Chapter 4 — You don't need her

Rowan Adair had not known silence could be so loud.

The hum of the office tower, the muted chatter of his executives, the tapping of keyboards, it all grated on him as if nails scraped against glass. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table in Adair Corporation’s boardroom, but the numbers on the screen blurred together. Growth projections, quarterly revenue, international deals, normally his oxygen. Today, nothing stuck.

What replayed instead was the look on her face.

Marcelline’s calm smile.

The envelope sliding across the table.

“Divorce papers.”

His chest tightened.

Across from him, the CFO cleared his throat nervously. “Sir, regarding the Gapore deal...”

“Push it,” Rowan cut him off sharply.

The man blinked. “P-Push? But the investors are...”

“I said push it.” Rowan’s voice snapped like a whip. The room went dead quiet. He rarely lost composure, but today… every word tasted bitter.

From the corner, Selene shifted delicately, legs crossed, her perfume wafting through the space. She had insisted on sitting in, as she always did, perched like a queen over matters that weren’t hers.

She leaned forward, her red lips curving into a practiced pout. “Rowan, darling, you’re tense. You shouldn’t let that woman get under your skin.”

That woman.

He didn’t answer, didn’t even look at her. Instead, he dismissed the executives with a curt gesture. They scrambled to leave, relief flooding their faces. When the doors shut, only Rowan and Selene remained.

Selene rose gracefully, circling behind him. “Rowan,” she purred, fingers brushing his shoulders. “She embarrassed you. Nine years of being dead weight, and now she thinks she can walk away like some heroine? Don’t let her get to you.”

Rowan stiffened. His jaw clenched.

Marcelline’s eyes had not been the eyes of a desperate woman clawing for relevance. They had been steady. Final.

Selene’s hands pressed harder into his shoulders. “You don’t need her. You have me.”

“Enough.”

The single word sliced the air. Selene froze.

Rowan turned his head, cold eyes locking onto hers. “If you’re here to mock her, leave.”

Her mouth fell open, shock flickering. In nine years, he had never raised his voice to her. Not once.

“Rowan…” Her laugh was brittle. “You’re not serious. She...she humiliated you. I’m only reminding you that...”

“Get. Out.”

The authority in his tone, the steel that made empires kneel, now turned on her. Selene faltered, mask slipping. She grabbed her bag, huffing, and stormed out, slamming the glass door behind her.

Rowan exhaled, running a hand through his dark hair. For the first time in years, his office felt unbearably empty.

*****

Marcelline stepped out of the black Maybach, heels clicking against polished marble. The doorman bowed low, opening the entrance of the luxury penthouse tower.

“Welcome home, Lady Odette.”

Her lips curved faintly. It had been years since she’d heard that name spoken with reverence.

The elevator opened directly into her penthouse, a vast expanse of glass and silk, overlooking the glittering skyline. Unlike the Adair mansion’s cold opulence, this space breathed warmth and power.

Inside, loyal staff waited. Henri, her chief of staff, approached, bowing slightly. “Madam, everything is ready as you instructed. The press have not yet caught wind of your return.”

“Good,” Marcelline said, slipping off her coat. “Let them simmer a little longer. Noise is wasted without timing.”

Henri’s eyes flickered with admiration. “As expected of you.”

She moved through the suite, fingers trailing over the grand piano, the bookshelves, the fresh orchids placed at every corner. Her home. Her world.

No longer silent.

No longer invisible.

Her phone buzzed. A single notification: Divorce filing received by Adair counsel.

She smiled. Rowan would be reading them right about now...

She sat at her vanity, unpinning her hair. Long waves cascaded down, catching the city lights. For nine years, she had been painted as meek, pliant, forgettable. Tonight, her reflection showed none of that.

Henri entered quietly. “Madam, the stockholders of Odette International are awaiting your directive. What would you have me do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Tonight, let the world sleep peacefully.”

Henri hesitated. “And Adair?”

Marcelline’s lips curved, cold and amused. “Adair will crumble soon enough. For now…” Her fingers traced the divorce papers on her desk. “Let Rowan stew. He has always been a man who thrives on control. Let him taste the absence of it.”

*****

“Impossible!” Rowan slammed the papers onto his desk.

His lawyer flinched. “Sir, I reviewed them thrice. They are… airtight. Mrs Adair, pardon, Lady Odette, filed with meticulous precision. Every clause is unassailable. Assets untouched, Adair Corporation unaffected, but the terms grant her complete freedom, immunity from interference, and sole discretion over personal matters.”

Rowan’s hand curled into a fist. “You’re telling me she prepared this?”

The lawyer adjusted his glasses nervously. “For months, perhaps years. Sir, she… she must have had counsel outside our reach. The signature notarizations alone...”

Rowan didn’t hear the rest. His mind was elsewhere.

Months? Years?

All this time, she had been planning. Quietly, beneath his nose, while cooking his meals, waiting for him late at night, enduring Selene’s cruelty.

He had thought she was clinging.

But she had been biding her time.

A bitter laugh escaped him, low and humorless.

The lawyer hesitated. “Sir… if I may… she is not the woman we assumed.”

Rowan’s gaze snapped up, dangerous. The man swallowed his words and excused himself.

Left alone, Rowan stared at the papers again. The ink blurred. His chest tightened, not from anger, but from something far more unsettling.

Fear.

Not of losing her. But of realizing he had never known her at all.

Rowan didn’t sleep.

The mansion felt cavernous without her quiet presence. Her perfume lingered in the halls, faint but maddening. The dining room sat empty. He poured himself a drink but didn’t touch it.

Nine years.

Nine years of her cooking his favorites, warming his home, absorbing every cruelty in silence. He had thought she was weak.

But last night, when she smiled at Selene, sharp and fearless, and whispered, Sweetheart, I was never the nobody. You were...

Rowan had felt something he hadn’t in years.

Threatened.

And intrigued.

His phone buzzed. A message from Selene: Come over. Forget her.

He ignored her.

Instead, he opened his browser and searched. Marcelline Odette.

No results. Not recent, not public. As if her existence had been deliberately scrubbed.

But now? Now she had filed a divorce that no ordinary woman could have orchestrated.

Rowan leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.

Who the hell was his wife?