Chapter 33

"Husband?"

Stella Valentine's lips curled into a bitter smile.

Six years of marriage—had she ever truly had a husband?

She had endured the agony of childbirth alone.

She had slept on cold sheets during her postpartum recovery alone.

The echoing footsteps in their empty mansion had always been hers and hers alone.

What was the point of clinging to such a marriage?

"Mr. Roland." She deliberately switched to a formal address. "After today, we'll be strangers. You can marry your first love, and I'll walk my own path."

The steering wheel creaked under Adrian Roland's grip. "...What if I refuse to divorce you?"

"Are you insane?"

"I haven't been sane since the day of the car accident."

"Careful, Mr. Roland. That almost sounds like you still have feelings for me."

His gaze turned icy. "Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want my father’s murderer to walk free. Divorce? Forget it."

Stella let out a soft laugh. "Then what about Lily Savigny? Can her unborn child afford to wait?"

The air in the car froze.

"My parents' lives, Martha's life—they’re all on your hands." She stared straight ahead. "If you want revenge, bring it on. I’ll fight you to the end."

The sleek silhouette of the Maybach came into view, its license plate—88888—stinging her eyes.

Once, his favorite car had been the yellow Porsche, its plate bearing her birthday.

0826.

A date he hadn’t remembered in five years.

"We’re here." The driver handed her change. "Miss, divorce isn’t something to take lightly."

She thanked him and stepped out, only for the Maybach to roar away without warning.

The moment the call connected, Adrian’s voice was sharp with irritation. "Something came up at the company. We’ll talk another day."

"Adrian Roland!" Her grip on the phone tightened. "Are you playing games with me?"

The only response was the dial tone.

......

The Bluetooth headset slammed onto the passenger seat—only to ring again instantly.

"I said I’m busy today!" Adrian snarled.

"...Adrian?" Lily’s voice wavered with hurt.

He exhaled sharply. "What is it?"

"Next week is my mother’s birthday. Will you come with me?"

"No."

"It’s on the weekend..." Her voice grew smaller. "You promised to marry me. Does that still stand?"

His throat worked before he finally said, "I’ll have that bag you wanted shipped over."

The second the call ended, the latest-model phone shattered against the wall.

Lily’s nails dug into her palms.

That bitch Stella! Why wasn’t she dead yet? If this dragged on any longer, the truth from six years ago would—

......

A week later, Room 1231 at Houston Grand Hotel.

Stella busied herself in the kitchen, the earthy aroma of free-range chicken simmering in a clay pot.

Warm hands suddenly circled her waist.

"Mr. Alistair!" She stiffened. "My mother wanted home-cooked food, so I—"

"It smells good." His breath brushed her ear, sending a shiver down her neck.

The lights abruptly cut out.

"Sorry." His voice was startlingly clear in the dark. "I can’t let you see me yet."

She felt herself being guided to a seat. "The soup—"

"I’ll handle it." He ladled a bowl with practiced ease and set it before her. "I’m used to the dark."

The scent of chicken broth grew richer in the absence of light—like emotions deliberately buried, only growing more vivid the harder they were suppressed.