Chapter 3A Bra Strap's Shadow

"I have to go out. You should sleep first." Connor's words pulled me back from my thoughts.

He rose and walked toward the door, his voice softening as he spoke into his phone, "Don’t be scared, I'm coming now, they won't dare do anything… Mm, lock the door, wait for me."

I stood up too. "So late, and you’re still going out?"

He paused briefly, a mere hitch in his stride, then continued toward the door. "Something urgent came up. I’ll be back very late."

Just as he reached the threshold, I called out to him again. A flicker of impatience crossed his face. "Something else?"

"Connor," I said. "Let's get a divorce."

Fury instantly blazed in Connor’s eyes. He clenched his jaw, his voice strained. "What are you stirring up now?"

"Chloe was startled today. She has no one else here, so she could only turn to me for help."

I looked at him, my gaze unwavering. "Helping her means going to her upscale club every day to back her up?" My voice rose. "The esteemed Mr. Walker, getting into a brawl and ending up at the precinct for a club employee – that's your idea of helping?"

Connor’s thin lips formed a cold, hard line. His deep-set eyes held a dangerous warning. "I'll get to the bottom of what happened tonight." He paused, then added, his voice chillingly low, "And it better have nothing to do with you."

It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. My blood ran cold. In the two-plus years of our marriage, Connor had never once lost his temper with me. It had almost made me believe he’d moved on from Chloe, that he truly wanted to build a life with me. Now, it was clear I had been hopelessly naive.

A sudden memory surfaced. Connor’s study had once held a portrait of Chloe. He had painted it himself. He hadn’t hidden it from anyone, not even his family. Grandpa Walker had thrown a colossal fit over it, eventually settling for a compromise: our wedding photo, mine and Connor's, hung in the study instead. The portrait of Chloe, he had locked away in a cabinet.

In that moment, I suddenly understood: he had not compromised. He was simply, in his own way, silently defying his family.

Outside, the wind howled fiercely. The balcony door in the dining room had been left open, and a rush of cold air swept in, making me shiver uncontrollably. Just then, Connor’s phone emitted a sharp, piercing shriek. Almost simultaneously, the icy darkness in Connor’s eyes shattered, replaced by a raw, primal fear.

He strode quickly toward the door. "Chloe, don't be afraid, I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't open the door for anyone…" As he spoke, he was already out the door. The door opened and closed, sealing off all his fleeting tenderness.

That night, Connor never came back. I sat alone on the sofa until dawn. As the sky brightened, two messages landed on my phone. One was a photo of Connor and Chloe walking side-by-side into a hotel. The other was a single line of text: "Divorce him. Pick me instead, okay?"

Scrolling up, I found three unread messages:

"Layla, I'm back."

"Whenever you need me, I'm here."

"Do you love him that much? Could you love me instead?"

I blinked my burning, tired eyes, then quickly tapped a few words onto the screen: "Okay."