Chapter One
Fay Blake
“I will not accept this.”
The words settled between us, sharp and final, yet the room itself felt suffocatingly still. The soft glow from the chandelier reflected against the marble floors, too pristine for the kind of conversation we were having. Everything about this house screamed perfection. Everything about this marriage was anything but.
Dominic didn’t release me immediately. His fingers remained firm around my throat, the pressure deliberate, controlled. He liked control. He thrived on it.
His gaze dragged over my face, studying me as if he were trying to understand how I still stood in front of him like this unafraid. He hated me for this.
“You’re getting bold,” he said, his tone quieter now, but far more dangerous. “That confidence of yours… it’s starting to irritate me.”
My chest rose slowly, carefully, working around the restriction of his grip. I lifted my chin slightly, forcing him to meet my eyes on my terms, even like this.
“It’s called self-respect,” I replied, my voice strained but steady. “You wouldn’t understand it.”
A shadow crossed his expression. His fingers tightened just enough to remind me exactly where I stood, exactly what he could do.
Then he let go.
Air rushed back into my lungs, sharp and burning. I took a step back, steadying myself against the edge of the console behind me. The polished wood dug into my palm as I anchored myself, refusing to show even a fraction of weakness in front of him.
Dominic adjusted his cufflinks as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just had his hand around my throat.
“You’re overreacting,” he continued casually, walking past me. “Men like me… we have arrangements. You have your place. She has hers.”
I turned slowly, watching him move across the room like he owned everything in it. Because he living in a delusion that he did.
“Your arrangement produced a child,” I said. “That stops being an arrangement and starts becoming a life you chose over your marriage.”
He stopped near the bar, pouring himself a drink, completely at ease. The amber liquid caught the light as he swirled it lazily.
“I didn’t choose anything over you,” he said, taking a sip. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
The audacity of that statement almost made me laugh.
I pushed away from the console and walked toward him, heels clicking against the marble, each step measured, deliberate. It gave me tht confidnt edge which he so despised.
“I’m here because I didn’t know,” I said. “There’s a difference.”
His eyes lifted to mine over the rim of his glass, unimpressed. “And now you do,” he replied. “So adjust.”
Adjust? The word settled like poison in my chest. “I’m not adjusting to being humiliated,” I said, stopping a few feet away from him. “I’m not sharing my husband with another woman and her child.”
He exhaled slowly, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “You say that like you have leverage,” he said. “You don’t.”
My hands curled at my sides, nails pressing into my palms. “Then give me the divorce,” I pushed. “Clean. Simple. You get your life. I get mine.”
He looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes. Then he stepped closer. “You really think it’s that easy?” he asked quietly.
I held my ground. “It is if you stop making it complicated.”
His hand came up again, slower this time, less abrupt. His fingers brushed against my jaw, almost deceptively gentle before tightening just enough to hold me in place.
“You walked into this marriage knowing who I was,” he said. “You don’t get to rewrite it now because your feelings are bruised.”
“My feelings?” I let out a small, disbelieving breath. “You’ve been building a second life behind my back for years and you think this is about feelings?”
His grip tightened slightly. “This is about reality,” he corrected. “And the reality is, you’re my wife.”
The word landed heavier than it should have.
Wife.
A title that once meant something. A title I had tried to honor. I lifted my hand and pushed his wrist away from my face. This time, he let me.
“I was your wife,” I said. “Before the lies. Before the child. Before you made it clear I was just a position you needed filled.”
Something shifted in his expression then. Subtle, but there. I couldn't tell if it was annoyance or anger. "You’re still in that position,” he said. “And you’re not leaving it.”
“I am,” I answered. “You just don’t like that you can’t control it.”
That did it. His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist again, harsher this time. The sudden force pulled me forward, my breath catching as the movement sent a sharp ache through my arm.
“Enough,” he said, his voice dropping, losing whatever patience he had been pretending to have. “You’ve said your piece.”
Pain flared where his fingers dug into my skin, but I didn’t pull away this time. I stood there, staring up at him, letting him see exactly what I thought of him.
“Then listen to yours,” I said quietly. “Because I’m done.”
The words hung between us, heavy, irreversible. For a second, everything went still. Then his grip tightened enough to hurt. His thumb pressed into the inside of my wrist, right where the pulse was strongest, deliberate and calculated.
“You don’t walk away from me, Fay,” he said.
This wasn’t an argument anymore. This was control being reasserted. My throat felt raw, my wrist throbbing under his hold, but I forced myself to speak anyway.
“I would rather walk away with nothing than stay here and pretend this is a marriage.”
His eyes darkened, the calm finally cracking. “Careful,” he said, his voice quieter now, but carrying something far heavier. “You’re starting to sound ungrateful.”
A bitter smile pulled at my lips. “For what?” I asked. “For being lied to? For being disrespected? For being replaced without even knowing it?”
His jaw tightened. “You haven’t been replaced,” he said. “You’re still here.”
The words landed, and something in my chest twisted. “That’s exactly the problem,” I replied.
His grip shifted slightly, his fingers sliding higher along my wrist, holding me firmly in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.
I swallowed, the ache in my throat making the movement sting. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His gaze locked onto mine, unwavering. “I already did.”
My heart beat harder from the weight of what he was saying. From the certainty in his voice. “You can’t force someone to stay married to you,” I said.
A slow certain smile spread across his face. “I can make sure you don’t have a choice.”
The words sank in slowly, piece by piece. “You’re threatening me,” I said.
“I’m reminding you,” he corrected.
My chest tightened, something sharp and painful settling deep beneath my ribs. Four years and this was what it had come to. “I won’t live like this,” I said, my voice quieter now, the fight still there but edged with something heavier.
His expression didn’t change. “You will,” he said simply.
I shook my head, even as my wrist remained trapped in his grip. “No.”
His fingers tightened once more, enough to make me wince this time, the pain slipping through before I could mask it. His eyes caught it, and he smiled. “You don’t understand yet,” he said. “That’s fine.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make every word land heavier.
“You’re my wife. That doesn’t end because you decided you’re unhappy.”
My chest rose, uneven now, the weight of it pressing down harder than his grip ever could.
“I’m not asking,” I said, even as my voice softened at the edges.
“I’m telling you,” he replied.
His hand finally released my wrist. The absence of pressure came with a dull ache, my skin throbbing where his fingers had been. I rubbed it instinctively, the soreness grounding me in the moment.
He stepped back, straightening his jacket, composed once again as if he hadn’t just shattered something. “You’ll drop this,” he said. “And you’ll learn your place again.”
I stared at him, something tight and painful sitting in my chest, refusing to ease. “And if I don’t?” I asked.
He paused, and looked at me when he said with finality. “I will never divorce you.”
