'Rosalia—why do you get to take whatever you want, toss it aside whenever you're done? I'm not an object.'

'This time, I'll make sure you finally understand the price of what you've done.'

Sure enough, two hours later, the headline #Rosalia Lopez Two Timing exploded onto the trending list.

Almost immediately my phone rang, vibrating furiously. Her name lit up the screen.

"Waylon, did you arrange that trending post? Take it down—now!"

I said nothing and hung up without a moment's hesitation. Then I blocked her number.

Her messages still came through like bullets fired at a wall.

[Waylon, what are you trying to do? Do you realize how much damage this is causing the company? The stock is already plummeting!]

[Waylon, I know you're angry, but can't we just go home and talk this out?]

[If you want, I can apologize...]

Expressionless, I switched off my phone and placed it face-down on the table. Across from me sat my lawyer.

"Let's continue," I said flatly.

I slid a file from the bottom of my bag—the one I'd hidden away for years—and handed it over.

"Please check if this divorce agreement is still valid."

Before we married, Rosalia had signed a blank divorce agreement herself. At that time, there was no affection between us.

She looked at me in the eye and said coldly, "If you ever want to leave, just sign it. You'll be free. This is my guarantee to you."

Later, our relationship deepened. She, the powerful CEO, would still cook three meals a day for me. She thought of everything—whether I was cold, whether I was hot—she cared about every detail.

I've been moved. I thought that kind of life could last forever. So I buried the document deep in a drawer and forgot about it.

Until Miles appeared.

I had never seriously considered divorce before then. Apart from her hatred of red, Rosalia had been good to me—even after the baby was lost, I had forgiven her.

I could endure being hurt. But I could not endure being made a joke.

The lawyer finished reviewing the papers and nodded.

"Mr. Flores, this agreement is still valid. As soon as you sign it, it will take effect."

Right there, I signed and slid the file back across the table. "I want the divorce finalized. As soon as possible."

When I left the café, it had begun to drizzle. A black car honked and rolled to a stop in front of me—Rosalia's car.

"Get in," she ordered as the window slid down, revealing her cold, composed face.

I didn't even pause, walking straight past her.

"Waylon!" She jumped out and caught my arm. "Are you still making a scene?"

I slapped her hand away and then slapped her across the face. "Don't touch me. You're filthy to me now."

She stood frozen, eyes narrowing, gaze flicking to the blazing red suit I wore. Her brow knotted tightly.

"Why must you fight me on everything?"

"Waylon, didn't we once love each other? Can't we go back to that?"

"Miles only suffered minor injuries. The baby is fine. If something had happened—"

"What?" I cut her off. "You would have killed me?"

"Waylon! What have you turned into?" she snapped.

Her eyes were filled with exhaustion and disgust.

"Tell me," I said quietly. "Is it me who changed—or you?"

"Rosalia, don't forget," I said. My voice was like ice. "You were the one who betrayed me first."

I didn't bother arguing with her anymore—I turned on my heel to leave.

But Rosalia wouldn't let up. "That reporter was arranged by you, wasn't he? Call him. Tell him to delete it!"

So that was the real reason she'd come running after me.

"Miles saw the news and had a breakdown," she continued breathlessly. "He was threatening to jump off the building, and I had to calm him down for hours."

Then, with that self-righteous tone she had perfected, she added, "Waylon, can't you stop being so selfish? Stop dragging other people down with you."

What a saint—always thinking of others.

I turned, a cold laugh curling off my lips.

"Selfish?"

"I'm not just going to be selfish, Rosalia. I'm going to destroy you completely."

Her face blanched. "Waylon, don't touch him," she pleaded. "I swear, that night was an accident. If I carry this baby to term, I'll make sure he disappears from our lives forever."

Her reaction told me everything—she'd just revealed her weakest point.

My chest ached, but my smile didn't falter.

"And what if I refuse?"

I wasn't just after a divorce. I wasn't going to let her slip away so easily.

The years of my youth, my energy, my loyalty—they weren't worthless. She would pay every last cent back.

Her eyes turned cold too. "Then I'll have no choice but to send you away for a while."

By "away," she meant out of the country.

Exile.

She wanted me to "calm down" somewhere foreign and unfamiliar. But how was that anything but a gilded cage?

"You have no right to interfere with my freedom." I sneered. "Rosalia, I'm not some pet you keep on a leash."

I walked out the door wearing red, only to have her bar my way.

"Change your clothes before you leave," she deadpanned. "I told you, you're not allowed to wear red."

A stubborn fire flared in me. "And why can't I?"

"Because only Miles can wear red," she replied without shame. "When he wears red, it helps treat my mental condition. Haven't you noticed how much better I've been lately?"

I nearly gagged at the audacity, tearing my arm out of her grip.

"Enough. With acting skills like that, you should be winning film awards instead of lying to me."

Did she really think I still believed her pathetic excuses?

I had already checked the security cameras. I'd seen her late at night, thinking I was asleep—pressing Miles down on the sofa, kissing him like she couldn't breathe without him.

I heard her whisper to him, "I only want to keep your child. Waylon can forget it—he'll never get to plant his seed in me. After all, I'm already married to him. He's had enough."

That was when I finally understood—her supposed "red color triggers" had been a lie from the start.

Even the "accidental" miscarriage of the last baby... All of it had been part of her plan.

I had no more words for her.

Back at the villa, I packed my things and dialed a number that had been burning on my phone for weeks.

"I've decided. I'll go abroad. Come pick me up."

After saying that, I hung up.

And then the uninvited guest arrived.

Ever since Miles had "taken a hit" for Rosalia—shielding her from a falling vase—he'd been living in the Lopez family's villa as if he owned it.

Today he was wearing my pajamas, smirking at me.

"Waylon, don't you think you're pathetic?" he sneered. "You couldn't keep your wife. You couldn't even keep your child. Why don't you just die already?"

"Be smart—step aside and give the position of master of the Lopez family to me. Otherwise, you'll only make yourself into a joke."

This time I didn't lunge at him, didn't make him bleed like before.

I simply walked to the window.

The sunlight outside was warm and sharp.

"Miles," I said quietly, "do you really think that just because she's carrying your child, you've already won?"

"Why don't you take a look at this?" I handed him a folder—documents from the IVF clinic. "You've been deceived by Rosalia."

"You thought you were her true love, didn't you? But in reality, you're nothing more than a tool."

Then I dropped the knife. My voice was calm, almost casual. "The child in her womb... is mine."

Miles's face went ghostly pale.

"No—you're lying!" he stammered, backing away. "Rosalia would never do this to me. She loves me, she—"

His whole body was trembling, on the verge of collapse.

I felt a surge of satisfaction and deliberately poured oil on the fire.

Pulling out a recorder, I pressed play.

Rosalia's familiar voice filled the room, "Waylon, don't worry. Once this child is born safely, I'll send Miles away. He'll never appear between us again."

Miles crumbled. The arrogance he had flaunted before vanished in an instant.

"I have to ask her... I need to know why... why would she lie to me!"

Red-eyed, he bolted out of the house like a madman.

The butler approached me, face lined with concern. "Sir... Aren't you afraid Madam will cause trouble for you once she finds out you tricked Mr. Patel?"

I smiled faintly, staring at my own reflection in the mirror—at the calm, deathlike stillness etched on my face.

"If I were still afraid of her... Then I wouldn't be Waylon Flores."

In my entire life, I've only been beaten twice.

The first time—Rosalia saw me wearing red, flew into hysteria and smashed my head open. I needed thirteen stitches.

The second time—I broke a bone, trying to stop her from miscarrying.

Both times, because I was foolish enough to believe in love. But I swore—there will never be a third time.

As expected, that very day, Miles stumbled in his frenzy and collapsed unconscious.

Rosalia was in the middle of a board meeting when she heard. She abandoned everything and rushed to the hospital.

And I? I sat in the villa, quietly watching the surveillance footage, smiling at myself.

Then I made the call. "It's time. Come pick me up."

This time, it was my turn to give Rosalia a surprise.

When she saw Miles's face smashed from the fall, panic gripped her. The shock sent pain twisting through her abdomen—and just like that, she lost the baby.

Lying in the hospital bed, Rosalia was a mess.

The nanny swore the pregnancy had been well cared for, so why had it ended so suddenly?

Then her phone rang. A strange number flashed on the screen.

"Ms. Lopez, this is the Civil Affairs Bureau. Your divorce certificate is ready. Should I send it to you or to Mr. Flores?"