Chapter 3 — Is that what you want?

Rowan’s hand hovered above the envelope, his jaw tight, his cold eyes unreadable. Selene’s laughter rang out sharp and brittle, filling the void.

“Oh, Marcelline, you’re hilarious,” Selene drawled, leaning lazily against her chair. “Nine years of hiding in the shadows, begging for scraps, and now you, what? Decide you’ve grown a spine? Don’t make me laugh. Without Rowan, you’re nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Her words dripped with venom, but what cut deeper than any insult was Rowan’s silence. He didn’t defend his wife. He didn’t even blink.

Marcelline breathed in slowly, forcing her shoulders to stay relaxed. “We’ll see.”

Marcelline crossed the room toward a polished oak cabinet by the wall. Tucked discreetly at its base was a small box—plain, worn, the only container for the possessions she had chosen to take.

Her hand barely brushed the handle when Selene’s voice lashed out.

“Stop right there.”

Marcelline stilled, turning slowly. Selene’s lips curved into a cruel smile, her perfectly manicured finger pointing at the box.

“Drop it.”

Marcelline tilted her head, gaze cool. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Selene purred, rising from her chair, her heels clicking against marble as she approached. “Everything in this house was bought by Rowan. Every silk, every spoon, every stone you touched… it all belongs to him. That box, that dress, even the shoes on your feet. You don’t get to walk out carrying his things like some thief.”

Her eyes gleamed with malice. “In fact… take off that dress. Right now. We all know he bought it.”

A collective gasp rippled through the servants. One of the maids clutched her apron, trembling. Even the chef, usually unflappable, looked away in shame.

Marcelline’s pulse thrummed in her ears, but outwardly, she remained serene. She met Selene’s challenge head-on, her lips curving in a cold, dangerous smile.

“Is that what you want, Selene? To see me stripped bare before your audience?”

Selene’s smile widened, satisfaction blazing in her eyes. “It’s only fair. Don’t worry, Rowan doesn’t care what you look like. He never did.”

The words sliced through Marcelline like razors, but still Rowan said nothing. His silence was the loudest betrayal of all.

“I will leave the box and go with my belongings.” she said firmly as if she wasn't just told to strip.

Marcelline inhaled, fingers brushing the clasp of her coat. For a heartbeat, it looked as though she might comply. She slid the coat off her shoulders with a slow, deliberate grace. The fabric slipped down her arms, pooling at her elbows.

Selene’s breath hitched, excitement flickering in her gaze. She wanted humiliation. She wanted victory.

But before Marcelline could take the next step, before the room could witness her stripping herself of dignity, the night roared alive.

Whup-whup-whup-whup—

The thunderous chop of rotor blades shattered the tense silence. The grand chandeliers rattled overhead, glasses quivered on the table. Servants gasped, rushing to the windows as a sleek black helicopter descended onto the Adair estate’s private lawn.

Wind tore through the garden, scattering rose petals and rattling silverware. Curtains billowed violently as the helicopter’s spotlight swept across the dining hall.

Selene stumbled back, shielding her face from the sudden gale. “What—what is this?” she stammered, her triumph evaporating.

The helicopter door slid open with military precision. A tall man in a sharp black suit stepped out, his polished shoes untouched by the chaos of swirling dust. Behind him, uniformed staff in matching attire stood at attention.

He strode confidently toward the mansion entrance, his voice amplified over the din.

“Miss Odette,” he called smoothly, bowing with impeccable respect. “Your car was delayed in traffic. We brought the helicopter instead.”

Every servant froze. Every whisper died.

Selene’s eyes went wide. Miss Odette?

Marcelline calmly slid her coat back onto her shoulders, the motion fluid, almost regal. She turned to Selene, her smile finally reaching her eyes—icy, devastating.

“Looks like I won’t be walking out in rags after all,” she said softly, her tone laced with mockery.

Selene’s face blanched. “Y-you...”

Marcelline tilted her head, leaning in ever so slightly. “Careful, Selene. It’s embarrassing to beg for scraps when the feast was never meant for you.”

The servants stifled shocked gasps. Some even dared to glance at Rowan, whose eyes had sharpened, a flicker of something dangerous, something unsettled, breaking through his cold façade.

Marcelline straightened, turning her gaze on her husband one last time.

“Rowan,” she said, her voice quiet, steady, yet carrying the weight of finality. “Nine years are over. This is goodbye.”

She didn’t wait for his reply.

With unhurried steps, she walked toward the open doors, her heels clicking against marble. The suited butler bowed low as she passed, offering his arm to guide her toward the waiting helicopter.

Wind whipped her hair as she ascended the steps into the aircraft, never once looking back.

Rowan’s hand twitched against the table, his knuckles white. At last, he reached for the envelope. His fingers trembled as he lifted it, the bold black letters, Divorce Agreement, staring back at him.

The helicopter blades roared louder, drowning out Selene’s frantic voice.

“Rowan! Rowan, say something! Stop her! You can’t just let her walk away like this! She’s bluffing, it’s all a game...”

Her words were swallowed by the storm as the helicopter lifted off, carrying Marcelline into the night sky.

Papers fluttered from the butler’s hands, caught in the downdraft. The divorce agreement slipped free, tumbling across the courtyard. Rowan caught it at the last second, the crumpled pages clenched tight in his fist.

But no matter how tightly he held them, the truth slipped through his grasp.

For the first time in nine years, Rowan Adair had lost control.

And Marcelline Odette had finally taken back hers.