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."

Penelope's voice was thick with indignation. "She kept insisting you made those honey buns, but you didn't! Uncle Patrick made them. She's blaming you for nothing!"

"No, I'm not! I'm not blaming Daddy! Daddy made them, not Uncle Patrick—"

Hilary's wailing burst through the phone.

"Shut up! You're lying about Daddy! I'm gonna hit you—"

"Ahhhhh!"

Hilary's screams followed almost immediately.

Clearly, Penelope was dispensing sisterly justice.

Wilfred didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Sure, Penelope was born half an hour after her twin, but in terms of maturity, intelligence, and sheer combat ability, she completely outclassed Hilary.

Since Penelope hadn't been bullied, he could relax.

"Ms. Perry—"

"Mr. Dickerson, please figure something out! I really can't handle this much longer!"

The teacher's exasperated voice came back on the line.

"Alright, I'll make some calls. Someone will be there shortly." Wilfred hung up and dialed Marjorie, the family's housekeeper.

"Marjorie, I just got a call from the preschool. Ms. Perry says the honey buns Hilary brought were a huge hit with the kids. She's hoping you could send some more."

"What honey buns?"

Marjorie was completely lost.

"The ones Hilary took to school this morning! Could you have someone deliver more? They're waiting."

"Oh, oh, of course. I'll take care of it."

After hanging up, Marjorie immediately thought of Patrick Lyons.

Ms. Pruitt definitely wouldn't have prepared honey buns for the girls, and Mr. Dickerson hadn't either. That left Mr. Lyons.

That man. Didn't he know the preschool had a strict no-outside-food policy?

Always stirring up trouble!

She dialed Patrick's number.

"Mr. Lyons? This is Marjorie, the Pruitt family's housekeeper."

"What is it?" His voice was flat, disinterested.

"Well, this morning Miss Hilary brought some honey buns to school, and her teacher just called to say they were a hit with the children. She was hoping you could send more."

"Really!"

Patrick's heart leapt.

He had made those honey buns—a calculated move to win Hilary's affection. He hadn't expected such spectacular results.

Not only did Hilary like them, but all the other kids did too.

He could picture it now: Hilary handing out the treats, surrounded by adoring classmates showering her with praise.

She must be thrilled.

And once she was happy, a few well-placed words to Hildegarde, and his marriage prospects would finally gain traction.

"Got it. I'll buy more and deliver them myself."

Back on Wilfred's end.

After hanging up, a cold smile curved his lips.

He wasn't taking the fall for this.

If Patrick was so eager to play stepfather, let him clean up his own mess.

Knock knock knock...

Someone tapped lightly on the car window.

Wilfred turned, startled. A blonde woman in sunglasses stood outside.

He lowered the window.

"Hi, can I help you?"

She looked familiar, but he couldn't place her.

"Hey, Mr. Dickerson. Don't recognize me?"

Margery Finch tilted her head with a slight smile.

"You're..."

Still nothing.

A flicker of disappointment crossed her eyes, though her expression remained composed. "Sorry, I should introduce myself. I'm Margery Finch."

Margery Finch. Seabrook Horizon Law Group's top litigator.

It clicked.

No wonder she looked familiar.

Horizon Law Group was the largest firm in Seabrook, and Margery was their star attorney. Rumor had it she'd never lost a case since she started practicing.

"Nice to meet you, Attorney Finch."

"Mr. Dickerson, I heard you're planning to divorce your wife. If you need legal representation, give me a call."

Wilfred couldn't help but chuckle. "I never imagined a star attorney like yourself would be out drumming up business. But your rates are way out of my league these days."

Margery tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her lips curving. "For you? I'd work pro bono."

Pro bono?

Wilfred blinked.

"Ms. Finch, have we met before?"

Her smile widened. "You really have a short memory, Mr. Dickerson. Don't you remember? When you were doing your graduate work at Seabrook University, your advisor was Professor Les Finch—my grandfather."

"I met you at his house more than once."

"That was you!"

It all came flooding back.

But...

Margery had changed completely.

Back then, she could be summed up in one phrase: disheveled bookworm. Every time he'd seen her at the professor's house, she'd been buried in textbooks, hair a mess, face bare. Now, years later, she hadn't just transformed—she'd metamorphosed entirely.

"You remember now!"

Margery removed her sunglasses, revealing a pair of striking eyes.

With the glasses on, the effect had been muted. Without them, her features came together in something approaching dangerous beauty.

"My grandfather's retired now, spending his days at home. He mentions you often—always with fondness." Her voice softened. "His health has been declining lately. If you have time, would you consider visiting him?"

"Visit him, and I'll handle your divorce for free."

Wilfred fell silent.

Les Finch. Former dean of Seabrook Tech University's School of Mathematics. A world-renowned mathematician. And the guiding light of Wilfred's academic journey.

An irreplaceable mentor.

When Wilfred had entered the university's accelerated program as a teenager, Professor Finch had been one of his advisors. He'd been young, struggling with cafeteria food, and the old man had often brought him home for proper meals.

He could still taste Mrs. Finch's mouth-watering chicken.

The professor's face surfaced in his memory—that warm, weathered smile.

Wilfred's head dropped.

"I'm sorry. I can't. I... don't have the face to see him."

Years ago, when he'd chosen to marry into the Pruitt family and abandon his studies, he'd told the professor himself. He could still remember the look in those eyes.

Utter devastation.

Margery stood outside the car, watching Wilfred's bowed head, the shame written across his features. Something tightened in her chest.

"I know some of what happened with your marriage back then. I know it wasn't entirely your choice."

"What I want to say is this: Wilfred, you're free now. If you still have dreams, chase them."

"No one's going to hold you back anymore."

"We're all waiting to see you rise again."

"Thank you, Miss Finch."

Wilfred let out a long breath, a confident smile returning to his face. "I promise, if I have time, I'll go visit Professor Finch."

"Alright. I'll let my grandmother know so she can make your favorite—sweet and sour ribs."

Margery smiled.

For a moment, Wilfred found himself staring, caught off guard by that smile. When he snapped out of it, he quickly looked away.

"Miss Finch, I'm heading to Family Court now. If everything goes smoothly, the divorce should be finalized today, so I probably won't need to trouble you with the lawsuit after all. But if something unexpected comes up, I'll give you a call."

"Okay, no problem. I'll get going then. See you around."

Sliding her sunglasses on and tossing her long golden hair, Margery returned to her sports car.

A smile slowly curved at the corner of her lips.

Ever since she'd heard from friends that Wilfred and Hildegarde were getting divorced, Margery had been quietly keeping tabs on him.

Seeing the man she'd secretly admired since childhood finally pulling himself together again—

It made her genuinely happy.

Wilfred, I can't wait to see you become that genius again. That boy who used to tug on my ponytail... My boy, put on your armor and rise again!

In the end, Hildegarde never showed up at Family Court.

Wilfred waited there all afternoon for nothing.

When pickup time at the preschool approached, he had no choice but to drive over and get Penelope.

"Daddy, Daddy, guess what?"

"Uncle Patrick got beat up!"

"A bunch of moms held him down and hit him!"

The moment she got in the car, Penelope launched into an animated retelling of the afternoon's events.

It turned out that after Patrick learned the honey bread Hilary brought had become a huge hit among the preschoolers, he rushed over with several more bags. The result?

The parents discovered he was behind the tainted treats and immediately tore into him.

They demanded compensation.

Patrick, unaccustomed to such treatment, started arguing back.

The argument escalated, and several parents gave him a thorough beating.

"Were you and Hilary okay?"

Wilfred didn't care what shape Patrick was in. Frankly, after he'd called Marjorie, he'd expected something like this.

"We're fine. I protected Hilary. I didn't let her get hurt."

Penelope said it matter-of-factly.

"Good girl."

He reached over and ruffled her hair, then drove her to get fried chicken.

Kids loved fried food—though of course, not too much of it.

After their meal, Wilfred took Penelope back to the Pruitt villa.

He still had some belongings there.

The drive was quiet.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled into the parking spot in front of the villa's courtyard.

"Mr. Dickerson is back."

Marjorie, who was playing in the yard with Hilary, spotted him immediately.

Looking at Marjorie's exhausted face and his older daughter deliberately turning away, refusing to acknowledge him, Wilfred simply smiled. "You've had a rough time, Marjorie."

"Oh, Mr. Dickerson, it's so good you're back. These past few days without you, I've felt completely lost."

Marjorie sighed with relief.

Wilfred didn't dwell on her grievances. Taking Penelope's hand, he walked into the villa.

"Ow, Hildegarde, easy! That hurts... Those crazy women—if they hadn't been women, I wouldn't have held back. I wouldn't be in this state. Ow, ow..."

Before he even reached the door, Patrick's pitiful wailing echoed from inside.

Penelope covered her mouth, stifling a giggle.

Wilfred gave her a light tap on the head, then stepped inside.

In the living room, Patrick sat on the sofa while Hildegarde stood before him, dabbing iodine onto his wounds with a cotton swab.

When Patrick saw Wilfred, a flash of resentment crossed his eyes. Then he immediately leaned closer to Hildegarde, putting on a show of intimacy.

"Oh, Wilfred, you're back! I knew it—you couldn't stay away from our Hildegarde. Good to have you home. But hey, don't get the wrong idea. I got a little banged up, so she's just disinfecting my cuts. There's nothing going on between us, okay?"

Wilfred remained unmoved by Patrick's performance.

When Hildegarde saw Wilfred walk in with their daughter, a mocking smile tugged at her lips.

She lifted her chin, a victor's smugness flickering across her face.

She'd known all along—Wilfred couldn't leave her.

Throw a fit, make a little scene, and he'd come crawling back.

"Since you're here, don't just stand there. Go to your room and get Patrick a fresh set of clothes. His are ruined."

Wilfred ignored her. Holding Penelope's hand, he headed upstairs.

"What kind of attitude is that, Wilfred?"

"Who do you think you're giving that sour face to?"

Hildegarde's temper flared.

"Oh, Hildegarde, don't blame him. He's probably just jealous seeing me with you. Should I leave?"

Patrick put on a wounded expression.

That only made Hildegarde angrier.

"Forget him. We haven't done anything wrong. If he wants to sulk, let him!"

"A man this petty—I really regret marrying someone like him!"

A gleam flickered in Patrick's eyes.

An almost imperceptible smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

Wilfred returned to the bedroom and quickly packed his things.

There wasn't much, really.

A few changes of clothes, some materials he'd collected over the years on mathematics and racing, and Penelope's daily necessities.

All of it barely filled one suitcase.

When he came downstairs with the luggage, holding Penelope's hand, Hildegarde's eyes flashed with fury the moment she saw them.

She forgot all about treating Patrick's wounds.

"What is this supposed to mean, Wilfred?"

"Yeah, what's going on here?" Patrick chimed in. "Couples fight, but they make up in the same bed. Why are you packing like you're moving out?"

"It doesn't mean anything."

Wilfred looked at Hildegarde's face, twisted slightly with anger.

Once, he had loved that face desperately.

Loved her to the bone.

But now, he felt nothing.

"Don't misunderstand. Everything in here is my personal property. I haven't touched a single thing that belongs to the Pruitts or anything you've bought me over the years."

"And me! This Barbie doll—Daddy saved up to buy it for me."

Penelope poked her little head out, her voice soft but firm.

Hildegarde was livid.

"Are you serious about this, Wilfred?"

"Just because I'm close with Patrick, you're jealous, is that it? You're a man—can't you be a little less petty? Acting like this only makes me look down on you even more!"

Wilfred's gaze drifted to their wrists.

A luxury couple's watch set.