"Let’s get divorced."

Two thin sheets of paper, that was all it took to hand down a death sentence to a four-year marriage.

Elara Quincy’s pale fingers pressed against the man’s bold, sweeping signature on the agreement. When she looked up at Roland Caldwell, there was a glimmer of moisture in her eyes she couldn’t quite hide.

"Is there really no room to change this?"

Her voice came out rough and low. She had just finished doing the housework, and the sweat by her temples hadn’t even dried yet, sticking to the heavy black frames on her face, making her look clumsy, plain, almost dull.

Because he had said he would come back tonight.

Because he had said he wanted to talk to her.

She had gotten up early, full of hope, bought groceries herself, cooked dinner, cleaned the whole house until it looked brand-new. She hadn’t even had time to sit down and catch her breath for a single minute before this suffocating news landed in front of her.

"It was a deal from the start." Roland impatiently flicked ash from his cigarette. "Besides, Sophia’s coming back soon."

So that was it.

Sophia Sinclair.

Roland Caldwell’s one true obsession, the woman he had never let go of, the white moonlight in his heart.

Elara pressed the tip of her tongue lightly against her upper palate. That crushing sense of defeat hit her all over again, exactly like it had four years ago. She lowered her head, dazed for a second. The moment Sophia showed up, Roland would throw away anything for her—benefits, principles, all of it.

Back then, he had been forced into marrying Elara.

And for the past four years, he had kept himself untouched, almost absurdly loyal, all for Sophia’s sake.

When no answer came for a long while, Roland frowned and studied the woman sitting across from him with her eyes lowered, quiet and obedient.

There was nothing wrong with Elara’s looks, honestly. Her skin was white as polished jade, her nose delicate and refined, her lips soft like rose petals, even finished with that tiny bead at the center. And those eyes behind the black-framed glasses—every now and then, when the light hit just right, they flashed with startling brightness.

But she was too boring. So boring it bordered on numb.

The same gentle tone every day.

The same perfect wife act year after year.

Flat and bland, like plain boiled water you could see straight through at a glance.

She was fit to be Mrs. Caldwell.

Just not fit to be his woman.

Holding the cigarette between his fingers, Roland crushed it out in the ashtray and spoke in an offhand tone. "About your situation before..."

He paused, then glanced at Elara’s expression almost instinctively. She still had her head lowered. For some reason, that made him pick up on a trace of grievance from her, mixed with something almost like restrained pleading.

So he changed how he said it. His voice stayed cool, detached, with a faint note of boredom. "Considering your personal history, finding work later probably won’t be easy. On top of the notarized shared assets, I’ll give you three extra villas. That limited-edition Ferrari is yours too. And I’ll transfer fifty million in cash to your account under my personal name as compensation."

Back when Sophia Sinclair left the country, Roland Caldwell had chased after love like a man possessed, flying across the world for her. Old Mr. Caldwell was so furious he nearly kicked him out of the family for good. If Roland’s mother hadn’t stepped in with her usual hardball tactics, even threatening her own life to force him back, the eldest grandson of the Caldwell family would’ve ended up losing both the girl and his place in the family.

To get back into the core of the Caldwell power circle, Roland had no choice but to accept Old Mr. Caldwell’s arrangement, even if he hated every second of it, and marry Elara Quincy, the woman people said had just gotten out of prison back then.

He had never had feelings for her. Still, seeing as she had worked hard for four years, stayed in line, never caused the Caldwell family a single headache, and taken care of him well enough to make life comfortable, Roland didn’t mind throwing her a little extra money as compensation.

Kind of like keeping a horse for fun. If it pleased him, paying for it was only fair.

The man tapped the contract lightly with his long index finger. The ring on that finger, the one with its own special meaning, the one he had never taken off in four years, stabbed straight into Elara Quincy’s eyes like a needle.

“I can give you three days to think about it, but don’t drag this out. My patience isn’t unlimited…”

“No need.”

Elara grabbed the black pen beside her and signed her name in one clean, bold stroke.

“I know where I stand. I’ll move out today. I won’t get in your way.”

Roland gave a calm nod, his expression barely shifting. “OK.”

To be fair, even after things had fallen this far apart, Elara was still exactly the same as always, composed, sensible, and tactful. She had never once made him worry about anything outside of work.

Honestly speaking, as Mrs. Caldwell, she was pretty much top-tier among the wealthy wives and society women.

Too bad feelings were feelings. You couldn’t force that stuff.

Roland turned the contract around, about to speak again, when the study door was suddenly shoved open with a bang. Spencer Caldwell rushed in without the slightest bit of restraint, shouting before she even fully stepped inside, “Roland, I heard you’re finally dumping that ex-con today. Can I take her limited-edition Ferrari? I wanna drive it.”

The second she looked up, she crashed right into Elara’s gaze.

Spencer rolled her eyes so hard it was almost theatrical.

Roland frowned. “How many times have I told you? If I’m in the study talking business, knock before you come in. No manners at all. Do you even look like a proper socialite?”

Spencer leaned over the desk and whined in a spoiled tone, “Ugh, okay, okay, got it. Just give me the keys already. I’ve got plans to go for a drive with my friends today.”

Roland had always spoiled this bratty little sister of his without limits. He lifted his chin toward Elara. “Give it to Spencer.”

Elara lowered her eyes and said quietly, “Didn’t you say that car was mine?”

Her tone was as soft and calm as ever, but somehow, Roland caught a chill in it he had never heard before.

Spencer Caldwell had always had a short fuse. She stormed right up and shoved Elara Quincy hard. "Yours? Mine? Everything in this house belongs to my brother. What part of it has anything to do with you? Hand over the keys. Now."

All these years after marrying into the Caldwell family, Elara had done more than enough for this sister-in-law. More than enough.

Spencer loved stirring up trouble, but the second something actually blew up in her face, she was useless—good for nothing except crying for her mom like a kid.

Back then, she’d offended the Fifth Miss of Shengyu and got tied up on the tallest tower in the city by Ethan Blackwell, the man in charge of Shengyu, the infamous Third Young Master. If Elara hadn’t gone there alone and made a deal with him herself, Spencer probably would’ve been thrown off the building already, crippled for life if she was lucky.

And in the end, all Elara got for that was one cold label: ex-con.

"No."

Elara refused without the slightest pause. Then she turned her gaze straight to Roland Caldwell. "I want this car. Mr. Caldwell, you always mean what you say, right? Don’t tell me you can’t even bear to part with one car."

She still looked the same—soft features, pale and gentle, even her voice light and harmless, without any edge to it. But for some reason, Roland suddenly felt the woman standing in front of him was nothing like the Elara Quincy who used to let people walk all over her.

He paused for a beat, then said coldly to Spencer, "There are more than a dozen supercars at home. Go pick one from my garage."

But Spencer’s stubborn streak had kicked in. She’d been spoiled rotten since she was little, pampered to the moon and back. Other than that one time she got on Ethan Blackwell’s bad side, no one had ever dared make her swallow her pride—let alone this woman standing in front of her, a woman with a criminal record hanging over her head.

Fuming, she jabbed a finger at Elara. "I’ll ask you one last time. Are you giving it to me or not?"

"No—"

Smack!

The slap came fast and vicious, the force of it slicing through the air before crashing hard across Elara’s right cheek.

"Quit acting shameless when I’ve already given you face. Who the hell do you think you are, talking back to me? Trash like you isn’t even fit to carry my shoes."

Something flickered in Roland’s eyes for a split second, but it disappeared just as fast. His face went back to normal as if nothing had happened. "Spencer, watch your language."

It was light. Casual. Like he was saying it just to say it.

Elara covered her burning cheek, then turned her eyes sideways to Spencer. "So you really were raised with no manners at all..."

Spencer only looked more smug. She lifted her chin, glaring at Elara with open provocation.

"So what if I was—ah!"

Elara spun around, grabbed the vase by the window, and without a hint of hesitation dumped the whole thing—flowers and all, a full bottle of water—right over Spencer’s head.

"Then I’ll teach you for your parents."