Chapter 1: Shadows of a Loveless Home

After marrying my childhood friend, things between us still felt distant. Aside from our late-night routine—those quiet, obligatory moments in the dark—we barely even crossed paths. Sometimes it felt like we were just roommates, orbiting the same house but never really meeting.

It was funny, in a way. You’d think after all those years growing up side by side—racing bikes down Oakridge Lane, splitting peanut butter sandwiches under the old maple—there’d be something deeper holding us together. But that space between us just settled in, like dust that never gets cleaned, thick and unmoving. Even when we shared a roof, we were like strangers passing in the hallway. Funny how that works, huh? The only time our paths really crossed was in the quiet of night, when the world faded out and there was nothing left but the hush.

He was always so far away. Even when I brought up divorce, he just sort of drifted off, zoning out for a second, then pulled away from me, almost like he was floating somewhere else entirely.

His eyes would glaze over, like he was watching some old movie in his head, somewhere far from here. I’d catch myself wondering—did he even hear me, or was he just waiting for the right moment to leave? The pause was always the same, just a breath or two, and then he’d pull himself together and move on, as if I hadn’t said a word. Was he even listening?

"Okay. Got it."

His voice was flat, almost mechanical, like we were hashing out a contract instead of splitting up a marriage. No anger, no pleading—just a simple, dry acknowledgment, like he was ticking off a box on a checklist. Was that it? Just like that? I could almost picture him jotting it down in his planner: “Divorce—done.”

I said, "I don't want custody of our son either. He'll be your responsibility from now on."

The words came out heavy, sticking in my throat, but I forced them out anyway, watching his face for even the tiniest reaction. Nothing. He just nodded, like I’d told him it might rain tomorrow.

"That's fine."

He didn’t blink, didn’t push back, didn’t even sigh. He just accepted it, same as always. For a split second, I wanted to scream. It was almost infuriating how little he seemed to care. Did he ever care about any of this? About me?

I insisted, "You’ve worked hard these past few years. Thank you."

It sounded awkward, even to me—too formal, too stiff. But I meant it, sort of. For all his distance, he’d done what he was supposed to do—kept the lights on, paid the bills, made sure our son had everything. Maybe that’s all I could expect. Still, the gratitude sat on my tongue, weird and unfamiliar, somewhere between habit and resignation. It almost tasted metallic, like biting your cheek.

I didn't have much to pack—one suitcase was enough for all my things. Before leaving, I turned back and made sure the door was closed properly.

I stood on the threshold for a moment, almost laughing at myself for double-checking the lock, like it really mattered anymore. Maybe it was just muscle memory, or maybe I just needed something simple to do before walking out for good. The house was so quiet, the kind of quiet that crawls under your skin and stays there. Empty, echoing.

Graham Whitaker, shirtless and covered in scratch marks, stood silently on the balcony, smoking.

The end of his cigarette glowed in the dark, flickering orange shadows across his face. I watched him for a second—broad shoulders, hunched over the railing, lost in his own world. The scratch marks on his skin were a silent reminder of the mess we’d made together, all the unresolved things left between us. Smoke drifted up, curling away into the night, just like I was about to do.

And then, out of nowhere, Savannah was trending online. My younger sister, Savannah Lin, had come back to the States and the internet was eating it up. She was a dancer, famous before she could even drive. In the interview, she wore a red dress, bold and alive, just like she always was.

The media couldn’t get enough—America’s darling, the prodigy who’d blown everyone away. I scrolled through endless headlines, clips of her spinning in that fiery dress lighting up my feed. Savannah always knew how to own a room, and tonight was no exception. The comments section was on fire, everyone fawning over her return. It was all so loud, so bright.

But what really caught my eye was the last photo in the set. Through the half-lowered car window, Savannah’s head happened to block someone’s face. Even though the image was blurry, you could see from the guy’s brow, the cut of his nose, the strong jaw—he was ridiculously handsome. And the way they were angled, it looked almost like they were kissing. My stomach twisted.

I stared at the photo, my heart pounding in my chest. The internet detectives were already at work, zooming in, making wild guesses. But I didn’t need any hints. Even in that grainy shot, I knew that jawline, that profile. It was him. No doubt.

Savannah’s fans went wild, trying to figure out whose car it was. One look, and I knew—that was Graham’s car. His pride and joy, a globally limited edition Rolls-Royce Phantom. Not exactly subtle.

That car was Graham’s baby, the kind of thing you only see at Pebble Beach or splashed across luxury magazines. I’d joked with him once, "You planning to drive the Batmobile to preschool pickup?" He just gave me that rare, faraway smile and said nothing. Now, seeing it all over the news, it felt like someone had punched me in the gut.

So, Graham probably wasn’t coming home tonight. I flopped down on the massive bed in our room, letting myself sink into the mattress.

For the first time in ages, I sprawled out, arms and legs everywhere, the whole bed to myself. I stared up at the ceiling, letting the quiet settle around me. No footsteps in the hall, no voices drifting from the study. Just me, the hum of the city outside, and the soft whisper of sheets.

Late at night, a pair of cold arms woke me up.

I jolted awake, blinking into the darkness. The room was still and shadowy, the clock glowing 2:13 AM. Before I saw him, I felt him—Graham, moving quietly, careful not to wake me. The air held the faint trace of his cologne, mixed with the sharp bite of winter air. My skin prickled.

"Awake?" he asked, his voice low. He hovered in the doorway, almost apologetic, like a guest in his own house. I could hear the exhaustion in him, the weight of a day spent somewhere else. He was always so polite, even when it didn’t fit the moment. He lingered for a second, rubbing the back of his neck, then waited for me to answer.

My brain was still foggy, but after a moment, I managed to sit up. He’d already pulled me closer, making room for himself on the bed, like it was just another night.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to shake off the sleep. Graham’s hands were gentle but insistent, guiding me in as he settled beside me. The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a moment, I remembered all the nights we’d shared this bed, always with that invisible wall between us. Was I the only one who noticed?

"Sorry," I said, my voice small. "I thought you wouldn’t be back tonight."

He didn’t even look at me, just shrugged and turned his attention to the lamp on the nightstand, like it was easier to talk to the furniture.

He flicked on the light. With his back to me, Graham slipped off his bathrobe. The soft glow painted his back and neck in gold, making him look almost like something out of a painting—strong, distant, untouchable.

The only sound was the quiet rustle of fabric, the golden light catching on his skin. I just watched him—shoulders tense, muscles shifting. He seemed almost unreal, like a statue brought to life, all grace and restraint. I felt a pang of something—longing, maybe, or regret.

A minute later, his neck was close to mine.