His Contract Wife, His Greatest Mistake

Don Vittorio Rowan regarded her in silence after she assured him she would deal with Alexander on her own. His sharp eyes searched her face as though weighing whether she understood the consequences of what she was about to do. Finally, the rigid line of his mouth softened. “So be it,” he said at last, resting his clasped hands over the polished mahogany desk. “If Don Alexander does not object, the Commission will not interfere with your departure.” Lillian dipped her chin respectfully. “Thank you, Don Vittorio. I’ll speak with him personally. He’ll agree.” She collected the contract sealed with crimson wax and left the council office with steady, unhurried steps. The second the heavy double doors closed behind her, that calm exterior fractured. Projecting certainty in front of the old Don had been manageable. Persuading Alexander would be something else entirely. Their wedding—an event the entire underworld anticipated—was less than a month away. Invitations had already circulated among allied families. Security arrangements were in motion. Caterers, musicians, political guests—everything was being prepared for what would be the most powerful union in the city that year. There had once been a time when she counted down the days with quiet excitement. Now she tracked them like someone marking time before execution. Only days earlier, she had tried to discuss the wedding arrangements with Alexander. He dismissed it with a flick of his hand. “The family is dealing with territorial pressure and federal heat,” he said coolly. “We don’t need theatrics. We’ll sign the marriage documents privately before the Commission. No spectacle. No unnecessary attention.” She had forced herself to nod, convincing herself that responsibility weighed heavily on him. Until later that night. She had stepped onto the balcony outside their shared suite, intending to clear her thoughts, when his voice drifted up from the garden below. “Don’t worry, Scarlett,” he murmured, his tone low and almost indulgent. “There won’t be a public wedding. If I decide against it, no one will challenge me.” The softness in his voice cut deeper than any insult ever could. In that moment, understanding settled in with brutal clarity. It wasn’t law enforcement pressure or rival families that made him avoid a public ceremony. It was Scarlett. The realization did not ignite anger. It hollowed her out. What they had—if it could even be called an engagement—felt less like a promise and more like an arrangement of convenience. Leaving the De Luca estate no longer felt like running away. It felt like reclaiming herself. But would he allow her to go? Lost in thought as she crossed the marble courtyard, she failed to notice someone stepping directly into her path. She collided hard against a solid chest. A startled gasp escaped her as her heel twisted sharply against the stone. Pain shot through her ankle, and she would have fallen if a strong arm hadn’t caught her around the waist. “What’s wrong with you?” Alexander’s voice was firm, edged with irritation. “I called your name three times. You didn’t even look at me.” Even after years at his side, being held so close made her pulse react traitorously. Warmth crept into her face as she lifted her eyes to his. There was no suspicion in his expression. No indication that she had just secured permission to walk away from him. “I was thinking about work,” she replied lightly. “There’s been a lot to handle with the accounts.” His gaze lingered, measuring her words, but he didn’t press. Instead, he lowered himself in front of her and gently lifted the fabric of her trousers to inspect her ankle. His fingers pressed along the swollen joint with surprising care. She inhaled sharply at the sting. Without hesitation, he slipped one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. “This isn’t nothing,” he muttered. “You’ve strained it. You shouldn’t be walking.” Several guards stationed along the courtyard perimeter glanced discreetly in their direction. Lillian stiffened immediately. “Put me down,” she whispered. “Everyone’s staring.” He ignored her entirely. When she shifted as though to free herself, he gave her a light warning tap against her thigh. “Stop moving. You’re hurt.” Despite everything—despite the anger, the humiliation—her body still responded instinctively to his proximity. She despised that weakness. He had barely taken a few steps toward the main house when his phone vibrated inside his jacket. He paused, adjusting his hold on her as he answered. A soft, almost syrupy voice carried faintly through the speaker. “Alexander? Are you home? I’m not feeling well. I think I might have a fever. Could you come check on me?” Scarlett. Lillian didn’t need to see the caller ID to know. She watched the subtle shift in his expression—the tension easing from his features, his eyes warming. A faint smile touched his lips. Lillian dropped her gaze and began counting silently. One. Two. Three. He stopped walking before she reached ten. Slowly—almost carefully—he set her back on her feet. “There’s something urgent,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Someone inside needs me.” Of course they did. She inclined her head slightly. “I understand.” For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, his hand still lightly supporting her elbow. Then he withdrew it. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the mansion, already lowering his voice as he continued speaking into the phone. Lillian remained where he left her, the pain in her ankle pulsing steadily beneath her skin. But the ache in her chest was quieter now. Clearer. The choice she had made in Don Vittorio’s office no longer wavered. If she walked away from this empire, nothing here would truly try to stop her.

Alexander had already put several meters between them when his pace faltered. For the briefest second, Lillian thought he might turn around and come back to her. He didn’t. Instead, he angled his body halfway toward her, his expression detached, as if reconsidering something trivial. “You trained in emergency response, Lillian,” he said evenly. “It’s just a sprain. You can handle it yourself, can’t you?” Just a sprain? Moments earlier, he had declared it serious enough to carry her across the courtyard. Perhaps severity depended on who was injured. A faint, humorless smile tugged at her lips but never fully formed. In Alexander’s world, some people were priceless investments. Others were operational assets—replaceable. A memory rose unbidden, tightening her throat. Years ago, during a quiet summer evening at the De Luca estate, she had nicked her finger while slicing fruit in the kitchen. The cut hadn’t even bled properly—just a thin red line near her nail. Alexander had reacted as if she’d been shot. He had lifted her straight onto the sofa, chastised her for being careless, and insisted on disinfecting and bandaging the tiny wound himself. For the rest of the evening, he hovered at her side, refusing to let her so much as lift a glass of water. Back then, she mistook that intensity for devotion. She thought that kind of attention lasted. Now, standing there with her ankle swelling and him debating whether she was worth a delay, she felt something inside her split cleanly in two. Her eyes burned. She angled her face away before he could notice. As she shifted slightly, her gaze landed on the edge of his coat. One button was missing. The sight pulled her into another memory. A week earlier, the Finance Division had hosted a reception in a neighboring territory. She’d drunk more wine than she should have—rare for her. By the time the evening ended, the chauffeurs were gone, and the roads were nearly empty. After waiting outside in the cold longer than she cared to admit, she finally called him. “Alexander,” she had said, her words softened by alcohol and fatigue, “there’s no driver left. Could you pick me up?” On the other end, she heard movement—footsteps, faint music. And Scarlett’s laughter in the background. “I’m out with Scarlett,” he replied briskly. “It’s late. I’m not sending her home alone. Wait a while. I’ll drop her off first. If you can’t, just find another car and expense it.” He hadn’t paused to register that she had already told him there was no other car. Scarlett’s safety had been non-negotiable. Lillian’s had been flexible. In the end, she walked. Nearly twenty kilometers through dim back roads, heels blistering, dress catching on low branches, pride dissolving with every step. When headlights finally appeared behind her, a sleek black Audi A8 slowed to a stop. Alexander stepped out, irritation radiating from him. “What are you doing?” he demanded sharply. “I drove past the location you sent three times. You weren’t there.” “I waited, but there was no—” she began. He didn’t let her finish. His fingers closed around her wrist, not gently, and he ushered her into the car with controlled force. The door slammed hard enough that something metallic clattered to the floor. Later, when she found a small black button near the passenger seat, she realized it had torn off his coat during that outburst. That night had been the last time she told herself comforting lies. After that, she understood her position clearly. Dragging herself back to the present, she lifted her chin and looked at him with measured calm. “I work crisis response too,” she said quietly. “I’ll take care of it. You should go. No need to keep… your priority… waiting.” Whatever hesitation lingered in his posture vanished at her composed tone. He stepped closer and brushed a brief kiss against her forehead—efficient, almost perfunctory. “Rest,” he said. “I’ll check on you later.” The gesture felt rehearsed. Routine. She nodded just as mechanically. Without another glance in her direction, he turned and headed toward the main house, already focused elsewhere. Only when he disappeared from sight did she straighten fully. Her fingers rose instinctively to wipe the moisture at the corners of her eyes before anyone passing through the courtyard could see. She tried to calculate how many times he had walked away mid-sentence because Scarlett called. She lost count. And that soft, breathy tone Scarlett used earlier? Lillian had spent years managing crisis rooms and field injuries. She knew the sound of genuine illness. There had been no weakness in Scarlett’s voice. Yet Alexander responded every time as if summoned by instinct. Carefully redistributing her weight, Lillian began limping toward the medical wing. Without adrenaline masking it, the pain in her ankle flared sharply. A few soldiers leaning against the exterior wall noticed her approach and smirked knowingly. “Careful, future Donna,” one called out playfully. “Save that energy for the wedding night.” Another laughed. “Yeah, if the Don can’t make tomorrow’s inspection because he’s exhausted, we’ll know who to blame.” Their teasing carried no malice—just assumption. She offered a restrained smile, lifting her hands lightly. “Nothing scandalous,” she replied, raising her pant leg just enough to reveal the swelling. “I wasn’t paying attention. That’s all.” They nodded, still grinning, clearly unconvinced. Lowering the fabric again, she pushed open the door to her private office inside the infirmary. It clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound. In the silence, she exhaled slowly—deep and steady. Soon, she told herself. Very soon, none of this would belong to her anymore.

By the time Lillian finally lowered herself into the leather chair inside her private office and rolled up the fabric around her ankle, the damage was undeniable. The skin had darkened into a deep, mottled violet. The swelling had spread far beyond the initial twist. Walking across the courtyard earlier—out of pride rather than necessity—had clearly made it worse. Dr. Brooks, who had been reviewing medical files at the adjacent desk, glanced over and sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s not a mild strain,” he muttered. Then, without hesitation, he motioned to a nurse passing by. “Go inform Don Alexander. If the future Donna is limping around like this and we ignored it, we’ll be the ones paying for it later.” Lillian’s head snapped up immediately. “No—please, don’t call him—” But the nurse was already halfway down the corridor before she could finish. Her shoulders dropped. After a moment of hesitation, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. She typed quickly. Someone saw my ankle and sent word to you. I tried to stop them. Please don’t turn it into an issue. She stared at the screen, waiting for the familiar vibration. Nothing. Minutes stretched. When the nurse returned, her earlier brisk confidence had disappeared. She kept her eyes politely lowered. “Don Alexander said he knows,” she began cautiously. “But Lady Scarlett is in his office. They’re discussing something important. He didn’t say he would come.” The air in the room seemed to thin. Lillian lowered her gaze to the desk, focusing on the polished wood as if it demanded her full concentration. “He must be busy,” she replied quietly. The words scraped against her throat. Her phone buzzed in her palm. A voice message. She opened it immediately. Alexander’s voice filtered through the speaker—measured, composed, distant. “I saw it.” That was all. No concern. No follow-up question. No instruction to stay seated or apply ice. Just acknowledgment. It felt louder than silence. Before the weight of it could settle completely, the receptionist’s voice echoed from the front desk. “Ms. Moretti? A client specifically requested you.” The interruption felt like rescue. “I’m on my way,” she called back, pushing herself up too quickly. Pain flared viciously through her ankle, forcing a quiet hiss between her teeth. She needed movement. Needed distraction. The last time she had felt this suffocating urge to escape had been during her engagement banquet. That night had been meant to publicly confirm her position at Alexander’s side. The city’s most influential figures had gathered. Cameras. Champagne. Expectations. He arrived two hours late. “An urgent matter came up,” he had explained coolly, as if she hadn’t spent the entire evening fielding curious glances and subtle questions alone. For her, it had been a milestone. For him, it had been optional. Later, whispers reached her through discreet channels. He had been seen leaving the city that afternoon—with Scarlett. She hadn’t asked for confirmation. She didn’t need it. Now, adjusting her white coat with steady hands, she forced herself down the hallway despite the pulsing pain. The rest of the afternoon dissolved into routine. Patients came and went. She stitched minor cuts, adjusted prescriptions, offered reassurances. Her voice remained calm, professional. She didn’t allow her thoughts to wander. When dusk finally settled beyond the tall windows, painting the skyline in fading gold, she returned to her office and eased into her chair. As she stood again to leave, sharp agony shot up her leg, nearly buckling her knees. She looked down. The swelling had worsened considerably—tight, inflamed, neglected. She hadn’t treated it at all. A weary exhale escaped her. Earlier, Alexander had said he would pick her up. So she waited. The building gradually quieted. Day staff left. Night shift replaced them. Conversations faded to murmurs. Still nothing. No call. No message. No footsteps approaching her door. The silence pressed heavier with each passing minute. Finally, she braced herself against the desk and forced herself upright. Fine. She would go to his office instead. She managed only a few uneven steps before her ankle throbbed so violently that cold sweat prickled along her spine. She leaned against the wall, breathing shallowly. This was foolish. With trembling fingers, she retrieved her phone and called him. He answered on the second ring. “Yes?” His voice was even. Neutral. Almost relaxed. For a fleeting second, she wondered if he had genuinely forgotten. If his promise had been that insignificant. She swallowed, pride burning painfully in her chest. “You said earlier you’d come get me after you finished,” she said softly. “I’m still at the clinic.”

There was nothing but silence on the other end of the call. For several drawn-out seconds, Lillian heard only the faint sound of Alexander’s breathing through the receiver. When he finally responded, there was hesitation in his voice—subtle, but unmistakable. “Lillian… I apologize. Something urgent came up at the estate, so I left earlier than planned. Stay there. I’ll return to pick you up.” As he spoke, background noise filtered through—cutlery clinking softly against porcelain, a chair shifting across the floor. Then came Scarlett’s voice, light and cheerful, unmistakably close to him. “Alexander! Dinner’s almost ready. Where are you going?” Lillian shut her eyes for a brief moment, pressing her fingertips against her temple as if to steady herself. A thin smile curved her lips, brittle and faint. “It’s alright,” she said evenly. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll arrange my own ride.” This time, he didn’t hesitate. “…Fine,” he agreed. “Take your time. I prepared something special tonight. It’ll still be warm when you get home.” The line disconnected. Lillian remained standing in the dim hallway, the silence afterward heavier than the words exchanged. Her chest felt strangely hollow, yet the ache within it deepened rather than dulled. Her hand slipped into her coat pocket, brushing against the folded transfer contract she had hidden there. How exactly was she going to convince him to approve her departure? She leaned her shoulder briefly against the cool stone wall before forcing herself forward. Every step sent a sharp, punishing throb through her injured ankle. By the time she reached the main road beyond the clinic’s gates, sweat clung to her skin despite the evening chill. After what felt like an eternity, she managed to flag down a passing taxi. The moment she lowered herself into the back seat, exhaustion washed over her. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, her reflection in the window pale. The driver studied her through the rearview mirror. “Miss, you don’t look well. Shouldn’t you call your boyfriend to come get you?” Lillian let her head rest lightly against the glass, releasing a soft breath. A quiet, humorless laugh slipped from her lips. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “Only a fiancé.” “Then call him,” the driver urged kindly. “You look like you might pass out. No fiancé would want his woman struggling like that.” She stared out at the passing streetlights, their glow streaking across the window. “That would be ideal,” she replied calmly. “Unfortunately, he’s busy… entertaining someone else.” The driver’s brows drew together. “That doesn’t sound very reliable.” A faint chuckle escaped her. “Reliable?” she echoed softly. “I’d call it selective attention.” Every detail of their upcoming wedding—the guest list of allied families, the layout of the reception hall, the redesign of their shared suite—had been arranged solely by her. When she once asked for his opinion, Alexander had responded flatly, “You’re better at this. Why consult me over minor details? Handle it.” Yet once everything was finalized, he criticized nearly every choice. It was Scarlett who later “adjusted” the décor—until Alexander finally approved. The memory left her feeling drained beyond measure. The taxi eventually pulled up to the gates of the De Luca estate. From the entrance to the main doors was only a short walk—mere minutes under normal circumstances. Tonight, it took her nearly thirty. Each step burned. When she finally reached the front door, she instinctively reached into her bag for her keys. Her fingers met nothing. She stilled. Then she knocked. Several seconds passed before the door opened. Alexander stood there, irritation already etched into his features. “Where are your keys?” he asked sharply. “Why are you knocking instead of letting yourself in?” She stepped past him without answering at first, moving carefully to avoid putting too much weight on her ankle. Only once she reached the living room did she set down her bag and retrieve her keyring. “My spare key?” she said calmly. “You took it last week and gave it to Scarlett. Don’t you recall?” His expression shifted as memory surfaced. The sharp edge of annoyance dulled, replaced by faint awkwardness. “I’ve had a lot on my plate,” he replied. “You could’ve made another copy. You manage these things.” Lillian offered a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She had stopped expecting equal consideration a long time ago. When it came to Scarlett, everything required urgency. When it came to her, everything could wait. Steadying herself lightly against the wall, she made her way toward the dining area. Scarlett was already seated at the table. The moment she spotted Lillian, she rose with exaggerated delight. “Lillian, you’re finally back!” Scarlett exclaimed brightly, hurrying forward and slipping her arm through Lillian’s as though they were intimate friends. Her smile was wide and sweet, almost childlike, as she leaned in with theatrical warmth.

“I’m really sorry, Lillian,” Scarlett said with bright sweetness, though the apology felt rehearsed rather than sincere. “I was starving and couldn’t wait anymore.” She slipped her arm through Lillian’s as if nothing were amiss, guiding her toward the dining table with effortless familiarity. Lillian moved slowly, each step sending a pulse of pain through her injured ankle. When they reached the table, she stopped. Most of the dishes were already cleared out—only scraps remained, plates half-cold and abandoned. Whatever Alexander had claimed to prepare “especially” for tonight was long gone. She took in the sight without speaking. A heaviness settled in her chest, dull but persistent. Disappointment. A sting of humiliation. Something quieter beneath it—something she refused to name. “It’s alright,” she said at last, her tone steady. “I’m not very hungry anyway. You two can finish. I’ll rest.” Before either of them could study her expression, she turned and headed toward the staircase, gripping the railing to steady herself. Behind her, Scarlett’s voice rang out with exaggerated concern. “Lillian? Are you upset because I started without you?” Alexander’s low laugh followed. “You overthink everything,” he said casually. “She twisted her ankle earlier. She’s uncomfortable, that’s all.” There was an ease in his voice—a softness. She didn’t need to look to know he had reached out to ruffle Scarlett’s hair the way he often did. But she did glance back. Just for a second. His hand rested lightly in Scarlett’s hair, the gesture instinctive, unguarded. Lillian’s lips parted as if to speak. In the end, she said nothing. Only a soft breath left her as she continued upstairs and closed the bedroom door behind her. The quiet inside felt suffocating. Her mind replayed the day relentlessly. One phone call from Scarlett had been enough for Alexander to leave without hesitation. Meanwhile, she had endured the clinic alone, waited alone, returned alone. The contrast was impossible to ignore. She forced the thought aside and focused instead on the immediate issue—her ankle. Opening drawers and cabinets in the master bathroom, she searched for medical supplies. Nothing. After a few minutes, she remembered a secondary first-aid kit that had once been stored in the guest room. Moving carefully, she made her way down the hall and crouched with difficulty near the closet. There it was. A thin layer of dust covered it. Inside, she found little more than an old bottle of antiseptic—well past its expiration date. She hesitated only briefly before taking it. As she stood, she noticed something else. The guest room looked freshly arranged. The bed neatly made. Clean sheets tucked with care. She didn’t linger on that observation. Back in the master bedroom, she lowered herself carefully onto the edge of the bed and rolled up her pant leg. The swelling had worsened. The skin looked tight and inflamed. She soaked a cotton pad with the antiseptic and pressed it gently to the bruised area. Pain shot upward instantly. A sharp gasp escaped her. “You shouldn’t be using that.” The voice from the doorway made her freeze. She looked up. Alexander stood there, holding a fresh bottle of medicinal liniment. “That antiseptic expired months ago,” he said, stepping inside. “Didn’t you check? You’re still careless sometimes.” His tone wasn’t harsh—just faintly critical. He moved closer and crouched in front of her, reaching toward her ankle. Instinctively, she pulled her leg back. His hand paused midair. “You don’t want me to touch you?” he asked, his voice level. The bedside lamp cast shadows across his face, making his expression difficult to read. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear to avoid meeting his eyes. “That’s not it,” she said quietly. “Scarlett’s downstairs. You should stay with her. Just leave the liniment here. I can handle it.” He studied her for a moment longer. Then, without warning, he grasped her ankle firmly and guided it into his lap. The sudden movement made her flinch. “Alexander—” she began, but the sharp sting cut off the rest of her words. When he saw the full extent of the swelling, his expression shifted. The faint impatience vanished. “…I’m sorry,” he said softly. The words stunned her. In three years, she could not remember hearing him say that so simply. Not when he had once left her in severe abdominal pain to attend a high-profile medical conference. Not when she later discovered Scarlett had been present at that event—publicly introduced as someone under his personal mentorship. But now, over a sprained ankle, he apologized. The irony nearly made her laugh. “Since when do you apologize?” she asked lightly, keeping her tone neutral. He avoided her gaze, focusing on spreading the liniment carefully over her swollen skin. “I should have checked earlier,” he admitted. “It’s worse than I realized.” There was sincerity in his voice. For a fleeting moment, something fragile inside her stirred—the faint echo of warmth she once relied on. But it faded quickly. “It’s just a sprain,” she replied with a faint smile. “It doesn’t require an apology.” Even as she said it, she knew the apology wasn’t truly about the injury. And that understanding hurt far more than the swelling ever could.

Lillian understood all too well how deceptive tenderness could be. Affection, when offered at the wrong moment, had the power to weaken even the strongest resolve. If she allowed herself to lean into this sudden gentleness—if she let herself believe it meant something lasting—then the decision she had fought so hard to make might begin to unravel. She drew in a slow breath, steadying her thoughts before they drifted somewhere dangerous. “Well,” she said lightly, injecting a playful note into her voice, “you’re the Don people have to book weeks in advance just to get five minutes of your time. And now you’re treating me personally—free of charge. I should feel privileged. Most people can’t even secure a formal appointment.” Her smile curved faintly. It did not reach her eyes. Alexander’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. His brows tightened slightly, as though he sensed something beneath the humor. Was she making fun of him? The possibility irritated him more than he expected. He disliked the idea that she might be quietly mocking his authority—or worse, distancing herself from it. Without addressing the thought, he resumed massaging the liniment into her ankle, his movements controlled, deliberate. Only after finishing the first application did he finally speak. “Scarlett’s apartment was broken into last night,” he said evenly. “I’ve decided she’ll stay here for a while. Just until things calm down.” Lillian’s body went rigid. So that was the explanation. The missing spare key. The guest room freshly prepared. His earlier patience. None of it had been impulsive. He had already arranged everything. And she was being informed after the fact. A quiet frost spread across her chest. For a fleeting second, she considered questioning him—asking why he hadn’t mentioned it beforehand, why she hadn’t been included in the discussion. But what would that accomplish? “It’s your estate,” she replied calmly. “You can make whatever arrangements you believe are necessary.” Her compliance seemed to erase whatever justification he had prepared. The slight tension in his posture eased. “You’re not upset?” he asked, his tone carrying a trace of caution. She lifted her gaze to meet his. “No.” The word came easily. Relief flickered briefly across his features. He stood and placed the bottle of liniment beside her. “Apply another layer in about thirty minutes,” he instructed. “I’ll go downstairs. Scarlett’s alone.” Of course she was. “I’ll check on you later,” he added. Lillian gave a small nod. Inside, she marked another quiet tally. He had received reassurance. That was enough for him to leave without guilt. He reached the doorway and rested his hand on the handle. Then he hesitated. “Lillian,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, “Scarlett’s sensitive. Try not to act so distant around her next time. She might misunderstand.” For a second, she simply blinked. So that was the issue. Her decision to excuse herself upstairs had been interpreted as coldness. Should she have stayed at the table and smiled over half-empty plates? Her fingers tightened subtly around the liniment bottle, the pressure whitening her knuckles. Yet she forced her lips into a composed curve. “I understand,” she replied softly. “Please apologize to her on my behalf.” That seemed to satisfy him. He gave a short nod and stepped out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The moment the sound echoed through the room, the restraint she had been holding fractured. Tears slid down her cheeks before she could stop them. This was the man she had loved for three years. The Don she had chosen to stand beside. And yet, never once had she truly been at the center of his world. The throbbing in her ankle was insignificant compared to the ache blooming inside her chest. It felt as though something fragile beneath her ribs was being slowly crushed. When it was time to reapply the liniment, she did so herself. She did not expect him to return. From downstairs, laughter drifted faintly upward—light, unguarded, intimate. She lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, feeling colder than the night pressing against the windows. After a while, thirst forced her to move. She pushed herself upright and carefully made her way downstairs, gripping the railing for balance as she descended. Each step sent a dull wave of discomfort through her leg. Reaching the kitchen, she approached the water dispenser and instinctively reached for her usual glass. It wasn’t there. In its place sat a delicate porcelain mug she didn’t recognize—new, decorative. She didn’t need to ask who it belonged to.

The porcelain mug resting on the counter was not random. It was part of a set. One that matched the cup Alexander used every single morning at breakfast—dark rim, subtle gold detailing along the handle. She recognized it instantly. “Lillian… I’m really sorry,” Scarlett said gently, holding the new cup with both hands as though presenting something fragile. “I accidentally dropped yours earlier. It broke. If you don’t mind, you can use mine for now.” Her expression was soft. Regretful. Perfectly measured. Lillian looked at the mug without reaction. She didn’t answer. Alexander spoke before she could. “Scarlett, it’s fine,” he said dismissively. “It’s just a mug. There are plenty in this house.” Just a mug. Lillian’s fingers curled slightly at her sides. It hadn’t been just a mug. It was the cup they had raised together at their engagement dinner—the one used when the Commission formally acknowledged their union. She had cleaned it herself every time, dried it carefully, and kept it stored separately on the highest shelf. To her, it symbolized something. To him, it was replaceable. “It’s alright,” she said after a pause, her tone almost airy. “I’ll just use a paper cup.” She poured herself water, drank quietly, and excused herself without lingering another second. Upstairs, she closed the bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed, her mind drifting back to the transfer contract hidden inside her drawer. The urgency inside her sharpened. If Alexander refused to authorize her departure as Don of the territory, the Commission would delay her application indefinitely. She needed clarity. She needed to know exactly where she stood. “Why are you still awake?” His voice came from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts. Without missing a beat, she lifted her phone to her ear as if she had been in the middle of a call. “Mm. Okay. I’ll speak to him about it,” she said casually into the silent line before lowering the device. She glanced at him with practiced ease. “You’re not asleep either. My ankle’s still throbbing, so I was talking to someone from the clinic to pass the time.” At the mention of her injury, something shifted faintly across his expression. As if he had just remembered he’d promised to check it again. He didn’t comment. Instead, he stepped closer and pulled back the blanket to inspect her ankle. “The swelling’s improved,” he observed after a moment. “Give it a couple more days of rest. It’ll heal.” His gaze drifted to her phone. “Who were you talking to?” he asked lightly. “You sounded relaxed.” Lillian’s grip on the device tightened slightly. If he had looked closely, he would have seen the screen was dark. “No one important,” she replied smoothly. “Dr. Brooks. They’re still discussing the overseas deployment program. He asked whether you’d heard any updates.” Alexander nodded. The overseas assignment had indeed been discussed frequently among medical staff. Recruitment numbers were low. The Commission had extended the deadline. “It’s not a short-term commitment,” he said thoughtfully. “But it’s valuable. Those who return usually gain leverage—experience abroad stands out.” Lillian watched him carefully. “And what’s your opinion?” she asked in an even tone. He didn’t pause. “You don’t need that,” he said flatly. “By the time you’d finish a term overseas, I could have already secured you a better position here.” There it was. The answer she expected. Her gaze lowered slightly as she exhaled. Of course. In his world, her trajectory was meant to orbit his. An old memory surfaced, unwelcome but vivid. In the past, when their disagreements escalated, Alexander’s temper sometimes crossed lines he never acknowledged. And afterward—perhaps out of calculation, perhaps guilt—he would soften the edges with gestures or promises. One night stood out more clearly than the rest. Scarlett had called, claiming she’d cut her hand while cooking. It was minor—barely more than a scratch. Lillian had asked him to stay. “Can’t someone else handle it?” she had said quietly, exhaustion evident after a fourteen-hour shift. “It’s not serious.” He left anyway. But before he walked out, the argument had intensified. Later that night, when he returned, irritation still simmered beneath his composed exterior. Without warning, his hand had struck her across the face. “If you hadn’t wasted my time,” he’d said coldly, “Scarlett wouldn’t have been alone.” As if she were the cause. As if every inconvenience in Scarlett’s life somehow traced back to her. Now, sitting in the dim glow of the bedroom lamp, Lillian looked at the man she had once imagined building a future beside. The Don she had defended. Supported. Trusted. And for the first time, she didn’t ask whether he loved her. She asked herself a different question entirely. How had she ever convinced herself that this was love?

In the past, when disagreements between them stretched into long, icy silences, it had always been Alexander who gave in first. After a few days of mutual avoidance—meals eaten separately, doors closed too firmly—he would eventually break the tension. Sometimes it was a brief handwritten note slipped onto her desk. Other times, a short message: Let’s drop it. It was never poetic, never elaborate. But it was enough to restore normalcy. Back then, Lillian had treasured those small concessions. She had taken them as proof that he valued what they had—that his pride would bend, at least slightly, for her. Now she saw the pattern more clearly. If his signature had once restored peace between them, perhaps a signature could also sever what little remained. “I don’t need you planning my career for me,” she said, her tone light but edged with something sharper. “If I rise in rank, it’ll be because I earned it. Not because you cleared the path.” Alexander let out a low chuckle, clearly entertained. To him, she sounded like a junior associate insisting on independence from a powerful Don. “Do whatever you want,” he replied lazily, leaning back against the headboard. “That saves me the effort. Just don’t come running back when nobody acknowledges your so-called talent. Pride has a way of becoming regret.” His words carried amusement, but beneath the humor lay something more dismissive. Lillian heard it. She held his gaze without wavering. “I won’t come to you,” she said calmly. “In fact, there’s something I need you to sign.” His brows lifted slightly. “Sign what?” Instead of answering immediately, she rose from the bed and crossed to the desk. Her movements were controlled, though her palms were damp. She pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began writing in steady strokes: From this day forward, Lillian Montgomery and Don Alexander Carter shall operate independently in all professional and personal matters. Lillian Montgomery assumes complete responsibility for her decisions, actions, and consequences. Under no circumstances shall her affairs involve, implicate, or require intervention from Don Alexander Carter or his authority. All liabilities shall be borne solely by Lillian Montgomery. Signed: Alexander Carter. She reread the document once before carrying it back to him along with a pen. Her fingers trembled faintly as she set both on the bedside table. “Sign it.” Alexander didn’t move at once. His eyes sharpened as he studied her face. There was something unfamiliar in her expression tonight—something he couldn’t quite name. “Why?” he asked evenly. She met his gaze without blinking. “What’s wrong?” she countered smoothly. “Are you hesitating? Or are you worried you won’t be able to stop yourself from interfering?” She knew exactly where to strike. Alexander’s pride had always been both his strength and his weakness. As expected, his expression hardened. “Do you remember who brought you into this organization’s medical division?” he said sharply. “Without me, you’d still be in some rural town patching up minor injuries for small-time crews. Don’t overestimate your worth.” The words landed heavily. For a brief second, something tightened painfully in her chest. But she kept her voice steady. “Then prove me wrong,” she replied coolly. “Sign it. Let’s see whether I ever depend on you.” Her defiance erased his remaining hesitation. With a faint scoff, he snatched the pen. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll watch how long this independence lasts.” He signed his name in one fluid motion. The scratch of ink against paper sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room. Lillian watched the signature settle. A strange calm spread through her. Carefully, she folded the document and slipped it into her coat pocket as though it were something priceless. She didn’t say the words aloud. But they echoed clearly in her mind. This is the last thing I will ever ask from you. That signature was not reconciliation. It was liberation. --- The following morning, Lillian rose before sunrise. The folded document was still in her coat pocket. For the first time in weeks, she felt something resembling clarity. She dressed quietly and stepped outside toward Alexander’s car, intending to take her usual seat in the front passenger side. The window slid down. Scarlett’s face appeared instead—bright, smiling, entirely at ease. “Lillian, sorry,” Scarlett said sweetly. “I get carsick when I sit in the back. I need the front seat.” Her tone was light, almost playful. Lillian stopped where she stood. She knew, without question, that Scarlett had never once complained about sitting in the back. They had traveled together numerous times—to meetings, charity events, even out-of-town gatherings. If anyone had struggled with motion sickness, it had always been Lillian. That was precisely why she usually occupied the front seat. Yet today, Scarlett sat there comfortably, as though the space had always belonged to her. As though claiming it required no explanation at all.

Ever since Scarlett started riding with them regularly, the front passenger seat had shifted ownership without discussion. It no longer belonged to Lillian. She stood beside the car that morning, fingers lightly touching the handle, when Alexander’s voice sliced through the quiet air of the courtyard. “Well?” he said sharply from behind the wheel. “Are you getting in or not? If you’re not coming, call a cab. We don’t have time to stand here.” There was no trace of patience in his tone. Lillian’s fingers loosened from the handle. Slowly, she stepped back. “You two go ahead,” she replied calmly. “I just remembered I left something inside.” She didn’t wait for acknowledgment. Turning on her heel, she walked back toward the manor entrance, her posture straight despite the tightness spreading across her chest. Behind her, the engine of the Audi A8 started with a low growl. The sound lingered in the courtyard for a moment before fading as the car pulled away. Only when the gates shut behind it did she stop. The courtyard felt unusually hollow. A thin veil of dust hovered in the air where the car had been moments ago. Two tears slipped down her face before she could catch them. It was the first time since she joined the organization’s medical division that she would be late. --- By the time she arrived at the clinic, the morning shift was already underway. Several colleagues glanced up in surprise. “Dr. Montgomery? How’s your ankle? Shouldn’t you be resting?” “Did Don Alexander insist you come back already? He could have given you more time.” Their concern was genuine. She offered them a gentle smile. “It’s improving. I didn’t want to fall behind on work.” She answered politely, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Alexander had already driven off with Scarlett. Whatever she chose to do now had nothing to do with him. And in that moment, clarity settled over her with startling force. She didn’t want temporary distance. She wanted complete separation. Without hesitation, she pivoted and walked straight toward the director’s office. When she placed the document bearing Alexander’s signature on the desk—along with her formal application for the overseas deployment—the director reviewed it briefly. With the Don’s authorization clearly written in ink, there was nothing to contest. He signed the final approval without delay. “Dr. Montgomery,” he said warmly, extending his hand, “congratulations. I hope your assignment brings you success—and that you return safely.” Lillian inclined her head. For the first time in months, something inside her felt unburdened. --- After leaving the clinic, she didn’t return home immediately. She went straight to the airline office and purchased a one-way ticket. Only afterward did she head back to the estate. Packing took less time than she expected. Three years in the De Luca manor had left surprisingly little that truly belonged to her. Most of the rooms were filled with Alexander’s possessions—or memories she no longer wished to carry. Her suitcase was modest. A handful of clothes. Essential documents. Personal items. Nothing sentimental. When she placed the suitcase near the door, voices drifted from outside. The front door opened. Alexander stepped inside, Scarlett beside him, her arms filled with glossy shopping bags—new purchases from high-end boutiques. Lillian didn’t need to ask who had paid for them. “Lillian!” Scarlett exclaimed brightly. “I didn’t know you’d be home this early. I would’ve picked something up for you too.” Alexander cleared his throat, sounding faintly awkward. “The weather’s changing,” he said casually. “We’ll go out tomorrow and buy you some new clothes.” Tomorrow. The word echoed strangely. “I won’t need them,” Lillian replied evenly. “As long as you’re both satisfied, that’s enough.” Her calm indifference seemed to grate on him. A faint scoff escaped his lips as his expression darkened. Fine. If she wanted to act distant, he could respond in kind. He decided then that he wouldn’t initiate another conversation. He would wait for her to come to him. What he didn’t realize was that silence suited her perfectly. --- The following day, Lillian did not report to the clinic. By early afternoon, Dr. Brooks approached Alexander at the estate. “Don Carter,” he began cautiously, “have you heard from Dr. Montgomery? She hasn’t come in today.” Alexander had been on a call with Scarlett when he was interrupted. The disruption clearly irritated him. He waved dismissively. “She’s capable of managing her own affairs,” he said coolly. “If she wants space, that’s her choice. She doesn’t like me interfering.” There was a sharp edge in his tone whenever he spoke of her lately. His jaw tightened slightly. The night before, she hadn’t spoken to him at all. Not a single word. “Even so,” Dr. Brooks ventured carefully, “shouldn’t you at least try calling her? Just to confirm she’s alright?”