Chapter 3: His Wreckage

“I will make sure I fuck you so good that you'll stop fantasizing about another man.”

Tristan’s venomous words hit Lyra like a physical blow—a toxic threat wrapped in a dark, humiliating temptation.

He hadn’t touched her like this in over a year and a half. The last time they had sex—right before she left for the trip—had lasted less than a minute. He’d said he was tired, rolled away, and left her aching for an intimacy she had long since stopped expecting.

“Get off me!” she shouted, shoving at his chest. He barely budged. Instead, he forced her legs apart and pinned her harder against the wall.

“I still own you,” he growled.

He ripped her shirt open—buttons scattered across the tiled floor. The sudden exposure sent an unwanted jolt through her as he buried his face between her breasts; he clamped his mouth over her nipple, sucking with a rough, punishing intensity that felt less like passion and more like a predator marking its territory.

“God, it hurts!” Lyra gasped, her hands tangling into his hair as a dizzying wave of pleasure spiked straight down her spine. “Shit—”

A chaotic storm of emotions tore through her.

(What the hell am I doing?)

Just hours ago, she was reeling from the wreckage of his infidelity, and now she was letting him ravage her like a wild animal cornering its prey.

Without lifting his mouth from her breast, Tristan shoved her panties aside and plunged two thick, heavy fingers straight into her without a word of warning.

“Fuck—” they both groaned at once.

“You're already dripping wet,” Tristan rasped, pumping his fingers in and out with relentless friction. “I bet you were soaking wet just looking at that fucking stranger in the hospital, weren't you?”

“Tristan… stop… I’m preg—” The word dissolved into a moan as he curled his fingers and drove them harder.

“Already dreaming about spreading your legs for him, huh?” 

He didn’t hear her. Or he didn’t care.

(Tell him. Just say it. But if I do… will he keep me only because of the baby? Or will he hate me more for tying him down?)

“Was that why you were so desperate to get away?” He sped up his rhythm, driving his fingers faster and harder until the room echoed with wet, slapping sounds, and her slickness dripped down her thighs.

“Oh, heavens… take it easy,” Lyra cried out, completely torn between shoving him away and arching her back to chase the friction.

“I'm going to fix you.”

Before she could draw another breath, he grabbed her by the hips and spun her around, shoving her face-first against the cold drywall. Her cheek pressed hard against the plaster, forcing her eyes wide open—directly onto the divorce papers resting on the counter across the room like a silent, mocking executioner.

“Oh, fuck—Tristan!” Lyra shrieked as he slammed straight into her from behind, driving himself deep inside her with wild, frantic thrusts.

“You'll take everything I give you!” he roared, hooking a hand into her hair and yanking her head back as he pounded into her with ruthless force. Her face scraped against the wall, a dull pain blooming across her skin.

“You're… you're hurting me—”

“Shut up,” Tristan grunted, accelerating past the point of reason. 

Every brutal, deep stroke pulled a raw, broken cry from her throat, scattering what little dignity she had left.

“You are still my fucking wife!” 

He fucked her like a stranger, not a husband of six years. Hard, deep, almost angry. Lyra’s thoughts spun even as her body betrayed her.

How can a wife be treated like this while his new woman gets the bed?

(How am I supposed to leave when I have nothing?)

The cold, hard truth slammed into her: she had signed away every safety net in a prenuptial agreement just to prove to Tristan that she hadn't married him for his money. Every late night, every deal she closed, every sacrifice had gone into his company. If the divorce went through, she would walk away with nothing—and a child to raise.

The realization cut deeper than his thrusts. Still, her body clenched around him, spasming hard as an orgasm tore through her. She bit her lip to muffle the sound, but his name still slipped out.

“Please… too much…” she whimpered into the wall.

Suddenly, Tristan’s rhythm hitched. His grip tightened into a bruising hold on her hips.

“Holy fuck!” he roared, driving deep one last time and flooding her with a hot rush of heavy heat. Lyra shattered right alongside him, trembling uncontrollably against the cold wall as she swallowed back her sobs.

For several long, suffocating minutes, they stayed locked together, breathing heavily in the silence. Then, without a word, Tristan pulled out, stepping back to zip his trousers. The raw, wild lust vanished from his face, replaced by a cold, arrogant mask.

“Fix yourself up,” he ordered, adjusting his cuffs without looking at her. “Bianca is moving in today. You'll be staying in the guest room from now on.”

“What?” Lyra stared at him, entirely paralyzed by the sheer audacity. Guest room. In the home she built with him. 

He left without another word. 

She remained against the wall, shirt torn, body aching, the evidence of him still sliding down her thighs.

(I have a child growing inside me. A prenup that leaves me with nothing. And a husband who only wants me when another man looks at me too long. How do I survive this?)

Meanwhile, across the city, an entirely different kind of disaster was unfolding at Helios Holdings.

Employees who once moved through the marble lobby with confident smiles now hurried past with lowered heads and phones pressed to their ears. The overnight stock reports had been worse than the day before. Again.

Dinggg

The private executive elevator doors slid open with a sharp hiss.

Absolute silence fell across the floor. 

Laurent Crawford stepped out dressed in black—black suit, black tie, no briefcase, no security. He didn’t need either.

People parted instinctively. He walked forward with unhurried purpose, expression unreadable.

His breathless assistant hurried out behind him, practically jogging to keep up.

“Sir, you're supposed to be on strict medical leave from the hospital,” she stammered, breathless. “You shouldn't be—”

“Are you coming?” Laurent cut her off, throwing a single, razor-sharp glance over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.” She clamped her mouth shut, biting back her frustration, terrified of sparking the CEO’s wrath.

Without slowing his pace, Laurent pushed open the heavy glass doors of the boardroom. The entire executive board stood frozen around the mahogany table. He didn't bother telling them to sit. Instead, he swept straight to the head of the table, his hand slamming down onto the top financial report.

His dark eyes swept slowly across their pale, sweating faces one by one, a dangerous scowl pulling at his lips.

“I need a name. I need to know who is bleeding us for millions, and I need a complete solution right now,” Laurent's voice dropped into a chilling, quiet menace.

“Or I will fire all of you.”