The next morning, Ara stirred in her bedroom, her chest still tight with the memory of being forced away from Adrian's side. Sleep had done little to calm the storm twisting inside her. She pushed herself upright, running her fingers through the tangles of her hair, then drew in a long breath as though she could exhale the unease.
The dawn light spilled through the tall windows, painting soft gold across the room, but to Ara it felt muted, as if the brightness dared not touch the sharp edge lodged in her chest. Straightening her shoulders, she rose, each movement deliberate, and made her way down the grand staircase.
At the bottom, her steps slowed. The living room lay open before her, steeped in a stillness that pressed against the air. Adrian sat with his usual composure—spine straight, legs angled, hands resting with quiet authority. His presence filled the space, but it was not warm; it was dense, suffocating, the way a storm announces itself before the thunder.
Beside him stood Alaric, tall and unreadable in his dark coat. The man's posture was rigid, his expression sharper than a blade, as if even the smallest twitch could cut through silence. The two men spoke in low voices, their exchange quiet yet heavy, every word dropping like stones into deep water.
"What will you do about her?" Alaric asked, his tone calm but edged, each syllable deliberate. His gaze never wavered from Adrian, measuring him with an almost clinical precision.
Adrian's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile—it was the shadow of one, steeped in mockery. A low chuckle escaped him, cold and humorless. "She needs to get away from me." He let the words linger, hanging like smoke between them. Then, with a pause that tasted of finality, he added, "You also…"
The air tightened, coiling with unspoken meaning. Alaric's jaw shifted, his eyes narrowing, shadows hardening across his face. The space between the two men crackled, wound taut like a wire pulled to breaking point.
But then Alaric's gaze flicked past Adrian. His words faltered, his sharpness muted the instant Ara appeared at the edge of the staircase.
She descended with steady grace, her expression smooth, her steps unhurried, as though she were oblivious to the storm she had walked into. Yet the shift was palpable. Adrian's eyes followed Alaric's change, and for a fleeting moment, the tension in the room loosened—like mist unraveling in the dawn.
Ara did not let the unease cling to her. With practiced ease, she crossed the room and lowered herself beside Adrian, so close her presence brushed against his calm façade. Leaning in, she pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, the gesture tender but also deliberate.
"Good morning, husband," she murmured, her tone carrying warmth, intimacy, and quiet resolve all at once. The faint sweetness of her breath lingered in the air—a reminder, unspoken but undeniable, that she belonged here.
Ara was no fragile ornament. She carried herself like a queen, her movements soft but strong, each tilt of her chin calculated, her spine unbending. Even the way she folded her hands into her lap carried a message: I am not leaving.
Adrian's gaze slid to her, dark and fathomless, his expression giving away nothing. Yet Ara didn't falter. She knew his silence was its own battlefield.
Alaric, however, lingered like a shadow, his gaze still locked on Adrian. The air between them thickened again, silent but volatile. At last, Adrian broke the stare, and without a word, Alaric turned. His long coat swept across the marble as he strode from the room, leaving a trail of tension in his wake.
The heavy door closed, and silence rushed in.
Adrian turned to Ara, his face carved from cold stone. "Why are you still here?" His voice was low, deliberate, carrying authority that weighed more than volume ever could.
Ara met his eyes without flinching. "I am your wife," she answered evenly, "and this is my home."
A sharp chuckle escaped him—low, humorless, cruel. "Didn't you receive the divorce papers?"
Her fingers tensed against the fabric of her dress. The words hit her like knives, but she kept her expression steady, her voice calm. "I don't want to divorce you," she said softly, though her tone carried an edge of steel. "Adrian, I want to live with you. Forever."
He studied her, silent for a long, suffocating moment. Then came the laugh—a mocking sound that sliced through the quiet.
"A week ago, you tried to end your life just to escape me." His voice was smooth, but every word dripped with venom. "And now, barely seven days later, you stand here claiming you want to stay? Tell me, Ara—did your suicide attempt damage your brain?"
The cruelty cut deep, but Ara did not flinch. She lifted her chin higher, her silence standing in place of a plea.
"I've already signed the divorce papers," Adrian continued, his tone clipped, efficient, merciless. "You are free now. Guards will escort you back, or you can call your family. Either way, you don't belong here anymore."
Ara remained still, her breath steady though her heart thundered. She searched his face for a crack, a fracture in his mask, but Adrian gave her nothing.
At last, she turned and walked upstairs, her steps slow, deliberate, unbroken.
Minutes passed before she returned. This time, her movements carried fire. She stopped across from him, her gaze steady, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. In her hand, she held the document—the divorce papers.
She raised it slowly, her eyes locked on him. His face was ice, untouched.
With deliberate care, she uncapped a pen and dragged ink across the page, defacing his signature with harsh, jagged strokes until the document was ruined. She lifted it toward him, her smile widening.
"Oops," she said lightly, her tone laced with mock playfulness. "There's no more divorce document."
Then she tore the papers, piece by piece, until the fragments drifted through the air, scattering across the marble floor like falling snow.
Ara closed the distance between them, her steps unyielding. She reached out, tilting his chin upward with the gentle pressure of her hand. Her voice lowered to a whisper, soft yet dangerous in its conviction.
"Mr. Blackwell," she murmured, her smile unwavering, "you are stuck with me. And I will not divorce you."
Before he could speak, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. A fleeting kiss, no more than a heartbeat—but the audacity of it thundered through her veins.
When she drew back, her pulse raced wildly, but her gaze held steady, her defiance unshaken.
Between them, the shredded remnants of the divorce papers lay scattered like broken vows—silent proof that she had made her choice.