Vincent leaned against the doorway in a tailored dark-blue suit that sharpened the lines of his elegant, aristocratic frame. The flawless planes of his face only heightened the commanding air he carried, and the sheer height of him made the narrow hall feel even smaller. His gaze slid down to Caroline, laced with open contempt. "Go clean yourself up."

The words hit like a blow to the gut. Caroline froze, breath catching in her chest as she forced her frantic heartbeat to steady, though her face stayed ghost-white.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, bitterness roughening her voice. "You disappear for an entire month, and this is the first thing you say to me?"

His eyes turned glacial as he studied her pale features. A razor-edged sneer curved his lips. "What else? Isn't this exactly what you begged me for?"

As he spoke, his fingers moved with deliberate slowness—loosening the knot of his tie, then easing open each button of his shirt. The smooth reveal of his lean, sculpted chest only made his indifference more cutting.

Caroline pieced together the pattern in Vincent's behavior, and the realization struck her like a blow—he hadn't returned out of concern for her injury. He was back because it was her ovulation period.

The Cooper family carried a pattern: only one heir each generation. From the moment Caroline married into the family, the burden of bearing a child had been nailed onto her shoulders.

Yet, Vincent had never loved Caroline. Not once. He hadn't even touched her on their wedding night.

It took his grandmother's icy ultimatum—backed by the threat of controlling shares in the Cooper Group—to shove him into her bed.

Vincent, however, had found his own quiet way of defying the marriage. He would only come home when Caroline's fertile days rolled around, having sex with her in a mechanical and detached manner. His touch was always rough, as if the act itself disgusted him.

Bitterness rose in Caroline's throat, the image of that pink lace underwear flashing through her mind like a slap. Her stomach knotted with nausea. With a hollow ache tightening her chest, she finally lifted her gaze to Vincent, sadness weighing down every breath. "These few years must have been unpleasant for you."

Vincent's brows drew together, the muscle ticking along his jaw as impatience darkened his face.

Caroline let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Keeping a mistress and still clocking in here on schedule to 'fulfill your duty as a husband'—that must be exhausting."

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Vincent's expression, but he smoothed it over almost immediately, his tone cutting and cold. "Since you're already aware, let's not waste any more words. Just the sight of you makes me sick."

Without another word, he closed the distance between them in long, deliberate strides. His hands clamped onto her shoulders, forcing her toward the sink with cold precision.

A jolt of panic shot through Caroline. She twisted against his grip, her voice rising. "What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!"

"Taking you," Vincent growled near her ear, his breath brushing her ear as his long, precise fingers tugged up the hem of her skirt and stripped away her underwear in one smooth, merciless motion.

A sharp chill swept over Caroline's exposed skin, and her body trembled against the sink as hot tears slipped down her cheeks. "No… Vincent, please don't do this to me…" she begged, her voice raw and trembling.

The sound of her broken plea only scraped at something inside him, stirring a flash of irritation he couldn't name. That foreign sensation coiled tight in his chest, and to smother it, a raw, reckless urge seized control of him.

"It'd be better if you didn't say anything now," he muttered, voice edged with a cold sneer. "Just moan."

With practiced, brutal impatience, he yanked at his belt and shoved forward, taking her from behind with deliberate, humiliating force.

A jagged cry tore through Caroline's throat as agony burned through her, despair swallowing what little strength she had left. "Vincent, I fucking hate you!"

His hips faltered for a split second. A shadow crossed his face before his expression hardened again. One hand clamped over her mouth, the other forcing her chin up toward the mirror. Her tear-streaked reflection stared back at her—helpless, violated.

"Hate me? Tell me—do you really hate me, or do you love me?" he hissed.

The words slithered over her skin like a taunt, and his thrusts grew harsher with every second, his movements rougher, more punishing.

For three long years, their intimacy had been reduced to a ritual bound to her ovulation cycle—a mechanical act neither tender nor warm.

And yet, their bodies had grown too accustomed to each other, every inch mapped through repetition.

Even through the sting of humiliation, a traitorous flicker of pleasure threaded through the pain, twisting deep in Caroline's gut. Her muffled sobs slipped past his fingers, turning soft and breathy, the sound achingly seductive against her will.

Self-loathing clawed at her chest as she squeezed her eyes shut, letting hot tears streak down her cheeks, powerless to stop any of it.

The sex itself felt like a brutal invasion—an assault on both her flesh and her soul.

By the time Vincent had taken his fill, dragging her from the bathroom to the bed, her skin bloomed with red marks etched like a cruel brand of ownership.

Yet, lying there beneath the weight of everything, something inside Caroline quietly snapped free. She no longer wanted to build her life around this man. Whatever little time she had left belonged to her alone.

Caroline slowly lifted her gaze to Vincent, who stood at the foot of the bed, now polished and composed as if nothing had happened. Her voice steadied, each word sharp with resolve. "Vincent, I can't do this anymore—I want a divorce."

"Divorce?" Vincent let out a cold, cutting laugh as he lingered at the foot of the bed, looming over Caroline like a dark shadow. "You clawed your way into the Cooper family with every trick you had, and now you're asking for a divorce?"

"Believe what you want, but I'm dead serious." Caroline's tone stayed cool, all emotion spent and nothing left to argue with.

She lifted her eyes to him, taking in the perfectly tailored suit and immaculate tie that once drew her in. Now, every polished detail only made him look like a stranger. It all suddenly felt too hollow to be worth the heartache.

With composed indifference, Vincent adjusted his tie, his fingers moving in smooth, practiced motions. "Do you honestly think I care?"

He didn't give her a chance to answer. Turning on his heel, he strode for the door, not sparing her a backward glance, as though staying a second longer might stain him.

Caroline's expression hardened into ice as she watched his back recede. "Vincent, even if you couldn't care less, I'm walking away from this marriage."

He walked out without a word, his silence cutting deeper than anything he could have said.

Outside, a thick ceiling of clouds loomed overhead, the air heavy with the promise of rain.

Jerald Carter, Vincent's assistant, stood beside the sleek black car, posture straight despite the damp chill. The moment Vincent emerged, Jerald moved forward without hesitation, opening the car door in a smooth, practiced motion.

"Mr. Cooper, this just arrived today," Jerald announced, extending a small velvet box in the shade of midnight blue.

Vincent arched a brow, making no move to accept it.

Catching the cue, Jerald flipped the lid open. Nestled on the soft lining lay a porcelain leaf, flawlessly crafted—its delicate veins etched with meticulous precision, fragile enough to shatter at a breath.

"It came from the same place as before. Same sender. Same timing," Jerald said quietly. "Every year, right around now, it shows up."

Only then did Vincent lower his gaze, taking the box with a measured hand. His thumb brushed the porcelain's cool edge, and for a fleeting heartbeat, something unguarded flickered in his eyes. He'd been well aware that Caroline's birthday was just around the corner. For three years straight, this porcelain leaf had appeared right on cue, like clockwork. It could only be a birthday gift from the man she'd once loved.

Vincent had never questioned Caroline about it. He knew she would act clueless.

Jerald shifted uneasily before adding in a low voice, "And… that person's coming back to the country."

Vincent froze mid-movement, a shadow sweeping across his features. "You're certain?"

"Yes."

A cold, humorless laugh slipped from Vincent's throat. That explained Caroline's sudden, unshakable decision to end their marriage. She was ready to bolt straight into that man's arms. Her old flame was back, and she couldn't even be bothered to hide it.

Vincent's icy chuckle held no warmth as he issued the order, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "Keep a close eye on her."

"Got it."

The car rolled out of the villa district just as the skies split open, sheets of rain hammering the windshield in a relentless downpour.

...

By morning, the storm had eased into a steady drizzle, but the early winter air still bit sharply at the skin.

Caroline gripped the steering wheel and guided her car toward Ezrocsa Broadcasting Station.

She wasn't just another face on screen—she was the network's anchor, a seasoned journalist with degrees in both journalism and finance, six hard-won years cementing her place as the station's backbone.

In the past few years, her days had blurred into frenzied coverage of breaking stories, nights dissolved into an exhausting juggle of family obligations. Every hour had been claimed by something, leaving little space for herself. Without this constant hustle, she might've had a longer life ahead of her.

Caroline let out a faint, bitter laugh, fishing the small blister pack from her purse and popping a pill past her lips. She'd swung by a pharmacy earlier. Since Vincent hadn't bothered with protection the night before, she couldn't afford to take risks.

For three long years, she'd ached to have a child with Vincent, but fate had never allowed it. Maybe that was the universe's way of telling her they were never meant to be. Now that she was determined to end the marriage, she needed to cut off every last thread tying her to him.

With no water on hand, Caroline forced the pill down dry. It caught halfway, scraping a raw path down her throat, leaving behind a burn that spread like fire to her stomach. Her face tightened at the sharp, throbbing sting.

She braced an elbow against the driver's seat, drew in several steadying breaths, and then slipped on her high heels with deliberate precision. The moment she stepped out of the car, the biting chill sliced against her skin.

She'd barely made it to the lobby when Jase Walsh, the deputy director of Ezrocsa Broadcasting Station, came hurrying toward her. He didn't bother with pleasantries, seizing her lightly by the arm and steering her straight into his office. "Caroline, what happened?" he demanded, worry creasing his brow.

Her expression tightened, a faint frown forming. "What's going on?"

"Keystone Group's ad contract was practically wrapped up," Jase blurted, voice tinged with agitation. "Then out of nowhere, they say they need to 'reconsider.' Come on—doesn't that scream they're pulling out?" He leaned forward, his voice rising. "You were the one managing this deal. Where the hell did it go sideways?"

The blood drained from Caroline's face, and she fell silent.

Her silence only made Jase more frantic. "Don't tell me you pissed off someone in their upper ranks. Our entire quarterly revenue hinges on that contract, and now they're hiding behind some 'internal review' excuse? No one's buying that."

Caroline's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression blank. She didn't need anyone to spell it out. Vincent's hand must be all over this mess. As the CEO of the Keystone Group, he could easily pull that off with just one word. She just hadn't expected him to mix personal grudges with business.

Jase slapped a hand on his desk, frustration crackling in the air. "For God's sake, say something! The year is almost over. If this tanks, we're all screwed."

Caroline drew in a steadying breath, the tension in her jaw betraying the storm beneath. "I'll take care of it," she bit out.

By the time the clock struck seven, Caroline wrapped up her broadcast and dragged herself back to Luna Villa, every step heavy with exhaustion.

The moment she crossed into the courtyard, the sharp gleam of a Maybach's headlights cut through the dusk.

The door swung open, and Vincent's secretary, Hazel Hunt, stepped out first. Petite and soft-featured, she carried the kind of fragile beauty that looked untouched by the world. A fitted white gown hugged her delicate frame, the high heels elongating her figure, and despite the hint of travel fatigue clinging to her, she exuded an air of polished elegance.

In the back seat of the car lounged Vincent. He wore a black shirt, the hem carelessly rumpled, and the faint bite of alcohol seemed to cling to him like a second skin.

"Vince, slow down," Hazel murmured with a touch of tenderness, leaning in to ease Vincent from the car as his hand slipped instinctively around her waist.

They moved with an undeniable closeness.

When Hazel steadied him, she let out a low, lilting laugh by his ear. "You really pulled out all the stops for me tonight. One drink after another—and you even took Mr. Seymour's for me."

Caroline lingered at the gate, staying silent. She'd long known about Hazel—far more than just Vincent's loyal secretary. The girl had been a Cooper family scholarship student, rising through the ranks to work at Vincent's side right after graduation.

What most didn't know was the messy tangle of ties behind that polished facade. Hazel's elder sister, Rachael Cooper, was Vincent's stepmother, which technically made Hazel his aunt.

Whispers had long circulated about the ambiguous nature of Hazel and Vincent's relationship.

Caroline had sensed something beneath the surface, yet because they were family, she clung to the idea that trust was the cornerstone of a marriage and chose to believe in Vincent. And what had that blind trust brought her? A brazen, public spectacle. The two made a habit of parading their closeness right before her eyes. She had bitten her tongue countless times before, but tonight, she decided enough was enough.

Only then did Hazel finally notice Caroline. With that practiced, honeyed smile that never faltered, she glided toward Caroline. "Carrie, looks like you just got back too?"

Though Hazel was three years younger than Caroline, she carried herself with the easy authority of someone older, her tone light yet condescending.

"Vince really overdid it for me tonight—he's completely wasted," Hazel cooed, offering up a jacket blotched with dark red wine. "This one's custom-made. Mind hand-washing it for him?"

Caroline let out a low, humorless laugh. "And are you asking me that as his secretary or as his aunt?"

The question knocked Hazel off balance for half a beat, but she recovered with a sugary smile. "Does it make a difference? You can't seriously expect me to wash it. I still have to look after Vince—it's not exactly convenient for me."

A cool, sharp smile curved on Caroline's lips. "Seems to me you haven't quite figured out your own position. I doubt Vince wants you to take care of him."

The air between them tightened, heat and frost colliding in the charged silence.

Hazel's expression tightened with a flicker of embarrassment, but she swallowed it down and forced her lips into a brittle smile as she took a step back. "Then I'll leave Vince in your care," she muttered, her voice edged with forced lightness.

Pushing down the jealousy twisting in her chest, Hazel handed Vincent over to Caroline and turned on her heel to leave.

Caroline hooked an arm around Vincent to steady him as they crossed the threshold.

The moment they stepped inside, the stench of alcohol mixed with the faint trace of Hazel's perfume on Vincent hit Caroline like a slap, making her stomach twist.

Jaw clenched, Caroline half-dragged Vincent toward the living room, every step feeling like she was hauling a dead weight.

But before she could close the door behind them, Vincent suddenly yanked her back with surprising strength and slammed her against the wall.

Her spine jarred against the cold tile, knocking the air from her lungs. She barely managed a gasp before his wine-tainted breath closed in and his mouth crashed against hers.

The kiss burned hot and chaotic, all clashing teeth and shallow breaths—neither tender nor purely lustful, but a raw, reckless surge of pent-up emotion.

Vincent's alcohol-tainted kiss scorched against Caroline's mouth, rough and consuming, as if he meant to swallow her whole.

Caroline's thoughts scattered into a blinding haze. She twisted to break free, but his grip only tightened, his long fingers clamping around her wrist hard enough to sting. His other hand moved with possessive ease, sliding over her chest and kneading through the thin fabric, each motion deliberate and unrelenting.

Her body trembled uncontrollably, shame knotting with a sharp, unfamiliar fear that left her struggling for breath.

His fingers traced the curve of her waist before slipping beneath her skirt, gliding up the sensitive inside of her thigh, and setting off a tingling surge that made her shudder.

Yet, beneath that touch, her heart chilled as if plunged into glacial depths. She ground her teeth, summoned her strength, and shoved him back. Her voice came out steady and cutting. "I'm not Hazel."