere in his guarded heart, he cared. He remembered her—years ago, a fragile little girl playing by the lake, almost drowning in her recklessness. He had pulled her out, scolded her, and yet felt something stir—a protectiveness he never admitted to anyone. Now, she was a woman—independent, distant, behaving as though she didn't even know him.
Or maybe… she had forgotten. It had been twenty years, after all.
Only yesterday, he had returned home. Only yesterday, he had become her husband. And already, a distance stretched between them like an unbridgeable river.
His mind wandered briefly to Isabelle—his former love. Needy, soft-spoken, delicate… the kind of woman he wanted. The thought of losing Isabelle might had been a wound that never fully closed. He was a man who liked control, who thrived on certainty. But Nerissa—his wife—was anything but hard-headed and unpredictable.
He poured himself a glass of wine, the deep red liquid catching the faint light. Taking a slow sip, he found himself drifting toward her room, glass still in hand.
He raised his fist to knock… but then he heard her voice. Soft. Trembling.
"Mommy…" she wept. "Why? This isn't the married life I wanted…"
The sound cut through him like a blade. He froze, his knuckles hovering in the air.
For the first time, he realized they might not be so different after all. Maybe they were both trapped—both grieving the lives they could have had.
A sudden ache bloomed in his chest. He thought of his own mother and how long it had been since he last heard her voice. And in that moment, he wanted to call her—if only to feel the comfort he could not give his wife.
But instead, he stood there in silence, listening to her muffled sobs through the door, his heart tightening with every sound.
The first soft rays of morning sunlight spilled across the room, stirring Nerissa awake. She blinked against the golden light, stretching languidly before slipping out of bed. The cold floor greeted her bare feet, and she padded toward the bathroom for a quick shower.
Steam curled around her as she emerged, her damp hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She slipped into a long cream dress that draped elegantly against her frame, pairing it with nude high heels. Grabbing her clutch and keys, she gave herself one last glance in the mirror—a picture of quiet poise, though her heart carried its usual heaviness.
The house was still and silent, the kind of silence that told her George had likely left hours ago.
Or maybe he just doesn't care enough to say goodbye, she thought, the corner of her lips curling into a faint, ironic smile.
"Your breakfast is ready at the table, ma'am," the maid said softly, appearing with her phone in hand. "You left it on the counter."
Nerissa accepted the phone with a polite nod. "It's fine. I'm meeting a friend—I'll have breakfast with him instead."
The maid's lips curved faintly in understanding. "Have a good day, ma'am."
Without another word, Nerissa stepped outside, the morning air crisp against her skin. She slid into her car, but it didn't take long to notice the vehicle tailing her.
Not that she was surprised.
By the time she reached the sleek high-rise condominium, her expression was unreadable. She parked, ignoring the lingering car in her rearview mirror, and strode confidently into the lobby. The elevator ride felt slow, but when the doors opened to the penthouse, she stepped out without hesitation.
---
Meanwhile, across town, George's voice thundered through the receiver.
"She what?!" His grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles whitened. His jaw was rigid, a storm brewing behind his eyes. A strange heat rose in him—anger, yes, but threaded with something darker. Something closer to jealousy.
He didn't even understand it fully. She was supposed to be just his pretend wife. A name on a marriage certificate. A convenience.
And yet… the thought of her with someone else made his chest tighten in ways he didn't care to admit.
His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Make her leave that building… or I'll drag her out myself."
The penthouse door opened to the soft scent of freshly brewed coffee and polished marble floors that gleamed under the morning light. Nerissa stepped inside without hesitation, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
"Drake," she greeted warmly as the tall, well-dressed man emerged from the kitchen with two steaming cups in hand.
"You're early," he teased, handing her a cup. "Couldn't wait to see me?"
She allowed a small smile. "Something like that."
It was easy with Drake. No pretenses. No cold walls or sharp silences. Just familiarity—an echo of the life she could have had.
But then—
The heavy slam of the penthouse door cracked through the air like a whip.
Nerissa froze mid-sip.
Drake's brows furrowed. "Who—?"
George stepped inside, tall and imposing, his eyes locked solely on her. He didn't so much as glance at Drake. His jaw was carved in stone, his suit impeccable, but there was a simmering rage beneath his controlled exterior that made the air thick.
"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was low, the kind of low that carried more danger than shouting ever could.
Nerissa straightened, refusing to cower. "Having breakfast. Is that a crime now?"
George's gaze darkened. "With him?" He flicked his eyes briefly toward Drake—sharp, assessing, dismissive—before returning to her. "You couldn't even bother to eat at home?"
"I told the maid," she said evenly, but her pulse was picking up speed. "And I don't need your permission to see my friends."
"Friends?" His lip curled slightly. "Is that what we're calling this?"
Drake stepped forward then, his tone calm but edged. "George, you're making this sound like something it's not."
"Stay out of this," George shot back, not even looking at him. "This isn't your business."
Drake's brows rose. "She's my friend. She came here to see me—"
"She's my wife," George cut in sharply, the word ringing in the air like a claim, like a challenge.
Nerissa's breath caught, not because of the word itself, but because of the way he said it—possessive, unyielding, as though daring anyone to take her from him.
She steadied her voice. "Pretend wife," she corrected, her eyes locking with his in quiet defiance.
Something in George's expression flickered then—just for a second—but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. He stepped closer, each measured stride shrinking the space between them until she could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Pretend or not," he said, voice low, "you're still mine. And I don't share what's mine."
The words sank into the room like a brand. Drake shifted uneasily, sensing the invisible current sparking between them.
For a long moment, no one moved. The city hummed faintly outside the glass windows, but inside the penthouse, time seemed to hold its breath.
George finally straightened, his tone clipped. "We're leaving."
Nerissa lifted her chin. "I'm not done here."
His eyes narrowed. "Yes, you are."
And without waiting for her answer, he reached for her wrist—firm, not hurting, but enough to remind her of his strength. Her pulse jumped under his grip, her pride bristling at the gesture, but she didn't pull away.
Because in that instant, she realized something dangerous.
This wasn't just about jealousy.
This was about him.
And her.
And whatever was simmering between them—something neither of them was ready to name.