CHAINED

“Happy anniversary,” I whispered to the woman in the mirror.

The words tasted like dust.

Outside, the city glittered, a thousand lights celebrating a thousand stories. Laughter spilled from rooftop bars. Couples leaned into each other under streetlamps. Somewhere, someone was being kissed like they mattered.

But not here, not tonight and not for me.

I adjusted the strap of my silk dress, the fabric cool against my skin. It was the color of midnight, elegant and expensive, just like everything else in this penthouse. My makeup was flawless. My hair was perfectly curled. I looked like a woman who had it all.

And I did. I had the fame, fortune and adoration.

Everything except the one thing I’d quietly, desperately wanted for the last 1,095 days.

My husband, Damian Blackwood.

The man whose last name I wore like a crown, even though he never treated me like a queen. I glanced at the clock on the marble mantelpiece, the time was 10:47 p.m. He's late again.

I knew the signs. The empty space beside me in the king-sized bed. The silence that wasn’t peaceful, but suffocating. The way the air in this penthouse felt heavier every night he chose the office over me.

I slipped off my heels, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. The cold marble kissed my bare feet as I walked to the balcony.

Three years of smiles for the cameras, of holding his arm at galas, of pretending our marriage was the fairytale the tabloids painted it to be.

Three years of him not touching me. Not the way a husband touches a wife. No lingering hugs, goodnight kisses too.

Just polite nods. Businesslike conversations, and a distance so vast, I sometimes wondered if he even remembered I was alive.

I thought about the day we signed the contract. It wasn’t a proposal. It was a merger. Two powerful families, two carefully curated images, one cold, calculated agreement.

I was twenty-one. He was twenty-eight. I was a rising star, he was a rising empire. Our fathers shook hands, and just like that, my life was no longer mine.

I told myself it was fine. That love wasn’t necessary. That I could be happy with the security, the status, the beautiful cage.

I was lying.

Because somewhere between the first press conference and the third silent anniversary, I fell in love with him.

The man who, when he thought no one was looking, would stare out the window with an expression so lonely it broke my heart. The man who, despite his icy exterior, had once, tucked a blanket around me when I fell asleep on the couch during a movie marathon.

That tiny, almost imperceptible act of kindness was the crack in my armor. It was the moment I stopped pretending I didn’t care.

And it was the moment I started drowning.

Because loving Damian Blackwood was like loving a ghost. He was there, physically, but he was like a wall emotionally.

I tried everything, I learned his favorite coffee order and had it waiting for him in the mornings. I redecorated the guest room into a home office he never used. I memorized the names of his favorite authors and left their books on his nightstand.

He never said thank you, he never noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

The door clicked open downstairs. My heart, that stupid, stubborn thing, gave a hopeful little leap.

I took a deep breath, smoothing my dress, pasting on the smile I reserved for red carpets and charity events. The one that didn’t reach my eyes.

I walked back inside, just as he stepped into the living room.

Damian Blackwood was tall., impossibly handsome. He was the perfect man.

“You’re back,” I said lightly.

He didn’t look at me. He tossed his keys onto the counter with a clatter and loosened his tie.

“Had a meeting,” he said flatly.

“It’s our anniversary,” I reminded him softly, stepping closer.

He paused for a while “Right.” he said

That was it. No “I’m sorry I’m late.” No “Did you wait for me?” No “You look beautiful.”

Just… Right.

We stood there, three feet apart, in a room the size of a small apartment.

I looked at him. At the sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair fell just so across his forehead. The intensity in his eyes that could command a boardroom but never seemed to focus on me.

He was a masterpiece. A cold, untouchable masterpiece.

And I was tired of being the ghost in his mansion. Tired of loving a man who looked through me, of pretending my heart wasn’t slowly shattering, piece by piece, night after lonely night.

Something inside me snapped.

Not with a bang, but with a whisper.

A quiet, final surrender.

“I want a divorce, Damian.”

The words hung in the air, it was sharp and clear.

He froze.

For the first time in three years, his eyes locked onto mine. Not a sweep, a look full of shock and confusion.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I’m tired,” I said, the words flowing out of me. “Tired of pretending. Tired of being your wife on paper and a stranger in every other way. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He took a step towards me, his jaw tightening. “We had a deal.”

“Yes,” I agreed, holding his gaze. “Three years. It’s been three years, Damian. And in all that time, not once have you held me, kissed me, or ooked at me like I was anything more than… an obligation.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at me, his expression unreadable, like he was regretting his past actions.

I didn’t wait for him to find his words.

I walked past him, my shoulder brushing against his arm. It was the closest we’d been in months. I felt the heat of him, the solidness. It was almost painful.

“I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers,” I said, my voice steady. “You’ll have them by the end of the week.”

And then I walked upstairs.

Alone, by choice.

For the first time in three years, I didn’t cry myself to sleep.

I just… slept.

---

DAMIAN’S POV

She said it like she was ordering a cup of coffee.

Calm, clear and final.

“I want a divorce, Damian.”

Three words, five syllables.

And my entire goddamn world tilted on its axis.

I didn’t breath, I Just stood there, frozen, as she walked past me. The whisper of her silk dress against my slacks was the loudest sound in the universe.

She didn’t look back.

I turned, slowly, watching her climb the stairs. Her spine was straight. Her head, held high. She moved like a queen leaving a throne she’d never wanted.

My chest felt hollow. Like someone had reached in and ripped something vital out.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The contract was clear. Three years. Mutual respect, no emotional entanglements. A clean, businesslike arrangement.

She’d agreed. She’d signed.

So why did it feel like I’d just been handed a death sentence?

I poured myself a drink. The burn in my throat was nothing compared to the cold dread spreading through my chest.

I didn’t love her.

Love was a weakness. A distraction. Something for poets and fools. I was Damian Blackwood. I built empires, I crushed competitors. I didn’t… feel.

But as I sat there, staring at the amber liquid in my glass, a memory surfaced.

Her, curled up on that damn chaise by the window. Asleep. Looking so peaceful, so… vulnerable. I’d stood there for a full minute, just watching her. And then, like an idiot, I’d picked up the throw blanket and draped it over her.

Why?

I didn’t know.

Maybe because the room was cold.

Maybe because… I didn’t want her to be cold.

I slammed the glass down on the table, the sound echoing in the silent penthouse.

At 3 a.m., I was still awake.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling mindlessly. My thumb hovered over her I*******m.

I clicked, and there she was on set. Laughing radiantly. Her co-star, Leo Winters, had his arm slung casually around her shoulders. His smile was wide.

My grip tightened on the phone.

Jealousy?

The word slammed into me like a physical blow.

I hadn’t felt jealous in… ever.

And now? It burned, hot and ugly, in my gut.

Because if I was jealous… what the hell did that make me?

A hypocrite, a coward.

A man who’d spent three years pushing away the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And for the first time in my life, I was terrified.

Terrified that she was really going to leave.

And even more terrified that she was right to go.

I stood up, the weight of my own emptiness pressing down on me.

This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

Lira Hart might think she was walking away, but I wasn’t letting her go.

Not without a fight.