Chapter 3

I knew exactly why she refused the divorce. It wasn't love, it was obligation. A promise made to a dying man was a sacred, unbreakable bond in her world of academic integrity and honor. Divorcing me would be a personal failure, a betrayal of my father' s trust. The thought was so cold, so clinical, that it extinguished the last ember of hope in my heart.

Defeated for the moment, I followed her back to our apartment. I needed my laptop, my work files. I couldn't just abandon my company because my personal life was a train wreck. As I walked in, I told myself I would grab my things and leave for good.

The apartment was quiet. I called her name, but there was no answer. I figured she had gone to her study. I walked toward our bedroom to pack my remaining belongings.

When I pushed the door open, I froze.

Dr. Marcus Thorne was standing in the middle of our bedroom. He was wearing my silk bathrobe, the one Olivia had given me for our second anniversary. A cup of coffee was in his hand, and he looked completely at home, like he owned the place.

A white-hot rage, pure and blinding, shot through me. This was my home. My bedroom. My bathrobe. The violation was so profound, so absolute, it left me speechless.

He saw me and his lips curved into that familiar, condescending smirk. "Ah, the prodigal husband returns," he said, taking a slow sip of coffee. "Olivia was so worried. It's not good to cause her such distress, you know. She has a very important research grant to focus on."

Every word was a calculated insult, designed to put me in my place as a childish inconvenience.

"Get out of my robe," I said, my voice a low growl.

He chuckled, a disgusting, throaty sound. "Is this yours? My apologies. My luggage was delayed at the airport, and Olivia was kind enough to offer me something comfortable to wear while I wait." He gestured around the room. "She's a wonderful hostess, isn't she?"

I ignored his taunts. I walked past him to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. I started pulling my clothes off the hangers and throwing them inside, my movements jerky and rough. I wanted to be methodical, to maintain some shred of dignity, but my hands were shaking with anger.

"Running away again, Miller?" Marcus drawled from behind me. "That seems to be your go-to move when things get a little difficult."

I slammed the closet door shut and turned to face him. "What I do is none of your business. This is my home, and you are an unwelcome guest."

"Am I?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Olivia seems to think otherwise. She's been so gracious, offering me a place to stay while I'm in town. It's so much more convenient for our work, you see."

At that moment, the front door opened and closed. Olivia's voice called out, "Marcus? I got your favorite pastries from that little French bakery."

She walked into the bedroom and stopped short, seeing us both there. The box of pastries was still in her hand.

Marcus' s demeanor changed instantly. The smugness vanished, replaced by a look of weary concern. He sighed dramatically. "Olivia, I'm so sorry. I tried to calm him down, but he's being... well, you know." He shot a glance at me, as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Olivia's gaze fell on my half-packed suitcase, then on my face. Her own expression hardened with disappointment. "Ethan, what did I tell you? Stop this childish behavior."

She walked right past me and went to Marcus, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Are you alright, Marcus? He didn't upset you, did he?"

The world narrowed to that single image: my wife, ignoring my pain, my humiliation, and comforting the man who was actively destroying our lives. The betrayal was so complete it almost felt surreal.

"Childish?" I finally exploded, my voice cracking. "You think this is childish? I come home to find this man in my bedroom, wearing my clothes, and you ask him if he's alright?"

I pointed a trembling finger at Marcus. "He doesn't belong here, Olivia!"

"He is my mentor and my colleague, and he is my guest!" she retorted, her voice sharp. "He needed a place to stay, and I offered. It's that simple. Why do you have to make everything so dramatic?"

"Because it's not simple!" I yelled, the sound raw in the quiet room. "Look at us! Look at this! This isn't a marriage! It's a guardianship! You've never once treated me like a husband, like an equal partner. I'm just a promise you have to keep, an obligation you have to manage."

I zipped up my suitcase with a final, violent tug. "Well, I'm done. I'm done being managed."

I grabbed the handle and walked toward the door. Olivia just stood there, her face a mixture of anger and confusion. She still didn't get it. She truly didn't understand what she was doing.

"Ethan, don't be ridiculous," she said, her voice softer now, pleading. "Where will you go? Just stay. We can talk about this when you've calmed down."

That was the last straw. The idea that my righteous anger was just a fleeting mood, a tantrum that would pass.

I stopped at the doorway and looked back, not at her, but at Marcus. He was still standing there, watching the scene unfold with a look of detached amusement.

"You can have the robe," I said to him, my voice dripping with contempt. "It'll probably fit you better anyway. You seem to be an expert at stepping into other people's lives and making yourself comfortable."

I didn't wait for a reply. I walked out of the apartment, out of that life, and didn't look back. As the door clicked shut behind me, I heard Olivia call my name one last time, her voice tinged with a frustration that sounded nothing like love.