He had never done that before. Not once in all our years together. He had been gentle, patient—the man who held my hand during long drives, brought me coffee every morning, kissed my forehead before work.
We had laughed over trivial things, dreamed about the future, debated names for our children. I had believed his touch meant safety, his voice meant love. And now, the same hand that once wiped my tears was the one that drew them.
“What did you just say?” he shouted, voice laced with fury. “Divorce me? You think you can just walk away like that? My family would never approve!”
My cheek burned as I blinked. “Adrian—”
He stepped closer, jaw tight, breath hot with anger. “Is this about wanting freedom? So you can flirt behind my back? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
I frowned. “Flirt? Me?”
He scoffed bitterly. “Yes! You’re cheating on me, Vivienne!”
Disbelief washed over me. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“Seraphine told me,” he said flatly.
I let out a bitter, short laugh. “Of course she did.”
He glared. “Don’t laugh! You think this is funny?”