Saintess’s Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander

“Don’t make a scene, Marcus.” Quinn’s eyes, always so cold, flicked over him as if he were an unwanted stain. “A Saintess can’t be sullied by a man like you. Keep your distance.”

For three years, Marcus Steel was a ghost in his own marriage. His wife, worshipped for her holy power, never let him near—not even a touch, not a night together. Yet every gathering, she let Alexander—her so-called ‘brother,’ his former best friend—rest his head in her lap, her hand stroking his hair, their laughter intimate and careless for the world to see.

“Does it ever bother you?” Marcus whispered one night, desperation thick in his voice. “That you give him what you never gave me?”

Sophia only smiled, distant as ever. “Alexander needs me. You… you’re just my duty.”

When the earthquake shattered the banquet hall, Marcus reached for her through the falling debris. “Quinn! Please! Just take my hand—help me!”

But her golden barrier was already around Alexander. She didn’t even look at Marcus as he screamed, “I’m your husband! Don’t leave me—”

“I can’t save everyone,” she said, voice like ice. “Alex is injured. I promised to protect him.”

As rubble crushed his body and hope faded, something ancient awoke in Marcus. Flames danced in his blood, power surging from the pain, the betrayal.

From the ashes of humiliation and heartbreak, a dragon roared to life.

Marcus Steel is dead. The Dragon King rises—and the Saintess will beg for mercy she never showed.

: The Grandfather's Dinner

The Hartford family mansion loomed against the evening sky like a monument to old money and older pride.

Marcus Steel stood at the entrance, straightening his modest suit jacket—the only decent one he owned—while luxury cars deposited guests dressed in designer labels he couldn't pronounce, let alone afford.

Three years. Three years of this.

He pushed through the heavy oak doors into the grand foyer, where crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors that probably cost more than most people's houses.

The air smelled of expensive perfume, aged wine, and subtle contempt.

"Well, well. Look who decided to grace us with his presence." Wellington Radcliffe's nasal voice cut through the ambient chatter. The man appeared at Marcus's elbow, his tailored tuxedo immaculate, his smile vicious. "I thought maybe you'd gotten lost on the bus ride over."

"I drove," Marcus said evenly.

"In that thing?" Wellington laughed, loud enough to turn heads. "I've seen better vehicles in junkyard commercials. Honestly, Marcus, it's embarrassing. This is a Hartford family event, not a charity drive for the homeless."

Marcus's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Experience had taught him that engaging only provided more ammunition.

The dining hall sprawled before them, a cathedral of wealth where a table stretched beneath more chandeliers, set with china that gleamed like fresh snow. Family members and distinguished guests mingled in clusters, their conversations a symphony of business deals and social maneuvering.

And there, at the center of it all, sat Quinn.

His wife. The woman he'd married in what felt like another lifetime.

Quinn Hartford—he'd taken her name, another source of family mockery—sat poised and perfect in a midnight blue gown that probably cost more than Marcus earned in six months.

Her dark hair fell in elegant waves, her posture radiating the refined grace that came from generations of breeding.

She was beautiful in the way expensive art was beautiful: admirable, untouchable, cold.

Beside her sat Alexander Grant, twenty-four years old and insufferably handsome in his designer suit.

He leaned close to Quinn, whispering something that made her lips curve—not quite a smile, but the closest thing to warmth Marcus had seen on her face in months.

"Your seat is over there." A servant appeared at Marcus's elbow, gesturing toward the far corner of the table. The spot where they seated distant cousins nobody cared about. The spot that screamed: You don't belong here.

Marcus made his way to the corner chair, feeling eyes track his movement like predators watching wounded prey. Conversations didn't stop, but they shifted—became pointed, theatrical.

"I heard he's been looking for work again," someone stage-whispered. "Third job this year."

"Can you imagine? Quinn, a Saintess of the holy bloodline, married to a man who can't even hold down basic employment."

"It's tragic, really. She could have had anyone. Senator Morrison's son was interested. The Whitmore heir practically begged for her hand."

Marcus settled into his chair and reached for the simple wrapped package he'd brought—his gift for Grandfather Sebastian.

Inside was a carefully prepared dish, a recipe passed down from his own grandmother.

It wasn't expensive, but it was made with care, with memory, with the kind of love that couldn't be bought.

He set it on the table and immediately regretted it.

Beside the dish sat a parade of extravagance: a jade sculpture that probably belonged in a museum, bottles of wine older than Marcus, a golden Buddha statue that gleamed with ostentation.

His simple wrapped package looked like a child's crayon drawing hung next to the Mona Lisa.

"Is that a lunchbox?" Harrison Hartford's voice boomed from the head of the table. The patriarch stood, glass of whiskey in hand, his silver hair and commanding presence demanding attention. "Someone brought Grandfather Sebastian a lunchbox for his eightieth birthday?"

Laughter rippled through the room like a wave.

"Actually, Father, I believe it's homemade food," Elena Hartford added, her tone dripping with false sweetness. The matriarch examined her manicured nails as if bored by Marcus's existence. "How... quaint. How very... peasant chic."

More laughter. Louder this time.

Grandfather Sebastian himself peered down the table at the package, his weathered face creasing with disdain. At eighty, he still commanded respect through sheer force of personality and three generations of accumulated power. "Homemade food?" He said it like Marcus had presented him with garbage. "What am I, some commoner eating leftovers? Take it to the kitchen. Feed it to the dogs."

"The dogs?" Wellington chimed in, always ready to pile on. "Are you sure that's safe, Grandfather? Marcus's cooking might bring them bad luck. Might turn their fur gray or something."

The room erupted in cruel amusement.

Marcus felt heat crawl up his neck. He opened his mouth—to say what, he wasn't sure—when Quinn's voice cut through the noise.

"That's enough." Two words, spoken with the kind of authority that came from being born a Saintess. The room quieted instantly. Marcus's heart lifted for just a moment, hope blooming—

"Let's not waste time on trivial matters," Quinn continued, her eyes not even flickering toward Marcus. "Alexander has prepared something truly special for Grandfather's celebration."

And just like that, the hope died.

Alexander stood, smooth and confident, producing an elegant wooden box. "Grandfather Sebastian, it's an honor to celebrate your eightieth year. I've secured something I hope is worthy of the occasion—a century-old wild ginseng root, authenticated and certified. It's said to extend life and vitality."

He opened the box with a flourish. Inside, cradled in silk, lay a gnarled root that looked like it cost more than Marcus's car, his apartment, and his entire existence combined.

The room gasped. Someone actually clapped.

"Alexander!" Harrison Hartford boomed, his face lighting up. "My boy, this is extraordinary! The thoughtfulness! The generosity!"

"Such filial piety," Elena cooed. "You're like the grandson we always wished for."

"This is what respect looks like," Grandfather Sebastian declared, accepting the box with genuine pleasure. "This is how a real man honors his elders. Unlike some people who show up with kitchen scraps."

His eyes finally landed on Marcus, cold and dismissive.

Quinn rose from her seat, graceful as water, and touched Alexander's arm. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice carrying that rare warmth again. "Your constant support means everything. Bella was right to trust you to my care."

"Anything for you," Alexander replied, his tone intimate enough to make Marcus's stomach turn.

Marcus watched his wife stand there, her hand on another man's arm, her smile reserved for someone who wasn't her husband.

He watched the family fawn over Alexander like he'd descended from heaven, while treating Marcus like something stuck to their shoes.

"Quinn," Marcus said quietly, trying to catch her attention.

She turned, and for a moment their eyes met. But instead of acknowledgment or support, he saw only a warning: Don't embarrass me further.

Then she looked away, returning her attention to Alexander and the family's continued praise, and Marcus understood with perfect clarity what the last three years had truly meant.

He was not her husband. He was her burden. Her mistake.

The thing she tolerated because she'd made some vow about destiny and saintess intuition that she now clearly regretted.

Around him, the dinner celebration continued, a symphony of laughter and mockery, of luxury and cruelty, of everything that reminded Marcus Steel exactly where he stood in the Hartford family hierarchy:

At the bottom. Always at the bottom. With nowhere to go but further down.