The estate's entrance was lit up like a crime scene—security lights blazing, three black SUVs parked strategically, and in the center of it all, Marcus's Mercedes sitting stubbornly in the drive.
Damien pulled up behind the security vehicles.
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asked.
"No. This is something I need to do alone." I unbuckled my seatbelt. "But thank you. For dinner, for the
honesty, for all of it."
"Call me if you need anything. I mean it."
I kissed his cheek—a brief, grateful gesture—and climbed out.
Marcus was pacing in front of the gates, still in his work clothes, looking rumpled and desperate. When he saw me, he rushed forward.
"Olivia, finally. I've been waiting—"
"What are you doing here, Marcus?"
"I needed to see you. To talk. You won't answer my calls, your lawyer
sent me papers with a no-contact clause—"
"Which you're violating by being here."
"Please." He ran his hands through his hair. "Just give me five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
I looked at James, my head of security. "Open the gates. We'll talk in the garden."
"Miss Sinclair—"
"It's fine, James. Stay within earshot."
The garden was my mother's pride
—acres of carefully maintained roses, a stone fountain, wrought-iron benches positioned for contemplation. I led Marcus to one, sitting down and gesturing for him to do the same.
"Five minutes," I said. "Talk."
"I made a mistake." The words tumbled out in a rush. "Divorcing you, choosing Vanessa, all of it. I thought I knew what I wanted, but I was wrong. Olivia, I've been miserable since you signed those papers. I can't stop thinking about you, about us, about what we had."
"We didn't have anything, Marcus. That's the problem."
"That's not true. We had three years together—"
"You had three years with a woman you thought was beneath you. Someone safe, non-threatening, who wouldn't challenge you or outshine you." I kept my voice level. "You didn't love me, Marcus. You loved the idea of me. The supportive wife who didn't ask for too much."
"No, I—"
"Let me finish." I stood, needing the
movement. "When I met you, I was testing something. I wanted to see if someone could love me without the Sinclair name, without the money, without the power. And for three years, you did exactly that—you loved the small version of me. The one who fit into your world without disrupting it."
"I didn't know—"
"Because you never asked! Three years, Marcus. Three years and you never wondered why I didn't need your financial support. Why I never pushed for a better apartment or nicer vacations. Why I was content
with so little." I turned to face him. "You never asked because you didn't want to know. Because the truth might have complicated things."
He was silent, and in his silence, I saw the truth of it.
"I don't fit in your world anymore," he said finally. "At the gala, seeing you with Cross, with all those people who treat you like... like you're someone important—"
"I am important. I always was. You just couldn't see it."
"So this is about punishing me?
Making me regret choosing Vanessa?"
"This isn't about you at all." I laughed, and it felt liberating. "Marcus, you're not the villain in my story. You're just a chapter I've finished reading. A lesson I've learned. You taught me that hiding who I am only attracts people who can't handle the real me."
"I can handle it now. I can—"
"No." I shook my head. "You can't. Because you don't love me, Marcus. You love the challenge I've become. The trophy I represent. You're not
here because you miss our marriage. You're here because your ego can't handle that I'm fine without you. Better than fine."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair. I learned that from you." I started walking back toward the house. "Goodbye, Marcus. I hope you and Vanessa figure out what you both really want. But it's not me. It was never really me."
"Olivia, wait—"
"James," I called. "Please escort Mr. Chen off the property. If he returns, call the police."
I didn't look back as I walked into the house. Didn't watch as security guided Marcus to his car. Didn't wait to see him drive away.
Instead, I found my father in his study, nursing a scotch.
"Is it done?" he asked.
"It's done." I poured myself two fingers of whiskey—his good stuff—and sat in the leather chair across from him. "He wanted me back. Not because he loves me, but because he can't stand that I moved on."
"Some men are like that. They don't value what they have until someone
else wants it."
"Damien's not like that."
My father raised an eyebrow. "Damien?"
"Damien Cross. We... tonight he told me he has feelings for me. Real ones."
"And how do you feel about him?"
I took a sip of the whiskey, letting it burn. "Terrified.
Interested. Confused. All of the above."
"Good."
"Good?"
"If you weren't scared, it wouldn't be worth doing." He smiled. "Your mother terrified me when we first met. She was brilliant, beautiful, came from British aristocracy. I was just Richard Sinclair, trying to prove I could run my father's company. She could have had anyone."
"But she chose you."
"Because I saw her. Not her title, not her family name, not her connections. Her." He set down his glass. "Does Cross see you, Livvy? The real you?"
I thought about dinner at the farmhouse. About Damien sharing stories of his mother, of eating from tupperware, of the years before the money. About how he'd called me extraordinary.
"I think he might," I said softly.
"Then maybe give him a chance. Not right away—you need time to find yourself again. But eventually." He stood, kissing the top of my head. "You deserve someone who sees you, sweetheart. All of you."
Later that night, lying in bed, I pulled out my phone. A text from Damien:
Is everything alright?
I typed: It is now. Thank you for tonight. For being honest.
His response was immediate: Thank you for trusting me with your time. And Olivia? There's no rush. I meant what I said about waiting.
I smiled into the darkness of my room.
What if I don't want you to wait forever?
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Then I'll wait however long you
need. A month. A year. Whatever it takes.
How about we start with coffee next week? Just coffee. As friends.
Friends who might become something more?
Maybe. Eventually. If we're both still interested.
Olivia Sinclair, I'm going to be interested in you for a very long time.
I fell asleep smiling, my phone on my pillow, the weight of my marriage finally, completely lifted.
The next morning, I woke to sunshine and possibility.
I went for a run on the estate grounds, pushing my body until my lungs burned and my legs ached. I had breakfast with my parents, discussing strategy for the Pemberton partnership. I called Sophia and told her everything—Marcus showing up, Damien's confession, my own confused feelings.
"Take your time," she advised. "But babe? Don't take too much time. Men like Damien Cross don't stay single long."
"If he means what he says about waiting, he will."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then he's not the right one either."
Monday, I walked into Sinclair Global with my head high, ready to build my future. The Pemberton deal was just the beginning. I had plans—aggressive expansion into new markets, strategic acquisitions, a reputation to build that was mine, not just my family's.
The divorce papers were signed. The marriage was over.
But my life?
My life was just beginning.
And somewhere in Manhattan, Damien Cross was waiting with coffee and conversation and the promise of something that might be worth the risk.
The old Olivia had been afraid to be seen.
The new Olivia was ready to shine.
And Marcus Chen?
Marcus Chen was about to spend the res
t of his life regretting the woman he'd been too blind to
appreciate.
But that was his problem now.
Not mine.
Never again.