~Alistair's POV~
But before I could fully process it, Alex spoke up. His voice wasn't gentle or compliant this time, it was cold, sharp, and edged with a defensiveness I hadn't heard in months.
"How?" he demanded. "For what, exactly?"
His mother began to weave an explanation, her voice smooth and manipulative, explaining why Clara "needed" to come along.
Alex stopped her mid-sentence.
"Mom, I respect you," he said quietly, "but she won't be coming with us. I'm not trying to be rude or go against you, but my answer is no."
She attempted to object once more, her features drawn tight, but my husband closed the distance. He kissed her cheek softly, a quiet act of affection that also served as a clear dismissal.
"Goodbye, Mom," he said softly.
Then, he turned his gaze to Clara. His expression was neutral, but his words were like ice. "Go to your man's house, not another person's husband's house. You're too beautiful to be pushed around like a pawn."
I couldn't help it, a quiet, triumphant chuckle escaped me. Alexander opened the car door, his movements steady and assured. Before sliding into the seat, I turned toward his mother and gave her a mock-polite bow.
The moment the car pulled away, heading back to our house, I broke into laughter, no longer bothering to hide it.
"What happened?" Alex asked quietly.
"Nothing, babe," I replied.
He pulled me closer, and I rested my head on his shoulder. God, that felt incredibly satisfying, I thought.
Since we returned, his mother had never explicitly said she was opposed to our union, but her actions spoke louder than her words. She had been doing everything in her power to drive a wedge between us, to replace me quietly.
I still didn't truly know why.
Alexander and I met while studying abroad. We were drawn to each other almost immediately, maybe because we came from the same country, even though our cities were worlds apart.
We dated for five years, and after graduation, he proposed. We were each other's first in every way, no exes, no past lovers, just us learning love together.
I'll be turning twenty-seven soon, and he'll be twenty-nine. Before long, we'll be celebrating seven years together and two years of marriage.
Before we got married, Alexander told his family about me. His father, a perpetually busy businessman, accepted it without much fuss. His mother, however, remained silent, never welcoming me, never rejecting me either.
Aware of the influence she held over him, Alex insisted we marry abroad and legally register our marriage there. She begged him to return home so she could arrange a grand traditional wedding, but for the first time, Alex refused to give in.
After six years abroad, it was my decision to return home. Alexander tried to stop me, telling me it would be a mistake. I thought he was being overly cautious. I was homesick, aching for my parents, desperate to be close to them again.
I didn't realize until later that he wasn't refusing out of fear, he was protecting me.
Nine months have passed since our return, and I've only managed to see my parents once.
The Montclair family is wealthy beyond measure, and their social calendar never rests. Between my mother-in-law's parties and his cousins' endless celebrations, there is always another event. And because Alexander can't sleep without me beside him, I'm dragged along to every single one.
Alexander is tall and impeccably refined, the kind of man who smells of wealth and carries himself with effortless grace. He loves me deeply, I know that. But his devotion to his family, especially his mother, runs just as deep. He listens to her. He yields to her. Sometimes, it feels less like love and more like an obligation.
He looks gentle, innocent to the world, but that innocence and gentleness disappear the moment we enter our bedroom.
My husband doesn't just love sex; he loves the exploration of it. He craves intensity and new, "crazy" things, and I love discovering them with him. It took us time to learn how to satisfy one another since neither of us had experience before the other. Back then, he was the shy one, and I was the one who approached him first.
Alex and I rarely argue. He's the kind of man who pays attention, who notices what I like, what unsettles me, what hurts me. He apologizes easily, sometimes even when he isn't the one at fault. In all the years we've been together, we've never gone to bed angry. He always makes things right before sleep, as if peace between us is something he can't live without.
But his mother's control is suffocating. And exhausting. And deeply unsettling.
She interferes in ways that leave me stunned, constantly trying to push other women toward her son, fully aware that he is married. Alex shuts that part of her down every time. He rejects it firmly. Yet somehow, almost every other command she gives him, he accepts without question.
And that contradiction is the part that hurts the most.
Today was a victory, but as I looked out the car window, I knew the war for our marriage was far from over.
Finally, we arrived back at our mansion. The moment the front door closed behind us, the calm mask of Public Alex slipped away. He turned to me immediately, words tumbling out as he recounted everything that had happened after I left the party the night before.
I forgot to mention this, Alex never contributes to what people say when we're out. He sits there, listens, and offers nothing but a polite smile. You'd think he wasn't paying attention at all. But the second we return home, he drops every single detail he's been hoarding.
"Those girls my mother introduced to me yesterday..." he began, shaking his head as I helped him out of his suit jacket. "They were all extremely ugly, Alis. I don't understand it."
I paused, looking at him. "Alex, why would you say that?"
"How can they be that ugly when their parents are that wealthy?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused. "Babe."
"Yes, love?"
"I don't want to be cruel or disrespectful, I really don't. If plastic surgery could fix it, I would've suggested it. But honestly? They didn't scream money. They screamed Help."
I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing. "Screamed help? What does that even mean?"
"I don't know, babe, but they looked pitiful." Alex shook his head again.
I knew that wasn't how they truly looked. To anyone else, those women were probably beautiful, even striking. But to my husband, it didn't matter. In his eyes, beauty wasn't a standard, it was a person. And if that person wasn't me, then no one else could ever compare.
I moved closer, hugging his waist as we entered our bedroom. I looked up at him, a playful smirk on my lips. "Were they really that ugly?"
He nodded solemnly. "Yes. Even Clara. She's ugly, too. I only used the word 'beautiful' when I spoke to her so I wouldn't sound cruel while I was rejecting her."
I laughed again, the sound light and free now that we were in our own space. I pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him and pinning his shoulders to the mattress.
"Then tell me," I whispered, hovering just inches from his lips. "Who is the most handsome, beautiful man in the world?"
Alex pulled me down, his fingers already working on the buttons of my shirt, his eyes dark with that familiar, intense heat.
"It can only be the one and only," he rasped, "Mr. Alistair Montclair Lawrence."
I smiled, my heart full, and with that, our lips found each other.