เข้าสู่ระบบAfter their shared bath, Quentin could not completely push their conversation from his mind. He stood near the balcony doors while Verity finished getting ready, thinking again about the way her body stiffened when he asked what she would do if he no longer wanted their marriage to end. He expected hesitation. Verity rarely gave him anything easily when emotions were involved. What he did not expect was how quickly she tried to escape the subject altogether. There was one thing Quentin had come to understand about his wife. Verity was difficult when it came to matters of the heart. She could argue with him openly about almost anything else. She could challenge him, tease him, become angry with him, or tell him exactly when she thought he was being unreasonable. But whenever the conversation moved toward what she truly felt, she seemed to build a wall around herself. Quentin did not blame her entirely. The people who should have taught Verity that love was safe had done the opp
Verity remained frozen for a second after Quentin’s sleepy voice interrupted her thoughts. “Thinking of me?” His eyes were still closed, but the faint smile on his lips told her he was fully awake. “No.” The answer came far too quickly. Quentin opened one eye. “Interesting.” Verity frowned. “What?” “You answered before I finished asking.” “I knew what you were going to say.” “So you were thinking about me.” “I was thinking about breakfast.” He opened both eyes now and turned toward her, clearly entertained. “While staring at my face?” Verity opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Finally she spoke. “I was not staring.” “Okay then.” He concluded. Verity pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. Quentin shifted closer beneath the covers and rested one arm across her waist. “Tell me what you were thinking.” “Not again.” She said. “That usually means something very important.” Verity rolled her eyes. “Why do you always have an answer for everything?” “Years of e
It was well past midnight when Quentin finally returned to the Sapphire Coastline Estate. The entire house was silent except for the low sound of the television coming from the living room. He loosened his tie as he walked farther inside, already expecting everyone to be asleep, but the moment he entered the living room, he stopped. Verity was curled up on the sofa beneath a light throw blanket. One arm was tucked beneath her head, her dark hair falling loosely around her face while the television continued playing in front of her. She was completely asleep. For a few seconds, Quentin simply stood there looking at her. Something warm settled inside his chest as he realized what must have happened. He told her earlier that he would be home late and even asked her not to wait for him. She could have gone upstairs to bed, yet somehow, she ended up falling asleep right there in the living room. She waited for him. A small smile appeared on his lips as he walked toward her. H
Judith Sinclair was losing patience as she sat across Kingsley’s lap in the private sitting room of his Los Angeles residence, one arm resting around his shoulders while her fingers played lazily with the collar of his shirt. Once, getting his attention required almost nothing. A look. A touch. A private message telling him where to meet her. Kingsley always responded. But tonight, his mind seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Judith leaned closer and kissed his jaw. But no reaction. She moved toward his mouth. Kingsley turned his head. Then she stopped. “What is wrong with you?” “Nothing.” “That is obviously a lie.” She moved from his lap and sat beside him. Kingsley reached for the glass on the table. Judith watched him drink. “This has been happening for weeks.” He said nothing. “Every time I touch you, you act as though I’m bothering you.” Kingsley placed the glass down. “Maybe you are.” Her expression hardened. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” Judith stared at him
Verity stepped out of the bathroom. The bedroom was already dim except for the lamps near the bed. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked toward the vanity. She knew Quentin would not be home early. He sent her a message shortly after dinner, telling her that the situation at Langford Holdings required more attention than expected and that she should not wait up for him. Verity read the message twice, then ignored the final instruction completely. She took her time with her skincare routine, cleansing her face before applying serum and moisturizer. After that, she brushed out her hair and changed into loose lounge pants and an oversized sweatshirt. She could have gone straight to bed. Instead, she stared at the empty bedroom and suddenly decided she did not want to sleep yet. The estate felt different whenever Quentin was away. Although not empty exactly, just missing something. Verity frowned at herself because that was ridiculous. She grabbed her phone and headed dow
Quentin’s expression did not change. That was what frightened Edward Sinclair most. He had seen men become angry in boardrooms. He had watched executives shout, threaten, and throw documents across tables. Quentin did none of that. He simply sat there, sitting still. And somehow, the silence felt worse. “Kingsley threatened your company,” Quentin finally said, “and your solution was to pressure Verity?” Edward’s shoulders sank slightly. “Yes.” Helena spoke quickly. “We thought she would eventually forgive him.” Quentin turned toward her. “He slept with her sister.” Helena flinched. “There was nothing to forgive while it was still happening.” “We know that now.” “You should have known it then.” Edward raised one hand. “Quentin, there is no excuse.” At least the man was finally honest. Edward continued. “I love both my daughters.” Quentin said nothing. “I always knew Judith was different from Verity. Judith is ambitious, stubborn, independent. Marriage was never somethin
Verity didn’t sleep all through. She sat on the edge of the bed in the empty Central Park West penthouse until four in the morning, staring at the photo on her phone. Kingsley and Judith. Naked. Tangled together in the very sheets she had chosen herself. The image burned behind her eyelids every ti
Verity Langford stood near the center of the gallery, smoothing down the front of her black silk dress for what felt like the hundredth time. Soft lighting illuminated her paintings on the white walls of West 24th Street in Chelsea. This was her first exhibition in two years, and the turnout had be
Verity stood in the kitchen of the Central Park West penthouse, stirring a pot of pasta she had no intention of eating. The simple act of cooking had always calmed her, but tonight the sauce simmered untouched while her mind refused to quiet. She had spent the entire day trying to push yesterday’s
Verity barely remembered the drive from her parents’ house. The moment she got home, the tears she had held back finally broke free. She sat still in her car in the driveway, sobbing so hard her chest hurt. Her phone rang. It was Monica. “Vee? Where are you? I’ve been calling you for hours.” The







