Chapter 2

The next morning, the door to the master bedroom opened. Ethan walked in, looking tired. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, a sight I' d never seen before.

He was a man of extreme self-discipline. He never stayed up late. Not for work, not for pleasure. Even on the rare nights we were intimate, when his eyes might redden with passion, he would never sacrifice his sleep schedule.

He must have been playing with them, with Isabella and Leo, late into thenight.

A tight, suffocating feeling rose in my chest. I pushed it down, swinging my legs off the bed. I walked over to him and took the silk tie from his hand.

"Do you like children very much?" I asked, my voice casual as my fingers moved with practiced ease, meticulously knotting the tie around his collar. It was a small, domestic ritual we shared.

He looked down at me, his expression slightly stunned by my question. "Moderately," he answered, his voice a low rumble.

I finished the knot and smoothed it down, my eyes meeting his in the mirror.

"Let' s have a child."

He stared at my reflection, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. But he didn' t hesitate. He knew the value of an heir, the ultimate seal on our dynastic union.

"Okay," he said simply.

I knew he wouldn' t refuse. A child would bind Hayes Tech and Carter Industries together more tightly than any contract.

Downstairs in the massive dining room, Isabella was already at the table, holding Leo in her arms. The moment the little boy saw his father, his face crumpled.

"Daddy!" he sobbed, squirming out of his mother' s lap and rushing to hug Ethan' s legs.

It might have been a touching scene, if not for what happened next. As Ethan bent down to comfort him, Leo picked up a hard-boiled egg from his plate and, with a surprising amount of force, hurled it directly at me.

It hit my white silk blouse, leaving a sticky, yellow smear.

"I hate you! You' re a bad lady! Why are you living in my daddy' s house?" he shrieked.

I frowned, looking down at the stain on my shirt and then up at Isabella, who was making a weak show of looking apologetic.

"Control your child," I said, my voice sharp. "He has no manners..."

"Amelia."

Ethan' s voice cut through my words like a shard of ice. It was cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of the patience he showed his son.

"That' s enough. He' s just a child. Besides, Isabella raised him alone all these years. I owe her."

The words caught in my throat. I stared at him, a sense of unreality washing over me. In three years of marriage, three years of carefully navigated business and life, he had never, not once, scolded me.

"That' s your business," I managed to say, my voice trembling with barely suppressed anger. My emotions were slipping past my control. "Just because he' s a child, he needs to be disciplined. What will people say about Ethan Carter' s son? An ignorant, wild..."

"Amelia Hayes!"

His voice was a whip crack, a cold warning that brought me up short. My anger receded, replaced by a chilling realization. I shouldn' t have vented my frustration on a child. But it was too late.

I looked at him, and for the first time, I saw an anger and coldness in his eyes that was directed solely at me. It was terrifying.

"When Leo was born, Isabella was my lawfully wedded fiancée," he said, his words clipped and precise. "You' d better watch your words."

With that, he scooped Leo into his arms, turned his back on me, and walked towards the door. Isabella scrambled to her feet and quickly followed, linking her arm through his.

He didn' t pull away.

Just before she stepped out of the mansion, Isabella turned her head and looked back at me. A victorious, triumphant smirk spread across her face.

Her eyes screamed the words her mouth didn' t have to say.

I told you. He still loves me.

The heavy front door closed, plunging the grand foyer into silence. The housekeeper, a woman who had been with the Carter family for decades, moved with quiet efficiency. She went to the guest room and began gathering Isabella and Leo' s belongings, her expression grim as she threw them into a trash bag. She sighed, a small sound of pity for me.

I sank onto the sofa, my body trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps of anger.

Ethan Carter, this is the second time. That was strike one.

Our marriage had been an accident. Three years ago, after a tech conference, both of us had too much to drink. A mix-up with hotel key cards, a dim room, a night of lost control. We woke up in the same bed, horrified and hungover. Despite our best efforts to be discreet, the media caught wind of it. A scandal erupted.

Forced by the circumstances and the pressure from our powerful families, a marriage was proposed. An alliance. A solution.

Before we signed the papers, he had been honest. He told me about Isabella and their son. At the time, I didn' t care. I didn' t love him. It was a business deal.

After the wedding, he gave me everything a Mrs. Carter was due. Respect, dignity, a lavish lifestyle. He was a perfect partner in public and a considerate, if distant, husband in private.

"Amelia," he had once told me, his voice serious as he placed the matriarch' s ring on my finger. "You are my wife. And only you will be."

But now, looking back, it seemed that in this loveless marriage, I was the only one who had been foolish enough to let my heart get involved. I was the one who was slowly, but surely, sinking.

...

The next day was the annual Carter Industries gala, a glittering affair for the city' s elite. As the CEO' s wife, my attendance was non-negotiable.

Ethan drove to pick me up from the Hayes Tech headquarters. The silence in the car was thick and heavy, a tense, suffocating blanket.

"Amelia," he said finally, his voice low as he broke the silence. "You don' t need to worry about anything. Since I married you, you will always be the only Mrs. Carter."

He was offering an olive branch, a reassurance. But it was the wrong one. He still thought this was about a title. I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past, saying nothing.

My silence, however, was soon shattered. As we walked into the grand ballroom of the hotel, a familiar figure appeared before us.

"Mr. Carter," Isabella cooed, dressed in a stunning evening gown. The deep V-neckline plunged daringly, perfectly accentuating her curves. She was here to make a statement.

Ethan gave her a brief, professional nod. She then turned her gaze to me, her eyes feigning a shy deference.

"Mrs. Carter."

I took a slow, deep breath, trying to keep my composure. I turned to the composed, unruffled man beside me.

"Why is she here?" I asked, my voice a low, dangerous whisper.

"Isabella just returned to the country and doesn' t have a job. I gave her a minor position at the company," Ethan said, his tone casual, as if he were discussing the weather.

My hands, hidden in the folds of my gown, trembled slightly. I stared at him, shocked into disbelief. I demanded an explanation with my eyes.

"You brought your ex-fiancée to work with you? To this gala? Am I just a decoration to you, Ethan?"

The man paused, his brow furrowing slightly, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

But I didn' t believe it. Ethan Carter was not an emotionally oblivious man. He was a master strategist in business and in life. He couldn' t possibly have not thought of how this would look, of how it would make me feel.

There was only one possible explanation: he was indulging her. Deliberately.

I would not lose my composure here. Not in a room full of our peers and rivals. I took a single glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it in one go, the bubbles a sharp sting in my throat. The alcohol gave me the clarity I needed.

I linked my arm through Ethan' s, my face adorned with a practiced, brilliant business smile. For the next hour, I navigated the glittering crowd, exchanging pleasantries and laughing at jokes, playing the part of the perfect corporate wife.

Midway through the evening, I felt a wave of dizziness. The air in the ballroom was thick and stuffy. I excused myself and went out to the garden for some fresh air.

I found a small swing set at the far end of the manicured lawn and sat down, the cool night breeze making me shiver.

"Out here alone? You' ll catch a cold. Where' s Ethan Carter?"

A warm jacket, smelling faintly of pine and expensive cologne, was draped over my shoulders.

I turned my head. It was Daniel Thorne, the powerful and notoriously ruthless head of the Thorne Group from New York. A man who was a friend, a rival, and something more.

"Thank you, Daniel," I said, pulling the jacket tighter around me. The warmth felt foreign, and it made me feel a strange sense of loss.

He sat down on the swing beside me.

"Ethan Carter' s ex-fiancée is back," he stated, not a question but a fact. He looked at me, his gaze sharp and utterly serious. "What are you going to do about it? If you want to get rid of her, I' m more than willing to be your sword."

He spoke of making someone disappear as if he were discussing a minor business acquisition.

I didn' t feel any shock at his words. I just tilted my head slightly. "No need. Don' t dirty your hands."

Suddenly, he leaned in, invading my personal space. His face was inches from mine, his nose almost touching mine.

"Dump him," he said, his voice a low, intense whisper. "How about you consider me? You know I' ve been waiting for you, Amelia."

His cold breath ghosted across my skin, making me feel flustered, a feeling I wasn' t accustomed to.

"Daniel," I said, my voice a little shaky. "Not now. At least, not yet."

With that, I stood up, turned my back on him, and walked back towards the gala, leaving him sitting on the swing with a slightly disheartened expression on his handsome face.

A little while later, the banquet ended. From the moment we got into the car, I could feel Ethan' s eyes on me.

"Are you and Daniel Thorne close?" he asked, his voice tight.

I paused, realizing he must have seen us in the garden.

"Sort of. We grew up together..."

Before I could finish, the man who was usually the epitome of self-restraint unbuckled his seatbelt. In one swift movement, he leaned over the center console and pressed me back against the leather seat.

A fierce, demanding kiss landed on my lips, tasting faintly of wine and something else I couldn' t identify. Anger, maybe. He kissed me with a desperate, sucking force that was more about possession than passion.

A moment later, he pulled back, his face hovering over mine. His usually calm, dark eyes were filled with a raw, confusing emotion.

"Amelia," he growled, his voice thick. "You are mine."