Chapter three

Leo's POV

This holiday in Zanzibar was exactly what I needed. I truly believe I am living in my prime right now. Life is too short to be wasting my youth and my hard-earned money on a woman like Helen, who does nothing but complain and drain my energy. For four months, I forgot I even had a wife or children back in France. I was free, and honestly, that’s how a man like me deserves to live.

My girlfriend, Emilia, is the perfect companion. She’s young, she’s vibrant, and most importantly, she knows her place. We spent those four months moving from one luxury resort to another. The sun, the blue water, and the expensive cocktails—it was paradise. There is something about being with a woman who actually appreciates what you do for her.

Emilia is everything I fantasize about. Our time in the bedroom was out of this world; she has this energy that makes me feel like a teenager again. She knows exactly how to satisfy me, always coming up with different styles and ways to keep things fun. I met her a few months back, right after she graduated from college. She was young and hungry for a better life, and I was more than happy to provide it. I didn’t just give her my time; I gave her a future. I offered her a high-standing position in one of my companies and rented a luxury apartment for her. Since then, we’ve been inseparable. She doesn't ask me where I’ve been or why I’m late; she just opens her arms and makes me feel like a king. That is what a real man needs.

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The flight back to France was long, but I spent most of it reflecting on the memories we made in Zanzibar. I looked at the photos on my phone—Emilia in her bikinis, us laughing on a private boat—and I felt a sense of deep satisfaction. This is the life I need, not the other way round with Helen.

When we finally landed at the airport, I kissed Emilia goodbye and put her in a cab. I told her I’d call her once I settled in. I took my own cab back to the mansion. As we pulled into the driveway, I looked at the massive house and felt that familiar sense of pride. I built this. I own this. Everything within these walls belongs to me.

I stepped out of the car, hauled my suitcase onto the porch, and pressed the doorbell. I waited but no sign of someone coming to get the door. I pressed it again, longer this time. I was already starting to get annoyed. What the hell was Helen doing? She knew it has to be me.

"Helen!" I barked under my breath.

Usually, when I ring the bell, I hear her scurrying toward the door like a frightened rabbit. She’d usually open it with a tired face, probably holding a crying baby or smelling like diaper cream, and she’d start with her endless excuses. “Oh honey, I’m sorry, I was just changing the baby diaper,” or “I didn't hear the bell because the vacuum was on.”

I didn't have time for that today. I had been on air for hours, I was exhausted, and I wanted a hot meal and a drink. I wanted to be served. I was ready to give her a piece of my mind the moment she opened that door. I wanted to remind her that I pay the bills and she has one job: to be available when I need her.

I reached out to press the bell a third time, my finger hovering over the button, when I heard footsteps. They didn't sound like Helen’s light, shuffling footsteps. These were heavy and confident, the door swung open, and I froze.

The words I had prepared to scream at my wife died in my throat. Standing in the doorway wasn't Helen. It was a man.

He was tall, probably in his early thirties, and he was built like a professional athlete. His shoulders were broad, filling out a t-shirt that looked expensive. He was handsome—annoyingly handsome—with a well-groomed beard and a look in his eyes that wasn't scary. It was authority. He looked like he belonged there. He looked like he owned the place.

I stepped back instinctively, looking around my compound to make sure the cab driver hadn't dropped me off at the wrong mansion. But no, this was my house. Those were my custom-made mahogany doors. That was my marble flooring in the foyer.

"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, my voice cracking slightly before I regained my composure. "What are you doing in my house? What’s going on here?"

The man didn't flinch. He didn't look worried at all. He just folded his muscular arms across his chest and looked me up and down as if I were a delivery boy who had arrived late with the wrong order.

"I should ask you the same thing," he said, his voice deep and calm.

Before I could explode in rage, I heard a voice from deep inside the house. It was a voice I barely recognized, it sounded different. It didn't have that shaky, submissive tone I was used to. It sounded bright and happy.

"Honey, who’s at the door?"