Chapter 1
After seducing my husband, Brent Westwood, for three years and still being left untouched, I finally made up my mind–I was going to divorce him.
I leaned back on the velvet chair in our bedroom, phone pressed to my ear. My voice was calm, but inside, I was shaking. Not with fear. With relief.
“I’m divorcing him,” I said flatly. “I’ll come home soon.”
On the other end, my brother’s laugh rang loud and sharp. “About damn time, Layla. Come to Switzerland. I’ve already lined up a bunch of guys for you. Real men. Not like that emotionally–constipated mannequin you married.”
“Lucas…” I sighed.
“I wamed you from the start,” he said, ignoring me. “You can’t tame someone like Brent. He’d rather whisper sweet nothings to a wall than touch a woman. You deserve better. Always have.”
“I thought I could make him fall for me,” I murmured. “I was wrong.”
I hung up before Lucas could say more. My fingers trembled as I dropped the phone onto the bed.
That’s when the memories came crashing in. The first time I saw Brent–at a Westwood gala–he stood in a corner, perfectly still, like a statue carved from marble. Men nodded with respect. Women stared with hunger. But he didn’t return anyone’s gaze. Not even mine. My brother introduced me that night. Brent barely nodded. I smiled. He looked through me.
Still, I was drawn to him–obsessed, even. I told myself I could be the one to break through that wall of ice. So I tried. Subtle touches, long stares, late–night texts, silk dresses, fake laughter, honest affection. All of it, I gave to Brent. And I waited.
Three years later, he came to me. No ring. No speech. Just walked up one afternoon and said, “Let’s get married.”
I agreed without hesitation. I was foolish enough to think that meant he had finally fallen for me.
But after the wedding, Brent never came to our bedroom. Not once.
For months, I tried everything to pull him in–silk lingerie in his favorite color, slipping into his study at night just to bring him coffee in nothing but a robe. I memorized his schedule, cooked him breakfast every morning, massaged his shoulders after long meetings, hoping he’d just look at me the way a husband should. I’d light candles in our room, put on soft music, pretend to fall asleep in suggestive positions hoping he’d reach for me.”
I even booked a weekend trip to the Maldives, thinking maybe a change of scenery would stir something in him. But he barely touched me.E
He didn’t even notice when I cried in the shower, or how I stopped wearing perfume because he never cared to smell it.
Each time he walked past me like I wasn’t there, something inside me wilted a little more.
Then one night… I broke his only rule. There was a door in the west wing. Always locked. Always off–limits.
“Never go in there,” he said.”
But I did. The room was dim. Cold. The faint scent of perfume clung to the air. Not mine.
That’s when I saw him.[
Brent. Sitting in a velvet armchair, shirt half unbuttoned, trousers unzipped.
One hand… moving between his pants. The other held a photograph.”
Celeste. His stepsister. His eyes were glassy, fixated. His lips parted in a shaky breath.”
“Celeste…” he moaned softly, voice raw and needful.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stared.
It wasn’t that Brent lacked desire. He just didn’t desire me.”
I left quietly and slept in the guest room that night. No tears. Just silence.
At dawn, I rose, showered, dressed, and walked out of the house. I just left to get fresh air and to prepare all the things I needed to leave
him.”
While I was having coffee, staring at the calm sea, he called. I didn’t answer. A few minutes later, another call. Then a text.
Brent: Where’s my navy suit? I have a meeting. You didn’t prep it. Where are you?!
This time, I picked up the call.”
“Layla,” Brent said curtly, already annoyed. “Where is my damn suit?“}
Lexhaled slowly. Then calmly said, “I don’t know. I don’t care.“{
There was silence on the line.
“What?” he asked, voice tightening. “Are you having tantrums again? Not now! I’m busy so I need the damn suit–“>
“I said, I don’t care. Why don’t you ask your stepsister?” I said, my tone light but deadly. “… since you only care for her.” Then I ended the call.
