He Forced Me to Be the Perfect Wife, Then Lost Me Forever

Oliver Vance forced me overseas for wifely obedience training for the sixth time.

All because I'd asked one question: "That matching ring I gave you—why aren't you wearing it?"

His brow creased slightly, and then something seemed to amuse him. He let out a low laugh.

"Instructor Henson's been throwing a little tantrum."

"Said it was in her way. Tossed it."

The words hit like ice water. I went rigid where I stood.

He just smiled, full and pleased with himself, rubbing his thumb across the marks on his neck.

"You can't blame me for that."

"She's been spoiled rotten. If I hadn't tossed it… she'd have torn me apart."

My eyes dropped instinctively to the angry red marks across his throat.

My chest seized, and the tears fell before I could stop them.

The next second, Oliver flung a tissue at me and tugged irritably at his tie.

"How are you still this fragile? All those lessons, all those rules—and you still can't learn to behave yourself and keep your mouth shut. Stop crying!"

"Don't tell me you were actually naive enough to think putting some meaningless trinket on my finger meant I'd give you my whole heart. You really believed that?"

He probably expected the usual—me choking on my grievance, dragging the argument on and on.

But I only cried in silence.

I'd stopped hoping for even a scrap of sincerity from him a long time ago.

All I wanted now was to be free of him entirely.

——

"Crying like that. God, you look ugly."

Oliver held my gaze for a long, tight moment, eyes narrowed. Then his jaw loosened just slightly, and he leaned down to wipe the tears away.

His fingertip grazed the bridge of my nose, light and careless. His tone was nowhere near gentle.

"Enough. The only reason I see her at all is because she can teach you proper etiquette. Teach you what it means to stay in line."

"Keep this up—the crying, the tantrums—and I'll stop coming home at all. I'll just stay with her."

Tears still clung to my lashes.

But inside, it felt like a thousand-pound stone had been dropped straight onto my chest.

The tears that had been pooling suddenly stopped.

And everything in me went quiet.

When I looked up again, there was a faint, satisfied amusement in Oliver's eyes that I hadn't noticed arrive.

He reached out and mussed my hair.

"Usually the more I wipe, the harder you cry."

"Finally come to your senses?"

"It's just playing along… men flirt with women, that's how it works. You'd better get used to it fast. You fall apart this easily, what makes you think you're fit to stand next to me?"

Every word was like a soft thorn pressing into my chest.

I lifted my face to meet those eyes—gentle, lingering, deceptively warm.

Searching desperately for the smallest trace of guilt.

There was nothing. Only ease and indifference.

I opened my mouth, but my throat was so tight it ached.

What he called flirting, what he called playing along—that was real feeling wearing a convenient mask.

And I was the one who'd wanted nothing more than to stand beside him.

In the end, the only person trapped was me.

Oliver's brow lifted, a flicker of triumph crossing his gaze, and he aimed the camera straight at my face.

"What are you staring at me for?"

"Look at the lens. Apologize. Mean it."

"I'll put in a word with Instructor Henson for you—get her to go a little easier next time."

"Then we'll call the whole thing settled."

When I didn't react, his brow knotted. "Talk."

I laughed.

Apologize? Davina Henson probably loved having a cautionary tale like me around.

The camera's red light pulsed. I glanced at the time—and something clicked. I spoke up.

"Instructor Henson is nothing if not dedicated—even this late, I'm sure she wouldn't mind making a personal house call in her black stockings."

"But I'm a little tired tonight. Tell her to get some rest. Wouldn't want her boyfriend to worry."

Oliver caught the implication. One brow ticked upward.

"I know you don't like hearing it, but you're the one with the filthy mind. Of course everything looks dirty to you."