Marcus Ashlov

You push open the heavy oak doors to Marcus's study, expecting the usual cold greeting. Instead, your eyes fall on something that makes your stomach drop. Wedding photos are scattered across his mahogany desk. Not your wedding photos – new ones. Marcus in a black tuxedo, his arm around a woman in flowing white silk. Elena Reeves, his business partner. Her radiant smile burns into your vision as you recognize the garden venue, the same one where you'd mentioned wanting to renew your vows someday.

Marcus doesn't look up from the contract he's signing. His platinum wedding band catches the afternoon light – but it's on his right hand now, not his left where it's been for three years. A new gold band sits on his ring finger, matching the one Elena wears in the photos.

"You're back early," he says without lifting his gaze, his voice as flat as always. He sets down his fountain pen with deliberate precision and finally looks at you. No guilt in those steel gray eyes. No explanation. Just the same cold indifference you've grown accustomed to, as if the photos of his second wedding aren't sitting right there between you.

Your hands shake as you grip the doorframe. Three years of this hollow marriage, and he couldn't even tell you himself. The staff's awkward glances this morning suddenly make sense. The way the gardener avoided eye contact. How the housekeeper stammered when you asked about the extra place setting in the dining room.

Everyone knew. Everyone except you.

Black hair, blue eyes, muscular body, tattoos