She grabbed my collar with a vicious grip.
"Roland, you're ruthless."
"Fine. I admit it—I fell in love with you. I can't stand the thought of another woman near you. Happy now?"
Then came that livestream confession that broke the internet.
Rosemary swore she'd changed. No more games. She'd be a devoted wife.
And for a while, we did have something sweet.
Just like Louis said, she went all in—learning my interests, anticipating my needs.
When she found out I loved skiing, she built me a private estate in Switzerland. Even named it after us—a blend of our names, a promise carved into the mountainside.
But now.
I stared at Frederick's latest social media post.
The estate's sign had been replaced.
Those four characters that once meant everything—Rosemary & Roland—had been swapped out for Sweethearts: Rosemary & Frederick.
"Yes, she cheated again. So no, I won't be taking her back."
I set down my phone and signed my name on the divorce papers without a second thought.
On the seventh day after my mother's death—the day of her memorial—my father called and asked me to come home for breakfast.
I thought maybe he still had some shred of feeling for her.
Maybe he wanted to burn offerings together.
I walked in and found Frederick and his mother, Astrid Fleming, already seated at the table.
My expression went cold. I turned to leave.
"Stay right there!"
My father's voice cracked like a whip. Before I could take another step, he launched into me.
"I heard you tried to hit Frederick at the club the other day! What the hell is wrong with you? Is that any way to treat your brother?!"
"Thank God Rosemary stepped in, or who knows what you would've done. You hurt her, and now you want a divorce? Running away from home like some child?!"
"I don't know what your mother taught you, but she raised a thug. You'd better get on your knees and apologize before you destroy the partnership between our families!"
I looked at this man—this man who saw nothing but profit margins and alliances.
A cold laugh escaped me.
"If you knew I'd left home, why didn't you ask where I've been staying? Whether I was okay?"
"Oh, right—I forgot. Your heart belongs to your mistress now. That's why you couldn't even bother showing up to your own wife's funeral. You're that shameless, and you dare lecture me about my mother?!"
My father slammed his chopsticks down and raised his hand to strike me.
Astrid's eyes darted, calculating. She grabbed his arm just in time, her face arranged into a picture of gentle concern.
"Honey, what are you doing? The boy's grieving. We should be understanding—he's in pain. I don't mind, really."
"Besides, if you bruise his face, how will he stand beside Frederick as best man?"
I froze.
My voice came out raw, scraped hollow.
"What did you just call him? You two are married?!"
"My mother's been dead seven days, and you couldn't wait to bring your mistress through the front door?!"
My father's expression hardened, utterly unrepentant.
"Your mother's gone—what, am I supposed to mourn her forever?!"
"Frederick's grown now. I can't let people keep calling him a bastard behind his back. This is my responsibility as a father!"
Responsibility.
I collapsed into the chair, a broken laugh tearing out of me. Tears spilled before I could stop them.
Frederick sidled up beside me, reaching for my hand with sickening familiarity.
"This is great, brother! Now we're officially family. I don't know all the rules of high society yet—you'll have to teach me, okay? I'd hate to embarrass myself."
"Sure." I met his eyes. "No problem."
Astrid and my father exchanged satisfied smiles.
I wiped my face dry. Lit a cigarette with one hand. Drew in a slow breath.
Then exhaled the smoke directly into Frederick's face.
"Here's your first lesson." My voice was ice. "I'm the legitimate son. You're the bastard. Until I speak to you first, you don't get to open your mouth in my presence."
I leaned closer, letting the cigarette glow between us.
"Understood?"
