She stood in the rain until her clothes were plastered to her skin, until the chill sank past her bones and settled deep in her marrow.

Only then did she move, pivoting back toward the car.

The GPS lit up, showing the route home.

To Sterling Manor.

The grand house was pitch black and suffocatingly quiet. She had given the staff the night off, leaving her entirely alone. She let herself in, moving through the cavernous rooms where oversized furniture cast long, mocking shadows.

Her feet carried her to the kitchen. On the marble island, under a glass dome, sat a perfect, three-layer carrot cake. His favorite.

Today was his birthday. Their anniversary. She had spent the morning baking it.

She sat alone at the dark table, the cold silence pressing in on her. She remembered their wedding day, the hope that had beat like a trapped bird in her chest. Heathcliff and Georgiana had been the golden couple of high society, but when a tragic accident left Heathcliff in a vegetative state, Georgiana refused to sacrifice her soaring career as a principal dancer to play nursemaid. So, Ada’s parents had forced her to take her sister’s place. She had agreed willingly, her foolish heart already desperately in love with him.

For three grueling years, she had stayed by his bedside day and night. She gave up her social life, isolated herself from the world, and dedicated every waking second to his recovery. She had believed her devotion would be enough, that she could heal him. And she did. He woke up.

She had studied him. Learned his preferences until they became her own. She gave up coffee for his tea, filled their home with the scent of sandalwood he found calming, learned to be invisible.

Ada lit a single candle on the table. In the faint, flickering light, she caught her reflection in the glass. She saw a drab, lifeless housewife trapped in a severe dress. While she had withered away in this silent house, Georgiana had blossomed into a vibrant, dazzling swan on stage. And the moment Heathcliff opened his eyes, he had flown right back to the swan, discarding the ugly duckling who had saved him.

The bitter realization burned in her chest. For three years, the only person moved by her sacrifice was herself. A tear slipped down her cheek as she blew out the candle, plunging the room back into absolute darkness.

All for nothing.

Ada lifted the glass dome. The scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air. For a moment, she felt nothing. Then, with a calm, deliberate motion, she picked up the cake stand, walked to the trash can, and scraped the entire thing into the bin.

It landed with a soft, wet thud.

Suddenly, the blinding glare of headlights sliced through the dark windows. A sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom tore up the driveway. Ada’s breath caught. He was home. She had assumed he would spend the entire night wrapped in Georgiana’s arms.

The heavy door swung open, and Heathcliff stepped inside, bringing the chill of the night air with him. He was the golden boy of the city’s elite—a ruthless business prodigy with two degrees from Harvard who had conquered Wall Street by his twenties and now ruled the Sterling empire. He stood there in his bespoke black suit, possessing a lethal, untouchable grace.

"Why is it so dark?" he asked, his low, magnetic voice laced with habitual distance. He reached out and flipped the switch, flooding the room with harsh light.

Ada squinted against the glare, looking at him. He brought the reek of whiskey and expensive cigars with him. Underneath it all, a scent that clung to his clothes, faint but unmistakable. Peonies and blush suede.

Georgiana.

"Today is your birthday," Ada said, her voice steady, empty.

He didn’t look at her. He never did. He merely glanced lazily at the dining table, his handsome face devoid of emotion. "Don't waste your time next year. I don't celebrate it."

A mocking smile curved Ada’s lips. "Is it that you don't celebrate it, or you just don't want to celebrate it with me?"

He finally gave her a freezing side-glance, clearly impatient. "Think whatever you want." He walked straight toward the stairs, the silence between them heavier than any argument.

Ada stood up, watching his broad, unyielding back. "Since it’s your birthday, I prepared a gift for you."

Heathcliff didn't stop walking. "I don't need it."

A chilling, beautiful laugh escaped Ada’s lips. The weak, pleading woman was gone, replaced by a sharp, unbreakable presence. "We're getting a divorce, Heathcliff."

He froze, one foot already on the stairs. He stared at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. He turned around, his deep, dark eyes locking onto hers.

Ada met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes, which had always held a pleading hope, were now two chips of ice.

"I said," she repeated, each word perfectly formed, "Let's get a divorce, Heathcliff. Do you like your birthday gift?"

He stepped down from the stairs and stared at her. For the first time, Heathcliff Sterling truly saw his wife. The quiet woman was gone. In her place was a stranger with her face and eyes that held a chilling, remote distance.

He saw the dismissal in her eyes and felt nothing. No anger. No pain.

Just a blank wall where there used to be adoration.

Ada swallowed the bitter ache in her chest. "Let's end this sexless marriage, Heathcliff."

He laughed. A short, sharp sound.

"A divorce?" he repeated, one dark eyebrow arching in a mock inquiry. "Sexless?"

He closed the distance between them, his shadow falling over her. He leaned in, his hand shooting out not to strike, but to capture her delicate chin. His thumb brushed against her lower lip, pressing into the soft, red flesh with a deliberate, ambiguous heat. "Is that why you're throwing this little tantrum? What, do you want it?"

Ada’s pale face burned, a furious crimson rushing to her cheeks like a ripe berry. That wasn’t what she meant at all! But his thumb continued its slow, wicked caress over her lips. She had never seen this side of the aloof billionaire—this dangerous, predatory edge.

For the first time in three years, Heathcliff was actually looking at his wife. She had always drowned herself in severe, drab clothing, hiding behind those hideous, oversized black-framed glasses like a sterile spinster. But up close, the illusion shattered. Her face was impossibly small, her skin flawless. Beneath the awful frames, her features were arresting—delicate, ethereal, and paired with wide, furious doe eyes that held a startling, breathtaking beauty. The realization hit him like a physical blow. A strange, dark heat unfurled in his chest.

The assumption was so insulting, it was freeing.

Ada didn’t step back. "I'm tired of playing, Heathcliff. This marriage. This life. I'm done."

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers tightened around her jaw, sliding down to clamp around her wrist. She winced.

"You don't get to say when it's over," he snarled, his control snapping, using anger to mask the sudden spike of unwanted desire. He shoved her backward until her back hit the cold bedroom wall. He trapped her there, his body pressing against hers. The scent of him—sandalwood, whiskey, and his sister—was suffocating.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot. "Don't forget, the Kowalski family still needs Sterling money. Without me, your pathetic family is nothing."

The mention of them extinguished the last spark inside her. Her body went still.

"They are not my family," she said, her voice flat. "And you are no longer my husband."

Her resistance pushed him over the edge. His free hand grabbed her chin again, the grip bruising, forcing her to look at him.

"It seems I've spoiled you," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "Let you forget who's in charge."

As his mouth aimed for hers, a white-hot rage burned through Ada. She channeled all the pain, all the betrayal of the day into one explosive movement.

Her other hand swung up.

A sharp crack echoed off the walls.

Heathcliff's head snapped to the side. A stunned silence fell. The red imprint of her hand bloomed on his cheek. In three years, she had never so much as raised her voice. That she would dare to strike him was inconceivable.

In his moment of shock, Ada shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled back.

She stood there, breathing heavily, her eyes blazing.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice shaking but laced with ice. "You disgust me."

Heathcliff slowly turned his head back to face her. His gray eyes were flat, cold pits. A slow, cruel smile twisted his lips.

"Good," he growled. "You've finally managed to make me angry."

Ada didn't flinch. She let her eyes travel down his body in a slow, insulting appraisal.

"I'm just done wasting my time on a toy," she said, her voice laced with a contempt so profound it was absolute, "that I have no interest in playing with anymore."

Toy.

He flinched, the word landing with more force than the slap. It was a direct assault on his pride, his masculinity, his identity.

His face contorted in a brief, ugly flash of rage.

But he didn't move. Instead, he laughed. The sound held no amusement. It was a promise.

"Ada Kowalski," he said, enunciating each word with chilling precision. "You will pay for every single thing you did tonight."