The Day I Wore Red Again, Our Marriage Ended

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?"