The Unwanted Husband Returns To The Top

The Barlowe estate was a monument to old money and quiet arrogance. Connor's car, the humble Toyota, felt like a trespasser as it rolled up the long, manicured driveway. He didn't park in his usual spot. He left the car directly in front of the main entrance, a small act of defiance.

He walked into the wing of the mansion he and Genevieve had called home. His gait carried a faint, almost imperceptible limp, a ghost of the accident that had served as the perfect cover for his exile. It was a lavish suite, decorated in shades of cream and gold, a gilded cage he had occupied for three years.

She was there, fresh from a shower, wrapped in a silk robe that cost more than his monthly earnings. Surprise flickered across her face, quickly replaced by a familiar look of disdain.

"What was that phone call about?" she demanded, her tone accusatory. No mention of Jett. No hint of guilt. "You can't just call me like that."

Connor ignored her. He walked past her, the scent of her expensive perfume filling the air, and went straight into the walk-in closet. It was the size of a small apartment, filled with her designer clothes and his few, simple things.

He pulled out a small, worn suitcase.

He began to pack. A few changes of clothes. A worn copy of a book his grandfather had given him. His father's watch. He left the expensive suits and shoes the Barlowes had bought for him untouched. They were part of the costume, and the play was over.

"What are you doing?" Genevieve's voice was sharp, laced with confusion.

Connor zipped the suitcase shut. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "I'm packing," he said, his voice calm. "And then I'm divorcing you."

She stared at him for a beat, then let out a short, sharp laugh of disbelief. "Divorce? Are you insane, Connor? How will you live? Where will you go?"

She gestured around the opulent room. "This. All of this. It belongs to my family. You have nothing."

"I don't need any of this," he said. He walked to the antique vanity where she did her makeup and placed a single folded document on its polished surface. A divorce agreement, already signed by him.

This is what he prepared on his way back.

Genevieve's eyes widened as she saw the papers. The laughter died in her throat. This was real.

Her entire demeanor shifted. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a frantic, calculated panic. She rushed toward him, her hand grabbing his arm.

"No," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not now. You can't. Clarissa's wedding is tomorrow. Everyone will be there. The entire city."

She was pleading, but not for their marriage. For appearances.

"We have to be the perfect couple, just for one more day," she insisted. "It would destroy my family's reputation."

Connor looked down at her hand on his arm, then met her eyes. His were cold, empty. "Your reputation," he said flatly, "is not my concern."

He pulled his arm away.

Her patience snapped. The mask of civility fell away, revealing the ugly, hysterical woman beneath. "You ungrateful crippled bastard! You're nothing without us! A piece of trash we picked up off the street!"

She jabbed a finger at his chest. "If you dare cause a scene before this wedding, I will make sure you can't even get a job washing dishes in this city!"

He didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He just delivered the final, fatal blow.

"I saw you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "At the Olympus Spire."

The words hung in the air between them. Genevieve's face, already pale, turned a ghastly white. The realization dawned in her eyes, a slow-motion horror.

The Uber driver.

Shame, fear, and fury warred on her face. She opened her mouth to form a denial, a lie, but no sound came out.

Connor had already turned away. He picked up his suitcase and walked toward the door.

She lunged, trying to block his path, to grab him again. He sidestepped her easily, pushing her aside with a gentle but firm pressure that sent her stumbling back. The strength in his touch was unfamiliar, frightening.

He paused at the doorway, his back to her.

"Sign the papers," he said. "My lawyer will be in touch."

He walked out, leaving her to collapse onto the plush carpet, a crumpled heap of silk and desperation.

She scrambled for her phone, her fingers trembling as she dialed Jett's number. Her voice was a ragged sob, thick with anger.

"He knows! Connor knows everything! He wants a divorce, right before the wedding!"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then Jett's cold, dismissive laugh.

"Don't worry, darling," he purred. "He can't do anything. He's a nobody. Tomorrow, at the wedding, I'll make him regret he was ever born."

Outside, the night air was cool and clean. As Connor stepped out of the Barlowe mansion for the last time, a black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided silently to a stop in front of him.

Finchley Abernathy stepped out and held the rear door open.

"Welcome back, Mr. Wise."

Upon hearing this, Connor didn't rush to get into the car. Instead, he shifted his gaze to his humble Toyota.