Willa folded her arms, her voice dripping with disdain. "It seems even Cody knows about your little romance with Miss Wall. How do you plan to explain that? If you've got the guts to admit you cheated, I might even applaud you for your honesty."

Bryan's brows drew together as he shot back, "I didn't cheat."

Willa met his gaze coolly. "I know what I saw, Mr. Scott. From the moment you lit those fireworks for her and had your mother fussing over her, our marriage was finished."

Bryan arched a brow, voice dipping low. "Then tell me why your face is turning red. Grandpa mentioned he wanted a great-grandchild—what's your plan?"

His rough fingertips grazed her lips, the contact igniting a sudden desire within him

Without so much as a twitch, she kept her features locked in perfect stillness. "You won't even have kids with me, but we're still pretending this bullshit matters? Should I find another man to make that happen?"

His expression chilled like frost cutting through the air.

He hissed, "If you dare find another man, I'll tear the Fletcher family apart piece by piece."

A stabbing ache shot through Willa's chest. "Four years, Bryan. We've only shared a bed once. Even if Cody's desperate for a great-grandchild, I can't pull one out of thin air."

She knew that even if she told him about the pregnancy, he would dismiss it. And since she'd already decided on divorce, the abortion was only a matter of time.

Bryan's gaze drifted over her delicate face, his eyes narrowing. "So what you mean is, I haven't fucked you enough? Then maybe it's time I fix that."

He leaned in, his breath warm and sharp as he tried to claim her lips.

Her lashes trembled before she drove her heel into his foot. "If you're so desperate, go find Caylee. Whatever we had is already dead—you've got no right to touch me."

Pain shot up his leg, tightening every nerve in his body.

The tension in the air thickened as Bryan furrowed his brows.

Without warning, he seized her wrist and yanked her against his chest, forcing her back into his hold. His lips crashed down on hers, fierce and unrelenting, prying her mouth open as though to claim every ounce of defiance she had left.

Willa's knees nearly buckled, her body turning pliant under his grasp, sustained only by the firm pressure of his hand at her waist.

His breath came rough and uneven; his mouth consumed hers with bruising hunger, leaving her gasping for air as his other hand traced a reckless path along her trembling frame.

The room thickened with heat and tension—his ragged breathing tangled with her stifled sobs.

Then, the fragile stillness shattered when a sharp knock split the air. Bryan froze mid-motion, his fingers still caught in the fabric of her dress.

"Mr. Scott, your phone's been ringing—it's Miss Wall," a servant said, her voice slicing through the charged air.

The sound jolted Bryan back to himself. The heat in his gaze hardened to ice as he shoved Willa aside and strode to the door.

When he pulled it open, the servant froze, her cheeks flushing at the sight before her—Bryan's shirt askew, Willa's face scarlet as she fumbled to smooth her dress.

Bryan grabbed the phone and pressed it to his ear. Caylee's voice came through in soft, broken sobs.

"Bryan… my stomach hurts. Could you come to the hospital?"

The moment she finished speaking, the line went dead without warning.

The last trace of desire drained from Bryan's eyes. He turned toward Willa, who sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, her expression unreadable, a chill emanating from her like frost.

An uneasy irritation crawled up his chest. "I'm heading out. If Grandpa asks, tell him I went to the office."

Her quiet nod came without protest. She had long accepted that his heart belonged elsewhere. Whatever secret tryst awaited him beyond their walls no longer concerned her.

The part of her that once acted on love had finally gone still.

…

At the hospital, Caylee gripped the sleeve of Bryan's coat with trembling fingers. "I'm sorry, Bryan. I shouldn't have called, but the nausea was awful, and I almost fell in the shower. I panicked… Could you stay a while?"

Her every gesture carried practiced fragility—the faint quiver in her lashes, the tremor in her voice, and the way she leaned just enough to invite his sympathy.

Bryan glanced down at his phone, finding the screen blank—no new messages, no missed calls.

"Get some rest," he said evenly, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. "Don't think too much." He sat beside her, his presence distant despite his nearness.

Caylee hesitated, teeth worrying her lip before she lifted the edge of the blanket. "Why don't you lie down? I don't mean anything by it—I just don't want you to be uncomfortable sitting there."

"There's no need," he replied curtly. "Once you're asleep, I've got to go. I've got things to handle."

Her forced smile barely held. "Do you have to go? Is it because of Willa?" she murmured.

"Of course Willa would mind. We're still married, after all." Not a flicker of emotion touched Bryan's voice.

Caylee bit back a retort and sank into the bed, fingers curling into tight fists beneath the blanket.

Out of the corner of her eye, she studied Bryan—his chiseled features lit by the glow of his phone, the faint crease between his brows betraying his focus.

A man like him—disciplined, handsome, and coldly self-contained—was the kind others spent lifetimes trying to claim.

The weight of her gaze drew his irritation. Bryan's brow furrowed, the muscle along his jaw tightening.

He despised being stared at, the scrutiny pressing against his composure like grit under skin. Out of old sentiment, he let the moment pass without remark.

Only once Caylee's breathing deepened did he rise, sliding his phone into his pocket and stepping out into the corridor.

Outside, Jarrod scrambled upright, shaking the numbness from his legs. "Mr. Scott, there's a function scheduled for tomorrow," he reported, rubbing his knees. "It's getting late—you should turn in. I've got the newest sleep aid on hand. Practically no side effects."

He knew too well that if Bryan pushed past this hour, insomnia would surely follow.

At the sight of the pills, Bryan's eyes narrowed and a crease formed between his brows. "No need."

The thought of choking down those bitter tablets repulsed him—he'd rather exhaust himself in Willa's arms.

Once their bodies unraveled together, sleep would come easily, heavy and deep till morning.

But the realization itself unsettled him, and his face darkened with irritation.

...

From that day on, Willa seemed like an entirely different woman. Around others at the Scott Mansion, she played the part of a devoted wife to perfection—gentle smiles, light conversation. But once the doors closed, she and Bryan went their separate ways.

She already had a plan in motion: to leave her husband for good and start a new life.

Lately, Bryan had been relentlessly swamped—business luncheons by day, high-profile parties by night, often working past midnight without a proper meal.

Truthfully, nothing he ate outside ever satisfied him.

He preferred mild flavors, but the trendy chefs seemed obsessed with heavy sauces.

After the latest event, Jarrod brought in takeout, setting the boxes down.

"Not to your liking?" The sight of Bryan ignoring his food, paired with that unmistakable look of displeasure, prompted Jarrod to speak.

Bryan's brows tightened, a faint look of disgust flickering across his face. "Get something lighter."

Jarrod, well aware of his boss's exacting tastes, pulled out his phone and called Willa instead.

Less than thirty minutes later, a thermal container arrived—steam curling from the lid, with neatly arranged shrimp glistening on the top layer.

The moment Bryan lifted it, he recognized Willa's cooking.

"Where is she? Bring her here," he ordered, his tone cool yet unmistakably expectant.

Jarrod hesitated, throat tightening, but eventually fetched Willa, who hadn't gone far.

She entered calmly, a simple gift bag in hand, which she set discreetly on a side cabinet before facing Bryan.

His eyes flicked toward her, his voice edged with dry amusement. "You've been unusually quiet lately—not a word about divorce. What's this about? Did you finally decide to behave, or are you planning to poison me instead?"

His long fingers circled the spoon, stirring the soup in slow, deliberate motions.

Meeting his gaze, Willa reached for the spoon, took a sip, and swallowed. "Don't worry. I'm not that stupid."

The soup that was meant to be rich and comforting left a bitter trace on her tongue.

After setting the spoon down, she dabbed the corner of her lips with a tissue, waiting until he'd finished half the bowl before stating in a flat tone, "Once you're done, we need to talk about something important."

With a slow lift of his brow, Bryan let the sarcasm drip from his voice. "Must be exhausting keeping up the act. So what's your prize—car or house?"

"I don't want anything. Just your signature." Her voice was calm but worn, stripped of fight. She reached into the gift bag and pulled out the divorce papers, neatly folded and sealed by a lawyer.

Bryan's lips twisted in disdain. Without so much as a glance, he crumpled the document and discarded it like garbage.

"Planning to make Miss Wall your mistress?" Willa sneered. "Don't forget she's carrying your child. Try not to be so damn selfish."

Four years had gone by, and she still hadn't found a place in his heart. The realization that he'd never stopped loving his ex made her feel like the biggest fool.

"Next time you bring up divorce, remember your place before you start talking nonsense. Oh, and the soup's a little salty—ease up on the salt," Bryan remarked casually, scooping up a meatball.

Before he could swallow, the bowl vanished from his hands.

Willa, face drained of color but eyes steady beneath her lashes, moved with calm precision. "Then stop eating. Wouldn't want you getting too salty yourself."

Without another glance, she turned and strode out.

In the hallway, Jarrod sprang from the couch. "Heading out already, Mrs. Scott?"

Willa gave a brief nod, her expression unreadable, already deciding she'd mash the meatballs to feed the stray cats by the gate.

When Jarrod turned back, Bryan was standing in the doorway, frowning as he stared at the half-bitten meatball still resting on his spoon.

Depending on others had always felt like standing on sand—unstable, shifting beneath Willa's feet, ready to swallow her whole the moment she trusted it.

Since deciding on divorce, she had thrown herself into finding work.

She avoided big corporations; Bryan's influence ran too deep. One careless move, and word would reach him within the hour.

His obsession with appearances was suffocating—if anyone learned his wife was earning a living, he'd make sure every door closed to her.

So she set her sights lower, aiming for something small but steady: private tutoring. The pay was decent, the hours her own, and—best of all—it would stay beneath Bryan's radar.

Her social circle was a fraction of his, but she could build it brick by brick, quietly and patiently.

At first, the contact she reached out to drew a blank at her name.

Only when she mentioned her grandfather's name did a flicker of recognition surface—an awkward pause, then a reluctant promise to meet.

Martin had once lent a hand to countless young entrepreneurs. Back then, Fletcher Group had thrived under his guidance. But when Alcott Fletcher—Willa's father—took the helm, the empire began its slow, inevitable crumble.

"Willa, I know life hasn't been easy for you these past few years. Take this money for now. If you need more later, just tell me." The elderly gentleman, Callum Wright, saw a chance to settle an old debt with a little money.

For a moment, Willa didn't know how to respond.

She hadn't come here for charity, so the sight of that check stung her pride.

"Mr. Wright, you've taken this the wrong way," she said, her voice even but firm. "I heard your grandson needs an art tutor. You've seen my paintings before. I'd like to apply for the position—just at the regular market rate."

Callum blinked in surprise, then chuckled. "Ah, you're far too modest, my dear. No need to be so formal."

Just then, as the waiter entered with steaming dishes, the door swung open. Someone in the hallway paused mid-stride.

A young man poked his head in, phone already raised. He snapped a quick video and scurried back toward his private room, only to stumble halfway and wince as pain shot up his leg.

Meanwhile, inside the gleaming office of Scott Group, Bryan sat behind his desk, agitation simmering beneath his composed expression. Cody's message blinked on his screen, once again pressing him to produce an heir.

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the image of Willa's tear-streaked face—fragile, haunting.

Being with her had left him unsettled, like downing a bottle of sleeping pills: his mind stayed sharp, but his body fell helplessly under her spell.

The phone buzzed again, vibrating insistently against the desk.

Bryan's gaze darkened as he lifted it, the chill in his eyes sharpening.

Four years into their marriage, and she still hadn't changed. The same old games, the same crude attempts at manipulation.

Once she'd wielded gratitude like a weapon; now, she seemed to be peddling that act to someone new. With his current standing—having locked down most of Stratfield's key resources while still in his prime—any talk of divorce would trigger a feeding frenzy of families eager to marry into his power.

And frankly, he no longer had the patience for another farce of a marriage.

With a quick message to get the address, Bryan hit the road without hesitation.

He didn't storm in immediately; instead, he opened the door to another private room and found his friend, Floyd Cullen, sprawled on the sofa, dabbing ointment on his ankle.

"I really messed up my foot," Floyd groaned, pointing at the swollen spot.

Bryan barely spared him a glance. Despite years of friendship, he had no patience tonight.

He inquired, "How'd you manage to hurt yourself? Don't tell me it's because of Willa and that old man?"

Floyd blinked, bewildered. "What? No, man. I tripped on the damn doorframe."

With a curt exhale, Bryan turned on his heel and strode towards Willa's private room. Without bothering to knock, he shoved the door open and nodded stiffly at Callum.

Dinner turned painfully awkward. Callum fumbled for an excuse to leave, clearly uncomfortable under Bryan's gaze.

Whatever cooperation he'd planned with Willa was now as good as dead.

Catching the disdain in Bryan's eyes, Willa's fingers trembled against the edge of her plate. "Were you following me?" she demanded.

"Why would I bother?" His tone was dry, laced with mockery. "You really think you're worth the trouble?"

He reached for the water pitcher, pouring himself a glass with slow precision, and took a measured sip—every gesture steeped in the quiet arrogance that cut straight through her pride.

A humorless smile ghosted across her lips. "Then what's the point of showing up here—just to eat?"

"Only to remind you not to embarrass the Scott family," he stated in an icy tone.

Even seated, he seemed to loom over her, his arrogance pressing down until her pulse thudded in her ears.

She said nothing, though her anger churned hot beneath her composure. Pulling a vitamin from her bag, she slipped it between her lips, then abruptly turned toward him. Her mouth met his, soft yet defiant, as she pushed the pill past his lips.

Bryan stiffened, eyes narrowing, but before he could react, he'd already swallowed it.

The kiss that followed was clumsy and desperate—her tongue brushed against his with awkward determination, grazing his teeth and nicking his lip more than once.

He didn't even blink. His dark pupils mirrored her trembling lashes as their uneven breaths tangled in the narrow space between them.

For a few heartbeats, Willa went still, too shocked to retreat.

Then his hand clamped around her waist, dragging her closer, forcing her to meet his rhythm.

The pressure sent her reeling.

When she failed to pull away, instinct took over—she bit his tongue sharply, and when he hissed and loosened his grip, she sank her teeth into his hand hard enough to draw blood.

Bryan flinched, pain flashing across his face. "What the hell, Willa? Do you only know how to bite?"

Her cheeks burned scarlet, but her movements stayed sharp. Without a word, she snatched the teapot and tipped the water straight over his lap.

Floyd barged in just in time to witness the chaotic scene, his jaw practically dropping.

"You two are insane. Should I… uh, give you some space?" he muttered, shifting uneasily.

Willa slung her bag over her shoulder and strode for the door. "I just fed you a poison that'll make you wish for death," she snapped, her words laced with frost.

Bryan stood frozen, still reeling from the sting of her bite, but by the time he gathered himself, she had vanished—only a few white tablets scattered across the floor remained as proof she'd been there.

A shadow crept over his face as he ordered Jarrod to run a test on the pills.

Jarrod acted fast and soon sent back a photo of the test report.

They weren't poison at all. Just 72-hour emergency contraceptives.

A sneer curled on Bryan's lips—bringing contraceptives to see another man? She had some nerve.

...

Willa's days had fallen into a weary rhythm—job applications by morning, hospital corridors by afternoon.

When the attending doctor summoned her to his office, his face carried the kind of gravity that made her chest tighten.

"Your grandmother's condition has worsened," he said solemnly. "It's mid-stage heart failure. We can stabilize her for now, but without a transplant, her life remains at risk. I wanted you to be prepared."

The words hollowed Willa out. She knew too well how rare heart donors were. Clutching her bag, she begged the doctor to keep an eye out, promising to cover any cost, but even as she spoke, she knew money couldn't buy what they needed.

Later, in the quiet hospital room, her grandmother slept beneath the soft hum of the ventilator.

Years of hardship weighed on her mind as Willa watched her grandmother sleep, and the decision crystallized—she had to let go. Raising a child demanded time and money she no longer had.

The medicine she'd bought earlier had vanished somewhere along the way, so she purchased two new kinds and prepared to take them before heading downstairs for surgery.

Silence blanketed the room, broken only by the crisp tear of foil as she opened a pill packet.

Just as the white tablets brushed her lips, a deep voice cut through the stillness behind her. "Poisoning yourself, huh?"

Startled, Willa's hand jerked. The pills slipped from her fingers, scattering across the floor until they stopped against the gleaming tips of Bryan's bespoke leather shoes.