Chapter 2

My lawyer told me the best route was negotiation.

Without concrete evidence of Monica's infidelity, pushing through the divorce would be difficult.

We had been married ten years. Monica had Dillon in her heart the whole time. Whether she had actually been unfaithful, I couldn't say for certain.

I sat in the car for a long time, not returning to the estate until well past midnight.

The front gate was open. I heard noise upstairs, climbed the steps, and walked straight into the sight of Dillon sitting on the sofa drinking wine.

He was wearing my robe, his hair still wet, the front hanging half-open.

The color drained from my face. I opened my mouth to speak.

But Monica came out of the bathroom, toweling her hair dry.

There were red marks along her collarbone. She glanced at me with cool indifference. "Off getting lured away by who knows what, and you still know how to come home?"

"Go get me something to eat. I'm hungry."

Monica was as cold as ever. Faced with this scene, she didn't bother to explain a thing.

My hands shook with rage, my throat tight.

On any other day, if my suit carried even a trace of alcohol, Monica would gag and throw it out without a second thought. Yet today Dillon could lounge on the sofa drinking wine without a care in the world.

In that instant, my heart sank to rock bottom.

And then I found it almost funny. Those rules only ever applied to me.

Dillon smiled at me and raised his glass.

"Is there a problem?" Monica said.

She was about to lose her temper, but she caught the look on my face. I was staring at Dillon.

I steadied my voice. "What is he doing here?"

"What are you staring at? You left me behind at the banquet and I haven't even settled that score with you yet. What right do you have to question me?"

Monica's tone was getting worse by the second.

Dillon stood up with a smile. "Don't get the wrong idea. You drove off on your own, and I didn't feel right leaving Monica, so I gave her a ride home. That's all."

I almost laughed.

Monica had a personal driver.

I couldn't be bothered to argue with such a flimsy excuse.

"Give me my clothes back."

"I don't like my clothes smelling like alcohol."

My voice came out harsh. The moment I said it, Monica's expression darkened.

Maybe I'd struck a nerve. She turned aggressive. "I'm the one who picked those out for you. I'll dress whoever I want in them. Are you really going to get jealous over a piece of clothing?"

"Isn't this all because I didn't share a toast with you?"

"Colton, Dillon is a guest. He has wine every night. You can't even show a guest basic courtesy?"

"If word got out that this is how you treat people, wouldn't that be an embarrassment to the Family?"

I stood there stunned, completely at a loss for words.

Every piece of clothing I owned had been picked by Monica. She wouldn't let me wear anything else, so every robe and suit fit wrong. There was a simple reason for that.

She only ever remembered Dillon's measurements.

I used to have a glass of wine in the evenings too. But after I married her, I gave that up entirely.

Before I could speak, Dillon stepped in first. He patted my shoulder. "Sorry, I really shouldn't have worn your clothes."

"I got wine on my own clothes and had nothing else to wear. Monica hates the smell. You know that. Why weren't you more careful?"

After his explanation, he turned and quietly scolded Monica.

"That's enough. You're always twisting things around. It was my fault for wearing his clothes without asking. He has every right to be upset."

"Come on, how can you be so rude to him?"

Monica pouted, clearly unhappy, then said in a coaxing tone, "Fine, fine. Wasn't it because he was being rude first?"

She never spoke to me that way.

With me, it was always orders and demands. And because I loved her, I let her get away with it.

I never once called her out, and that had become habit for Monica.

What made it even more absurd was that Dillon was sitting there with a glass of wine, lecturing me about not being considerate of Monica's aversion to alcohol.

Monica turned to me.

"Enough. It's just clothes. I'll buy you new ones tomorrow."

"You're sleeping in the study tonight. Dillon gets your room."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.

They both seemed to have forgotten that this estate was mine. At first, I had tried to spare Monica the smell of alcohol whenever I came home late from Family banquets.

That was why I began sleeping in the room next door.

Over time, it became Monica's habit to banish me to the other room.

Only now did it hit me: we hadn't shared a bed in six months.

My protest never made it past my lips.

Monica added, "Unless you'd rather I share a room with him?"

She was backing me into a corner. In her eyes, she and Dillon would always be on the same side. I was the outsider.

"Do whatever you want." I gave a quiet laugh and turned back to my room.

As I closed the door, I could hear Monica shouting from the hallway. "You're going to regret this!"

Dillon soothed her. "Don't get upset."

"You're the one who told us to sleep together! You'd better not regret it!"

I listened to her voice and laughed. A cold, hollow laugh.

I quietly opened my chat with my lawyer.

[I'll have the evidence of her affair soon.]