"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.

Bryan's voice hit Willa like a bolt of lightning.

Her shoulders stiffened as she spun around, hastily scooping up the pills and curling them into her palm.

Bryan's voice came lazy and edged. "What is it? Something you don't want me to see?"

Her pulse fluttered. Meeting his chiseled, composed face, she forced her tone steady. "It's nothing important."

His brows drew together, disbelief darkening his expression.

"That's the emergency contraceptive," he stated flatly. "So tell me, are you sneaking around with another man behind my back? Or should I be generous and stock your drawer with condoms next time?"

The chill in his voice sliced through the air, his eyes cold and unrelenting as they pinned her in place.

For a split second, Willa stood frozen, thoughts spiraling in every direction. The pills weren't just for contraception—combined with misoprostol, they could induce an abortion.

Bryan had clearly misunderstood the situation.

Willa forced a composed smile and said lightly, "Yeah, they're birth control. I was going to use them with you—but since you've got Miss Wall, should I still bother?"

Her tone was airy, and her fingers brushed his chest with a feigned playfulness, the movement clumsy.

Bryan didn't stop her. He simply watched, eyes narrowing with faint amusement, as if testing how far she'd take the act.

Catching the curl of mockery at his lips, she knew the charade had run its course. Pretending any longer was useless.

"You look like you're expecting something," she said with a brittle laugh. "Too bad—I was only teasing, and you actually believed it."

Her bravado faltered when she caught the chill in his gaze. Weighing her chances, Willa lowered her head, her voice softening into reluctant apology.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, forcing a calm tone. "You should stay loyal to Miss Wall. It was out of line for me to disrespect your relationship."

With quiet precision, she dropped the pills into the trash.

Bryan's lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. "You fed me poison last time," he sneered. "When does it take effect? When it does, I'm dragging you down with me."

Her lashes lowered, hiding the turmoil in her eyes. Now, she felt a sharp regret for her recent provocations. One careless move from Bryan could bankrupt Fletcher Group. One word from him could open the doors to the hospital ward her grandmother so desperately needed.

Forcing a gentle tone, she said, "They're not poison—just vitamins. You've been low on trace elements lately, judging by those dry lips. Wouldn't want Miss Wall tasting dead skin the next time you kiss her."

Then Willa handed him a small tube of lip balm.

Bryan's gaze hardened in an instant, his face turning to ice.

Realizing the shift in atmosphere, she quietly stepped aside, keeping her head low.

Outside, Jarrod hurried up with a stack of folders and greeted Bryan just as he came out.

"You've already signed the partnership with Fletcher Group. Should we keep the project running?" he queried, testing the waters.

Bryan's irritation lingered, his eyes cold as he ignored the question entirely.

"Mr. Scott, did your wife rough you up again? Lucky for you, I've got some miracle ointment—let me dab a little on. Works like a charm." Trying to sound casual, Jarrod slipped out a small tube from his pocket.

Bryan exhaled sharply through his nose. "If your eyesight's failing that badly, schedule an ophthalmology appointment before you embarrass yourself further."

Jarrod thought bitterly that if anyone needed an eye exam, it was Bryan himself. Still, he kept the remark buried, knowing one wrong word could pierce Bryan's fragile pride. Even he could tell—Willa's gaze held a raw tenderness no act could fake. Only someone hopelessly in love would look at a man that way.

Bryan's phone buzzed, drawing his focus back. He glanced down at the screen, his expression softening as he typed a reply.

Caylee held a special place in his life, one steeped in guilt and obligation; after all, he owed her more than he could ever repay. Watching over her forever didn't seem excessive.

Meanwhile, Caylee lay weak and pale against her pillow, her fingers tracing the edges of a photo on her phone.

She and her brother, Felix Wall, had grown up in the Scott household—half-servants, half-companions—bound to Bryan by years of shared youth.

Felix had once thrown himself into danger to protect Bryan, and when he drew his final breath, he'd clutched Bryan's hand, pleading for him to look after Caylee.

From that moment, Caylee had believed she was destined to become Mrs. Scott.

Yet Cody's interference had ruined everything, forcing Bryan into a marriage with Willa and crushing every hope she'd nurtured.

Gripping her phone, she called Caitlin, her voice trembling with barely contained desperation. "My belly's getting bigger every day. What am I supposed to do when it shows? When will Bryan and Willa finally get divorced?"

Caitlin let out a sharp breath, masking her irritation. "It looks like we'll have to wait a little longer. No need to stress. I'm with you all the way."

But even as she said it, Caitlin knew it wouldn't be simple. She loathed Willa, that thorn in her side, and feared she might claw her way into the family fortune. Whether Caylee's unborn child truly belonged to Bryan didn't matter to her at all.

When the call ended, a dark gleam flickered in Caylee's eyes. She composed herself, typed out a carefully worded message to Bryan, and invited him to dinner.

...

Willa scoured rental listings online until she found a trustworthy agency and secured a modest apartment near the hospital, convenient for looking after her grandmother.

The agent soon called. "Mrs. Scott, the lease is ready. Could you meet the landlord at the café to sign? He's catching a flight overseas in a bit."

Willa agreed without hesitation, gathered her papers, and hurried out.

The landlord turned out to be a courteous middle-aged man with kind eyes, preparing to move abroad with his wife to join their son, who had settled down with a family in Ustrijan. He wanted to lease out the apartment before leaving, and the rent was surprisingly fair.

Willa uncapped her pen, poised to sign, when the café door swung open. A noisy group of young men and women swept in, bursting with loud chatter and playful banter.