But that was mine to know.
“There’s always something else,” I said instead. “I want more. I need more. You’ll understand one day.”
I reached out and touched his cheek, letting my fingers linger.
“This isn’t your fault,” I murmured, knowing the words would dig deeper than blame. “You’ve given me everything you could.”
And it was true—everything he could. Just not everything I wanted.
Silence stretched. I wanted him to say something that would make me stay—not because I would, but because I liked knowing he still believed he could keep me.
Finally, he asked, “Will you come back?”
“To what, Dorian?”
He swallowed hard, pride and love warring in his eyes. “I love you.”
“I know.” I reached for my suitcase.
He lowered himself onto the paint bucket with a grimace. He looked so young in that moment—strong shoulders, proud jaw, but still believing love was enough to fix anything.
When I walked past him, I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy with confusion, hurt, and that love I knew so well. That was what I wanted to keep—the part of him that would still think of me, still wonder if I might come back.
One week later, I sent him the divorce papers.
* * *
I still remember him that day—leg in plaster, living room half-painted, our new house echoing with nothing but silence.
He didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just stood there, stunned, exactly as I wanted.
But in his eyes, I saw it—that flicker of hope I might come back.
That was always Dorian Marshall’s flaw: he could believe in forever.
And now?
Now he’s become what I always saw buried inside him. The demigod I spotted back in college. Strong. Powerful. Connected. A man who commands respect the moment he enters a room. Everything I wanted and deserved.
Except he’s no longer mine.
Because she’s back.
Della.
The pathetic little dreamer who somehow managed to bleed into his scars and twist them into strength. She reaps the harvest of seeds I planted, takes the man I shaped
Dorian Marshall is my creation.
He became this man because of me. And I will not allow her to be the most important woman in his life. Not ever.
I know exactly how to crush it—and him, and her—all over again.
* * *
Dorian’s office smells like expensive restraint—cedar polish, quiet air, clean lines. It’s late enough for the city to glow and early enough for the ambitious to still pretend they aren’t tired.
“Is he in?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
