Ever since the two girls were born, Wilfred had treated them like precious treasures, afraid they might melt if he so much as breathed on them. Everything related to the children—medicine, supplies, schedules—he kept under his personal care. No one else was allowed to touch any of it.

Not even the housekeeper.

"Fine, I'll call him."

Hildegarde pulled out her phone and dialed Wilfred's number.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

"How dare he!"

"Wilfred, you bastard! You actually blocked my number!"

Rage flickered in Hildegarde's bright eyes.

There was no mistake—she'd been blocked. Otherwise, it wouldn't have given that message.

"That bastard. Does he think I can't take care of Hilary without him?"

"Go find it! Search everywhere! I refuse to believe he hid the allergy medicine in the sky."

Marjorie rushed to the adjoining room and began tearing through drawers and cabinets.

Nothing.

Hilary's condition was getting worse by the minute. Left with no choice, Hildegarde had Marjorie carry the child to the car and drove through the night to Children's Hospital.

After a round of emergency treatment, Hilary's allergic reaction was finally under control.

The little girl lay on the hospital bed, her small body looking pitiful.

"Mommy, can you not tell Uncle Patrick I had an allergic reaction? Otherwise he won't buy me chocolate anymore." She paused, thinking. "Actually, it's Daddy's fault. He never lets me eat chocolate. If I'd eaten more of it, I wouldn't be allergic."

Hildegarde slumped against the headboard, exhaustion carved into her face.

Hearing her daughter mention "Daddy" brought Wilfred back to mind.

Her chest felt like it was stuffed with a stone.

"Wilfred, you bastard. You blocked my phone. Your daughter had an allergic reaction, and you didn't even care. Fine. You've got nerve!"

"Go ahead—don't ever come back!"

By the time Hilary's IV finished, it was already one in the morning.

Hildegarde drove her daughter home, too exhausted to even shower. She collapsed onto the bed and sank into a dead sleep.

At six a.m., she was jolted awake by her daughter's crying.

Normally, Hildegarde slept until eight-thirty sharp. When she woke, her toothpaste and warm water would already be laid out—Wilfred always prepared them.

But today, she was dragged from sleep at six.

Her head felt like it was about to split open.

"Marjorie, what's going on?"

The housekeeper hurried in. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. The little miss woke up and started fussing. I've tried everything."

Hildegarde clawed at her tangled hair like a woman possessed. Gone was any trace of the poised, commanding CEO. Her voice came out in a near-shout: "Make her stop!"

"She's just a child! You can't even manage that? What exactly am I paying you for?"

Marjorie felt wronged. The two girls had always been Wilfred's responsibility. Since coming to this household, she'd never once been asked to handle childcare.

Of course she didn't know how.

But seeing her employer on the verge of losing it, Marjorie swallowed her words. She scooped up Hilary and hurried downstairs.

Hildegarde had mild insomnia. Once woken, she couldn't fall back asleep.

She gave up and went downstairs.

"Marjorie, make me breakfast. I want an egg and ham sandwich. The ham has to be imported from New Zealand, and the egg fried medium."

"Me too, me too! I want a bacon cheese egg burger!" Hilary chimed in with her own order.

Marjorie froze.

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

All of Hildegarde and the girls' meals had always been Wilfred's domain. Marjorie had never so much as touched the kitchen.

She had no idea how to make what they'd ordered. She'd never even heard of half of it.

"Um, ma'am, miss... just give me a moment. I'll call Mr. Dickerson and ask how it's done." Marjorie's face burned with embarrassment.

Hildegarde's brow furrowed.

In that moment, she realized that without Wilfred, this entire household had fallen apart.

She couldn't sleep. Now she couldn't even eat breakfast.

But she would never admit he mattered.

"Wilfred, if you've got the nerve, don't ever come back. You want a divorce? Fine. Let's divorce."

"When you can't make it out there and come crawling back begging me to remarry you, I'll make you kneel at my feet and sing 'I Surrender' for twenty-four hours straight!"

Achoo!

Miles away at the Dickerson old house, Wilfred was woken by his internal clock—and immediately sneezed hard.

He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and couldn't help a bitter smile.

Five years in the Pruitt household. Every day, he'd woken at this hour to take care of the children, to take care of Hildegarde. Now it was second nature.

Even without setting an alarm, his body woke him right on schedule.

His phone rang.

He picked it up and checked the screen.

Marjorie.

After a moment's hesitation, he answered.

"Hello, Marjorie—"

"Mr. Dickerson! Ma'am and the little miss are up, and they want some kind of egg and ham sandwich—the ham has to be imported from New Zealand, the egg fried medium—and the little miss wants a bacon cheese egg burger. I don't know how to make any of this!"

Marjorie's voice cracked with panic.

Wilfred had been the man of the Pruitt house, yet he'd always been approachable, never making things difficult for the staff.

"Here's what we'll do," he said. "I'll send you the recipes right now. Just follow the steps. I'll also send you a list of Hilary's dietary needs and things to watch out for."

"Marjorie, I'm leaving Hilary in your care from now on."

"Alright, Mr. Dickerson. But... when are you coming back?"

"I'm not coming back."

"What?!" Marjorie thought she'd misheard.

"Hildegarde and I are getting divorced," Wilfred said. "I won't be involved in Pruitt family matters anymore. Don't call this number again."

He hung up before she could respond.

"Did you reach Wilfred?"

Hildegarde looked up at Marjorie, her expression cold and detached.

Marjorie nodded. "Y-yes, I got through."

"What did that bastard say? When is he crawling back?"

"Mr. Dickerson said... he said he's divorcing you. He's never coming back."

"Pfft—!"

Hildegarde had just lifted her coffee to her lips. She spat it out in a spray, eyes wide as she stared at Marjorie. "That bastard said... he said he's not coming back?"

"Yes, absolutely. That's exactly what Mr. Dickerson said. Ma'am, did you two have a fight?"

Marjorie had been off yesterday for the girls' birthday party. She had no idea what had happened between them.

"Mind your own business!"

Hildegarde shot her a glare.

Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup until her knuckles went white.

"Not coming back? Hmph. I hope you mean it!"

"Without me, Wilfred, do you really think you can survive?"

When they were together, Wilfred had cupped her face in his hands more than once and told her she was the love of his life, that she was his everything.

And now he wanted to leave her?

Could he really let go?

For breakfast, Wilfred made his daughter Penelope's favorite—vegetable and egg noodles.

She took after him when it came to taste.

They both loved noodles.

Hildegarde and Hilary, on the other hand, couldn't stand them.

Back when they lived at the Pruitt estate, Hildegarde had forbidden him from cooking noodles. Once, when Penelope had begged for a bowl of his vegetable egg noodles, he'd secretly made one for her. But Hildegarde and her mother Rosemary Dickerson had walked in right as he set it down. The looks on their faces could have curdled milk.

His mother-in-law had ignored Penelope's sobs and dumped the entire bowl straight into the trash.

Then she'd jabbed a finger in his face and called it street-stall garbage, warning him never to make such low-class slop again.

It would drag down the family's standards, she'd said.

"Daddy, can you make me noodles every morning from now on?"

Watching his daughter slurp down her breakfast, Wilfred smiled. "Of course. Whatever you want to eat, I'll make it."

"Then after school, can you take me for fried chicken?"

Penelope's eyes sparkled with longing.

"Sure."

After breakfast, Wilfred drove her to the preschool.

At the gates, he spotted the Land Cruiser the Pruitt family's nanny drove.

It was almost laughable, really. Hildegarde had bought the help a luxury SUV worth a small fortune—just for grocery runs and school pickups—while treating her own husband like an afterthought. He'd never been allowed to touch any of the family cars. In the end, his mother had taken pity on him and bought him a Range Rover so he wouldn't have to rely on rideshares.

Hilary hopped out of the Land Cruiser, backpack bouncing.

She skipped over to Penelope, waving a paper bag.

"Look! Patrick—I mean, my new daddy—made me honey bread! It's got honey and matsutake mushrooms on top. It's sooo good!"

Penelope pouted. "Daddy says kids shouldn't eat too many sweets. You'll get cavities."

Hilary stuck out her tongue. "Hmph! I have a new daddy now. That old daddy can't tell me what to do anymore. I can eat whatever I want! Nyeh-nyeh-nyeh..."

"My new daddy also says I should learn to share with other kids. So I'm gonna give treats to everyone—except you! Nyeh-nyeh-nyeh..."

Penelope clutched her backpack straps, eyes reddening.

"Hilary, if you keep acting like this, Daddy really won't want you anymore."

"So what? I don't want him either! Who needs such a loser dad anyway? Patrick is my real daddy now." Hilary tossed her head and marched into the preschool, smug as could be.

Penelope's jaw tightened. She snatched up a pebble from the roadside, glaring at her sister's retreating back.

But in the end, she set it down.

Daddy had told her—no matter what, Hilary was still her sister. Even if Hilary made her angry, she couldn't hurt her.

From inside the car, Wilfred watched his two daughters.

He sighed quietly.

Hilary's behavior didn't wound him. He felt no grief, no disappointment—only a weary acceptance.

What's gone is gone. Yesterday can't be held.

Pruitt Group headquarters.

Hildegarde had barely stepped into her office when she noticed a lunch box sitting on her desk, decorated with a little heart.

A satisfied smile tugged at her lips.

Of course. Wilfred was just throwing a tantrum. Once he cooled off, he'd come crawling back like he always did.

And here was the proof—a homemade lunch, bright and early.

Same as before. Same as always.

That man couldn't survive without her.

Her phone rang. Patrick's name flashed on the screen.

"Hello? Patrick..."

"Hildegarde, I made you a lunch. Left it on your desk—eat it while it's warm." His voice was honeyed.

"You made this?"

Her expression flickered.

"Mmhm. Got up early and spent the whole morning on it. Even cut my finger with the knife." He chuckled ruefully. "Cooking really isn't a man's job. Honestly, I have to hand it to Wilfred—puttering around the kitchen every day like it's nothing. Must be nice to have such simple pleasures."

Even now, he couldn't resist the dig.

Hildegarde's face remained impassive. "Got it. I'm busy—I'll call you later."

"Alright. Take care of yourself."

She hung up and stared at the lunch box.

Suddenly, she had no desire to open it.

"Terence Baker," she called.

Her secretary appeared at the door. "Yes, Ms. Pruitt?"

"Has my husband come by today?"

"No, ma'am. Mr. Dickerson hasn't been to the office."

A flush of irritation crept up her cheeks.

"I see. Take this lunch and eat it yourself. If my husband does show up, tell him I've already eaten—and he can take his container back with him."

Terence collected the box and left.

"Let's see how long you can keep this up."

Hildegarde snorted and turned to her work—though her mind refused to settle.

By late morning, her stomach was growling. She summoned Terence again. "Has my husband come by?"

"No, ma'am. And that lunch box is still here, if you'd like it. I can heat it up."

"Throw it out."

She waved him away in annoyance.

Once he was gone, she snatched up her phone and dialed Wilfred's number.

The number you have dialed is not in service...

"Bastard! You're still blocking my calls?!"

Her patience finally snapped.

Blocking her number. Not even bothering to bring her lunch. What the hell was he playing at?

Did he actually mean to go through with the divorce?

The thought sent an unexpected flutter of panic through her chest.

She grabbed the office landline and tried again.

This time, it connected.

"Wilfred, just so you know, I've already eaten. Patrick made me the most wonderful lunch, so today you don't need to—"

His voice cut through, flat and cold. "Hildegarde. I'm at the Family Court. Get over here. Let's finish this."

She froze.

Was he serious?

He was actually at Family Court, waiting to finalize their divorce?

Where did he get the nerve?

Did he really think he could survive out there without her?

"Wilfred, enough. You think threatening me with divorce is going to work? Without me, you're nothing. Without me, your whole family goes down with you."

"Don't forget—without me, the Dickersons are nobody."

Hildegarde was utterly furious.

Back then, the Dickersons had arranged the marriage with the Pruitts to ride their coattails, and over the years, the Pruitts had certainly taken care of them. Without the Pruitts, the Dickersons would be nothing.

"Wilfred, do you have any idea? One word from me, and I can drag your entire family into the abyss."

"I'm giving you one last chance. Get over here and apologize. For the sake of all those years you slaved away for the Pruitts, I might forgive you this once. Otherwise—"

"Hildegarde!"

Before she could finish, Wilfred cut her off coldly. "Don't threaten me with the Dickersons. I've done more than enough for that family over the years. I don't owe them anything."

"If you want to drag them into the abyss, then do it."

He hung up.

"Wilfred, you bastard!"

Her hysterical scream echoed through her office.

...

Wilfred got back in the car.

He released the parking brake, shifted into drive, and floored it.

The SUV shot forward like a wild horse, an arrow loosed from its bowstring, merging into the flow of traffic.

Behind him, a red Maserati quietly followed.

Wilfred's speed was staggering.

In the blink of an eye, the speedometer hit ninety and kept climbing.

The scenery on both sides blurred into streaks. The black Range Rover cut through the road like a dark hurricane.

Inside, Wilfred's face was expressionless, his eyes bright and fixed ahead. Adrenaline surged through him, peaking with every mile per hour.

It had been so long since he'd driven like this.

In that moment, a trace of who he used to be flickered back to life.

"Holy shit, who the hell is that? That car's practically flying!"

"Damn! Did you see that drift? Absolutely insane!"

In a sports car Wilfred had just blown past, a group of trust-fund kids gawked at the Range Rover's taillights, whooping in disbelief.

One of them—a girl with yellow hair and a nose ring—was trembling with excitement. "Find out who that is! I haven't seen anyone that cool in years!"

"I want to race him!"

A voice crackled through her wireless earpiece: "No need to look it up. That plate's easy to spot—it's Lawrence Dickerson's car."

"Lawrence?"

"What the hell? Since when did Lawrence drive like that? When we raced him on Mount Akina, he was nowhere near this fast!"

"That little bastard was holding back on us."

...

The black Range Rover tore along the mountain road, winding through curve after curve. Only the red Maserati managed to keep the taillights in sight.

Inside the Maserati, Margery Finch sat behind the wheel—red coat, black sunglasses, devastatingly beautiful. A slow smile curved her lips.

Her golden waves of hair danced in the wind, a strand caught playfully between her lips.

Effortlessly sensual.

Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

The Wilfred she knew was back.

Years ago, he'd been hailed as a prodigy. At twelve, he'd entered Seabrook Tech University's gifted program. Four consecutive years, he'd won gold at the International Fermat Mathematics Competition.

At eighteen, he'd earned a top-tier FIA racing license.

For three years after that, he'd competed in the Bramblebrook World Rally Championship, posting impressive results.

Before twenty-two, Wilfred's life had been dazzling—flowers and applause at every turn.

Then, at twenty-three, instead of pursuing his PhD abroad as planned, he'd suddenly chosen to marry into the Pruitt family.

He'd abandoned his studies. Abandoned his career. Devoted himself entirely to being a husband and father.

He'd vanished from the public eye.

A rising star, extinguished without a sound.

Screech!

Tires shrieked against asphalt. White smoke billowed as the Range Rover lurched to a stop at the roadside.

Margery's Maserati shot past, barely missing it.

Why had he stopped so suddenly?

She pulled over too, parking just ahead of his hood.

Inside the Range Rover, Wilfred's phone was ringing.

"Hello, is this Mr. Dickerson? I'm the homeroom teacher at your daughter's preschool." A sweet, gentle voice came through the speaker.

Wilfred recognized Ms. Perry.

"Yes, Ms. Perry. What's going on?"

"Mr. Dickerson, I'm so glad I reached you. Here's the situation: your older daughter Hilary brought a bag of honey buns to school this morning. She shared them with her classmates, and now several children have food poisoning—vomiting, diarrhea, the works. The parents are all here demanding an explanation."

Honey buns?

Wilfred recalled that morning, when he'd dropped Penelope off. Hilary had been carrying a paper bag.

If he had to guess, Patrick had prepared it for her.

"Ms. Perry, here's the thing. I've divorced Hilary's mother. She has custody, so anything that happens with Hilary at school isn't my responsibility. You should call her mother. Or contact her new dad."

"What??"

On the other end, Lola Perry was stunned.

She hadn't expected him to say that.

But even after a divorce, shouldn't a parent still handle their child's problems?

"Um, Mr. Dickerson, Hilary said the honey buns were prepared by you. So technically, you'd be the one responsible."

Angry voices erupted in the background.

"Ms. Perry, have you reached that kid's parents yet? My child is practically dehydrated from all the diarrhea! Someone needs to take responsibility!"

"Exactly! What kind of parent lets their kid bring street food to school?"

"Get the parents here now, or I'm calling the police!"

Ms. Perry pleaded and cajoled, barely managing to quiet the crowd.

"Mr. Dickerson, you can see how complicated this is. If you don't come, I can't resolve this."

Wilfred frowned, hesitating for a moment. "Ms. Perry, could you put my younger daughter on the phone?"

"Of course."

A second later, Penelope's soft little voice came through: "Daddy."

Wilfred's tone gentled. "Penelope, did you eat any of the honey buns your sister brought?"

"No. She said her other daddy made them for her to share with her classmates. She wouldn't let me have any." A note of hurt lingered in her voice.

Wilfred exhaled in relief.

As long as Penelope was okay.

"How's Hilary doing?"

"She's crying."