Lies, Love, And Letting Go

Vincent leaned against the doorway in a tailored dark-blue suit that sharpened the lines of his elegant, aristocratic frame. The flawless planes of his face only heightened the commanding air he carried, and the sheer height of him made the narrow hall feel even smaller. His gaze slid down to Caroline, laced with open contempt. "Go clean yourself up."

The words hit like a blow to the gut. Caroline froze, breath catching in her chest as she forced her frantic heartbeat to steady, though her face stayed ghost-white.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, bitterness roughening her voice. "You disappear for an entire month, and this is the first thing you say to me?"

His eyes turned glacial as he studied her pale features. A razor-edged sneer curved his lips. "What else? Isn't this exactly what you begged me for?"

As he spoke, his fingers moved with deliberate slowness—loosening the knot of his tie, then easing open each button of his shirt. The smooth reveal of his lean, sculpted chest only made his indifference more cutting.

Caroline pieced together the pattern in Vincent's behavior, and the realization struck her like a blow—he hadn't returned out of concern for her injury. He was back because it was her ovulation period.

The Cooper family carried a pattern: only one heir each generation. From the moment Caroline married into the family, the burden of bearing a child had been nailed onto her shoulders.

Yet, Vincent had never loved Caroline. Not once. He hadn't even touched her on their wedding night.

It took his grandmother's icy ultimatum—backed by the threat of controlling shares in the Cooper Group—to shove him into her bed.

Vincent, however, had found his own quiet way of defying the marriage. He would only come home when Caroline's fertile days rolled around, having sex with her in a mechanical and detached manner. His touch was always rough, as if the act itself disgusted him.

Bitterness rose in Caroline's throat, the image of that pink lace underwear flashing through her mind like a slap. Her stomach knotted with nausea. With a hollow ache tightening her chest, she finally lifted her gaze to Vincent, sadness weighing down every breath. "These few years must have been unpleasant for you."

Vincent's brows drew together, the muscle ticking along his jaw as impatience darkened his face.

Caroline let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Keeping a mistress and still clocking in here on schedule to 'fulfill your duty as a husband'—that must be exhausting."

For a fraction of a second, something flickered across Vincent's expression, but he smoothed it over almost immediately, his tone cutting and cold. "Since you're already aware, let's not waste any more words. Just the sight of you makes me sick."

Without another word, he closed the distance between them in long, deliberate strides. His hands clamped onto her shoulders, forcing her toward the sink with cold precision.

A jolt of panic shot through Caroline. She twisted against his grip, her voice rising. "What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!"

"Taking you," Vincent growled near her ear, his breath brushing her ear as his long, precise fingers tugged up the hem of her skirt and stripped away her underwear in one smooth, merciless motion.

A sharp chill swept over Caroline's exposed skin, and her body trembled against the sink as hot tears slipped down her cheeks. "No… Vincent, please don't do this to me…" she begged, her voice raw and trembling.

The sound of her broken plea only scraped at something inside him, stirring a flash of irritation he couldn't name. That foreign sensation coiled tight in his chest, and to smother it, a raw, reckless urge seized control of him.

"It'd be better if you didn't say anything now," he muttered, voice edged with a cold sneer. "Just moan."

With practiced, brutal impatience, he yanked at his belt and shoved forward, taking her from behind with deliberate, humiliating force.

A jagged cry tore through Caroline's throat as agony burned through her, despair swallowing what little strength she had left. "Vincent, I fucking hate you!"

His hips faltered for a split second. A shadow crossed his face before his expression hardened again. One hand clamped over her mouth, the other forcing her chin up toward the mirror. Her tear-streaked reflection stared back at her—helpless, violated.

"Hate me? Tell me—do you really hate me, or do you love me?" he hissed.

The words slithered over her skin like a taunt, and his thrusts grew harsher with every second, his movements rougher, more punishing.

For three long years, their intimacy had been reduced to a ritual bound to her ovulation cycle—a mechanical act neither tender nor warm.

And yet, their bodies had grown too accustomed to each other, every inch mapped through repetition.

Even through the sting of humiliation, a traitorous flicker of pleasure threaded through the pain, twisting deep in Caroline's gut. Her muffled sobs slipped past his fingers, turning soft and breathy, the sound achingly seductive against her will.

Self-loathing clawed at her chest as she squeezed her eyes shut, letting hot tears streak down her cheeks, powerless to stop any of it.

The sex itself felt like a brutal invasion—an assault on both her flesh and her soul.

By the time Vincent had taken his fill, dragging her from the bathroom to the bed, her skin bloomed with red marks etched like a cruel brand of ownership.

Yet, lying there beneath the weight of everything, something inside Caroline quietly snapped free. She no longer wanted to build her life around this man. Whatever little time she had left belonged to her alone.

Caroline slowly lifted her gaze to Vincent, who stood at the foot of the bed, now polished and composed as if nothing had happened. Her voice steadied, each word sharp with resolve. "Vincent, I can't do this anymore—I want a divorce."