Chapter 2
Dominic's Maybach pulled up to my apartment building like a black phantom in the night.
He stepped out in a charcoal suit, clearly having left some important event — his tie was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled. But his eyes were sharp, searching, finding me immediately under the streetlight.
He crossed the distance in four long strides.
"You've been crying," he said quietly, his thumb brushing my cheek.
I hadn't even realized there were tears.
"I'm fine." I stepped back from his touch. "This is a business arrangement. I want you to understand that clearly."
Something flickered in his dark eyes — pain, maybe — but he nodded.
"I understand. Get in the car."
At the civil registry office, we were the last couple processed before closing. The clerk looked between us with barely concealed shock — she clearly recognized Dominic.
"Mr. Ashford... are you certain about—"
"Stamp it." His voice left no room for questions.
When it was done, he held up the red marriage certificate with both hands, staring at it like a holy artifact.
"Five years," he murmured. "Five years I waited for this."
I felt a twinge of guilt. "Dominic, I should be honest. I'm doing this because—"
"I know why." He cut me off gently, tucking the certificate carefully into his inner breast pocket, right against his heart. "You're hurt. You're angry. You want revenge. I don't care about your reasons, Aria. I only care that you chose me."
His phone hadn't stopped buzzing since he picked me up. He finally glanced at it and grimaced.
"I was chairing the quarterly board meeting when you called. Walked out mid-presentation. My VP is having a nervous breakdown."
"You what?"
"The entire board of directors watched me grab my jacket and run." He smiled, completely unapologetic. "Tomorrow's headlines will be interesting."
Despite everything, I laughed. The sound surprised us both.
Dominic's expression softened impossibly. "There she is."
...
Back at his penthouse — a 4,000-square-foot monument to minimalist luxury — he showed me to a bedroom that was clearly not the guest room.
"This is the master suite. I'll take the room across the hall."
"Dominic, you don't have to—"
"I do." He paused at the doorway. "Aria, I need you to know something. I won't touch you unless you want me to. I won't rush you. I won't make demands. But I AM going to spoil you so thoroughly that you forget that worthless man ever existed."
The door clicked shut softly behind him.
I stood alone in the enormous bedroom, surrounded by silence and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.
My phone buzzed. Nathan.
**[Where are you? Come back immediately. We need to discuss this properly.]**
I stared at the message, then typed back: **[There's nothing to discuss. The divorce is filed. You'll receive the court notice.]**
His response was instant: **[Stop being dramatic. You always do this. Come home, Aria. Serena feels terrible.]**
I blocked his number without replying.
Then another message came through from an unknown number — Serena.
**[Hi Aria! Nathan told me you left upset. I'm so sorry if I caused misunderstanding! I hope we can be friends ❤️ Nathan says you're like family to him.]**
Like family. The housekeeper who was "like family."
I screenshotted the message and saved it. Something told me I'd need evidence later.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something incredible cooking.
Dominic stood in the kitchen — sleeves rolled up, apron on — flipping French toast with the precision of a surgeon.
"You cook?" I blurted, still half-asleep.
He set a perfect plate before me: toast, fresh berries, whipped cream arranged like artwork.
"I took a culinary course two years ago," he said casually. "You mentioned in an interview once that homemade French toast was your comfort food."
I stared at him. "That was a throwaway comment in a magazine feature three years ago."
"I remember everything you've ever said." He poured my coffee — black, one sugar, exactly how I liked it. "Everything."
My chest tightened.
In three years of marriage, Nathan never once made me breakfast.
He stepped out in a charcoal suit, clearly having left some important event — his tie was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled. But his eyes were sharp, searching, finding me immediately under the streetlight.
He crossed the distance in four long strides.
"You've been crying," he said quietly, his thumb brushing my cheek.
I hadn't even realized there were tears.
"I'm fine." I stepped back from his touch. "This is a business arrangement. I want you to understand that clearly."
Something flickered in his dark eyes — pain, maybe — but he nodded.
"I understand. Get in the car."
At the civil registry office, we were the last couple processed before closing. The clerk looked between us with barely concealed shock — she clearly recognized Dominic.
"Mr. Ashford... are you certain about—"
"Stamp it." His voice left no room for questions.
When it was done, he held up the red marriage certificate with both hands, staring at it like a holy artifact.
"Five years," he murmured. "Five years I waited for this."
I felt a twinge of guilt. "Dominic, I should be honest. I'm doing this because—"
"I know why." He cut me off gently, tucking the certificate carefully into his inner breast pocket, right against his heart. "You're hurt. You're angry. You want revenge. I don't care about your reasons, Aria. I only care that you chose me."
His phone hadn't stopped buzzing since he picked me up. He finally glanced at it and grimaced.
"I was chairing the quarterly board meeting when you called. Walked out mid-presentation. My VP is having a nervous breakdown."
"You what?"
"The entire board of directors watched me grab my jacket and run." He smiled, completely unapologetic. "Tomorrow's headlines will be interesting."
Despite everything, I laughed. The sound surprised us both.
Dominic's expression softened impossibly. "There she is."
...
Back at his penthouse — a 4,000-square-foot monument to minimalist luxury — he showed me to a bedroom that was clearly not the guest room.
"This is the master suite. I'll take the room across the hall."
"Dominic, you don't have to—"
"I do." He paused at the doorway. "Aria, I need you to know something. I won't touch you unless you want me to. I won't rush you. I won't make demands. But I AM going to spoil you so thoroughly that you forget that worthless man ever existed."
The door clicked shut softly behind him.
I stood alone in the enormous bedroom, surrounded by silence and the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air.
My phone buzzed. Nathan.
**[Where are you? Come back immediately. We need to discuss this properly.]**
I stared at the message, then typed back: **[There's nothing to discuss. The divorce is filed. You'll receive the court notice.]**
His response was instant: **[Stop being dramatic. You always do this. Come home, Aria. Serena feels terrible.]**
I blocked his number without replying.
Then another message came through from an unknown number — Serena.
**[Hi Aria! Nathan told me you left upset. I'm so sorry if I caused misunderstanding! I hope we can be friends ❤️ Nathan says you're like family to him.]**
Like family. The housekeeper who was "like family."
I screenshotted the message and saved it. Something told me I'd need evidence later.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something incredible cooking.
Dominic stood in the kitchen — sleeves rolled up, apron on — flipping French toast with the precision of a surgeon.
"You cook?" I blurted, still half-asleep.
He set a perfect plate before me: toast, fresh berries, whipped cream arranged like artwork.
"I took a culinary course two years ago," he said casually. "You mentioned in an interview once that homemade French toast was your comfort food."
I stared at him. "That was a throwaway comment in a magazine feature three years ago."
"I remember everything you've ever said." He poured my coffee — black, one sugar, exactly how I liked it. "Everything."
My chest tightened.
In three years of marriage, Nathan never once made me breakfast.