# Chapter 5: Cracks

The rain taps against the floor-to-ceiling windows like it’s trying to get in. Or maybe it’s just the house echoing my own restlessness. I stand in the center of the living room, barefoot on the cold marble, wrapped in one of Ethan’s dress shirts that smells like cedar and London rain. It’s ridiculous how much I cling to the physical remnants of him when the man himself is a ghost.

Three days. He’s been back for three days, and in that time, he’s slept in the master bedroom, worked in the study until 3 a.m., and barely spoken to me beyond monosyllabic answers when I cross his path. The warmth that existed between us in those first tangled weeks has vanished, replaced by a sterile distance that makes my chest ache. I don’t know which hurts more: the silence or the knowledge that he’s right there, in the same house, but worlds away.

The front door unlocks. The heavy click echoes through the foyer, and my pulse jumps. I don’t move. I don’t need to. I can feel his presence the moment he steps inside, the shift in air pressure, the heavy silence that follows. Footsteps. Measured. Controlled. He always walks like he’s conquering ground, like the world is an enemy he’s already defeated.

He stops in the doorway of the living room. The hallway light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, the way his suit jacket hangs open like he’s just shed a layer of armor. His eyes find mine. Cold. Appraising. Familiar.

“You’re still awake,” he says. Not a question. A statement. Flat. Empty.

“I wait for you,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. I step forward, bare feet silent on the marble. “Every night.”

His expression doesn’t shift. “You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to.” I stop a foot away from him. Close enough to see the faint fatigue shadowing his eyes, close enough to smell the faint trace of expensive scotch on his breath. “But I want to.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. The flicker in his eyes is gone too quickly. I almost miss it. Almost.

“Sophie,” he says, and my name sounds like a warning. “We agreed on terms. You get security. I get a convenient arrangement. There’s nothing to wait for.”

There it is. The wall. The cold, impenetrable, meticulously constructed wall he’s built around himself and now around us. My stomach twists. I’ve been playing by his rules, respecting the boundaries he set, pretending that tangled sheets and whispered praise in the dark were enough. But they’re not. They’ll never be enough.

“I don’t want convenience,” I say, my voice low but steady. “I want you.”

He exhales slowly, like I’ve just asked him to bleed. “You have me. Physically. That’s what this is.”

“Is it?” I step closer. My fingers tremble as I reach out, pressing my palm flat against his chest. The heat of him radiates through the thin cotton of his shirt. The steady, relentless drum of his heart beneath my hand contradicts his words. “Because when you look at me in the dark, I don’t feel like a transaction. I feel like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t lean in. He just stands there, rigid, like he’s holding himself back from falling apart. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t make this something it isn’t.”

“I’m not making it anything,” I whisper. “I’m just asking for the truth. I want more than just your body. I want your heart. I want to know that when you come home, you’re coming home to me. Not just to a place. To a person.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

He looks down at my hand on his chest, then back up at my eyes. His voice is quiet. Deadly calm. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” I say, and the words taste like iron. “I know I’m married to a man who flinches when I touch his face. A man who treats affection like a liability. A man who’s been gone for weeks and comes back like he’s already halfway out the door. I’m tired of loving an echo.”

His nostrils flare. Something dark stirs in his eyes. Possessiveness? Anger? Fear? I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m done tiptoeing.

“Then say it,” I press, my voice rising. “Say it’s just sex. Say I’m a placeholder until you find someone who doesn’t need you to be human. Say it, Ethan, and I’ll pack my bags. I’ll sign whatever papers you throw at me. I’ll walk away and never look back.”

He goes very still. The air between us crackles, thick with something volatile. His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around my wrist. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just firm. Grounding. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” I breathe. “I want an annulment. Unless you give me something real to hold onto. Unless you stop treating me like I’m disposable and start treating me like I’m yours. All of me. Not just the parts you use when you’re hungry.”

His thumb presses into the delicate skin of my inner wrist. I can feel his pulse racing now. Faster. Erratic. The mask is cracking. I see it. I’m tearing it open.

“You think an annulment is a game?” he asks, voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “You think I’ll just sign it because you’re throwing a tantrum?”

“It’s not a tantrum,” I say, pulling my wrist back only to press both hands against his chest again. “It’s an ultimatum. I love you. I think you love me, too, or you wouldn’t keep coming back to my bed. But love isn’t enough if it’s locked behind glass. I’m drowning in it, Ethan. And you won’t even let me surface.”

He stares at me. The city lights bleed through the rain-streaked windows, painting his face in shades of silver and shadow. For a long moment, I think he’ll walk away. I think he’ll retreat back into the cold, calculated man who signed our marriage certificate like a business merger.

Then he moves.

His hand slides from my wrist to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. He pulls me in, and his mouth crashes against mine like he’s been starving. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s desperate. A claiming. A punishment. A plea. I gasp into it, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer because I can’t get close enough. The kiss is brutal, hungry, all teeth and tongue and barely restrained force. I taste scotch and anger and something painfully raw underneath.

He breaks the kiss only to shove me backward. My shoulder hits the wall. He’s on me instantly, caging me in, his body pressing me flat against the plaster. His mouth finds my throat, biting down just enough to make me cry out. His hands are everywhere. Tearing at the shirt, pushing it up, palming my breast through the lace of my bra. I arch into him, a whimper escaping my lips as his thumb brushes my nipple.

“I told you not to push,” he growls against my skin. His voice is rough. Frayed.

“Push me back,” I challenge, my voice shaking but defiant. “Or leave. But don’t you dare pretend you don’t want this. Don’t you dare pretend you don’t want me.”

He hitches me up. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and he carries me like I weigh nothing, like I’m the only thing anchoring him to the earth. He kicks the bedroom door open, crosses the room, and drops us onto the bed. The mattress dips. He’s on top of me in a flash, his weight pressing me down, his eyes burning into mine.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I do. I hold his gaze as he shoves his suit pants down, as he frees himself. He’s hard. Thick. Aching. The sight of him makes my breath hitch. He lines himself up with my entrance, his cock pressing against my slick heat. I gasp as he bottoms out in one brutal thrust.

“Fuck,” he curses, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. His body tenses. He’s holding back. Fighting himself. “Sophie. Christ. You make it so fucking hard.”

“Don’t hold back,” I beg, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t you dare hold back. I want it. All of it. Every broken, messy, desperate piece of you.”

He snaps. Something inside him breaks. He pulls back, then drives into me again, harder. Faster. The bed groans under us. His thrusts are punishing, relentless, each one hitting deep, grazing that sweet, swollen spot that makes my vision blur. I cling to him, my hips rising to meet him, matching his rhythm, desperate for friction, for connection, for proof that he’s still in here with me.

“Say it,” I gasp as he slams into me, his grip on my hips bruising. “Say you’re mine.”

He doesn’t answer. He just grunts, his pace increasing, his breathing ragged. His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking, marking. His hand slides up, pinning my wrist above my head, the other tangling in my hair, tilting my head back so he can devour my mouth. The kiss is filthy, wet, desperate. I moan into it, my body clenching around him, milking him with every thrust.

“God, you’re so tight,” he rasps against my lips. “So fucking perfect. How do you do that to me? How do you ruin me?”

“I’m not ruining you,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes. “I’m loving you. Stop fighting it.”

He pulls out abruptly. I whimper in protest as the cold air hits my skin. He rolls us, pinning me beneath him, his body a heavy, delicious weight. He grabs my ankle, lifts my leg over his shoulder, and pushes back in, deeper. Angled. Different. My back arches off the mattress as he hits that spot again and again. The pleasure is blinding. Electric. I’m crying now. Not from sadness. From overwhelm. From the sheer, terrifying intensity of him coming undone.

“Look at me,” he demands again, his voice breaking. “Look at me when I’m inside you.”

I do. My eyes lock with his. The ice is gone. In its place is something feral. Something raw. Something that looks terrifyingly like love.

“I hate how much I need you,” he growls, his thrusts becoming erratic. “I hate that I can’t breathe when you’re not in the room. I hate that you look at me like I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not,” I sob. “You’re just scared. Let me in. Please. Let me love you.”

He doesn’t answer. He just drives into me, harder, faster, his control fracturing with every snap of his hips. His hand slides down, fingers finding my clit, circling, pressing. The combination shatters me. My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, violent and absolute. I scream his name, my body convulsing around him, my inner walls clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic pulses.

He curses, his own release tearing through him. He groans, deep and guttural, as he empties inside me, his body shuddering, his grip on me bruising. He stays buried inside me, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing ragged. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our hearts hammering, the rain against the windows, the quiet aftermath of something that felt like salvation.

Then the silence returns.

He rolls off me, onto his back. His chest rises and falls too quickly. He doesn’t look at me. He stares at the ceiling like it holds the answers. The warmth between us cools. The distance creeps back in, thicker than before.

I turn my head, watching his profile. The mask is slipping back into place. I can see it happening. The way his shoulders tense. The way his jaw clenches. The way his hand curls into a fist at his side.

“Ethan,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

“I meant what I said,” I continue, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “I want an annulment. Not as a threat. As a promise. If you won’t give me your heart, I won’t stay in a cage.”

He finally turns his head. His eyes are dark. Empty. “You really want to walk away? After everything? After tonight?”

“I want more than tonight,” I say. “I want tomorrow. I want a lifetime. If you can’t give it, I’ll leave. Cleanly. Quietly. But I’m done waiting for scraps.”

He stares at me. Then he laughs. It’s a bitter, broken sound. “You think this is a choice? You think I can just flip a switch and give you everything you’re asking for?”

“No,” I say softly. “But I think you’re terrified of what happens if you don’t.”

He sits up, running a hand through his hair. His voice is quiet. Final. “The annulment isn’t as simple as you think, Sophie. There are conditions. Clauses. People watching. You walk away, you don’t just leave me. You walk into a fire you don’t understand.”

A chill runs down my spine. “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer. He pulls on his trousers, buttons his shirt with mechanical precision. He looks like a stranger. A man carved from ice. He walks to the door, pausing only to look back at me. His expression is unreadable.

“You want my heart, Sophie?” he says, his voice low. “Careful. It’s already broken. And once it’s in your hands, you won’t be able to put it back. You’ll have to carry it. All of it. Even the parts that bleed you dry.”

Then he leaves.

The door clicks shut. The house is silent again. I lie alone in the mess of sheets, my body still humming from him, my heart shattering in slow motion. I pull his shirt tighter around me, trying to hold onto the ghost of him, but it’s slipping through my fingers like smoke.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I don’t want to look. I know I should ignore it. But curiosity is a disease, and I’m terminal.

I pick it up.

Unknown number. One text.

*She’s back. London. The arrangements are in motion. She knows about the marriage. And she knows what you’ll do to keep it quiet.*

My blood turns to ice.

London.

Someone else.

His past.

The annulment isn’t just about us anymore.

It never was.

I stare at the screen, my hands trembling, my chest caving in. The door is closed. The room is empty. But somewhere, in the city where he spent three weeks away, someone is returning. Someone who knows my name. Someone who knows our secret.

And Ethan just warned me that walking away means stepping into a fire.

But staying?

Staying means burning with him.

I press my palm to my mouth to stifle the sob clawing its way up my throat. The rain keeps falling. The house keeps echoing. And I’m left alone with a choice that feels like it’s tearing me in half.

Annulment.

Or stay.

And find out exactly what kind of monster he really is.

The phone buzzes again.

This time, it’s a call.

Unknown number.

I don’t move.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I let it go to voicemail.

But as the line goes dead, I hear footsteps in the hallway.

Heavy.

Familiar.

Not Ethan’s.

I freeze.

The bedroom door handle turns.

Slowly.

Quietly.

And a voice I don’t recognize whispers from the other side of the wood.

“Sophie?”

My breath stops.

Because it’s a woman’s voice.

Soft.

Confident.

Dangerous.

And it says the one thing that shatters my world completely.

“I’m here to collect what’s mine.”

The door creaks open.