Chapter 8: The Dangerous Truth

The rain grew heavier and heavier.

Zachary dragged me out of the hotel and shoved me into the passenger seat of his Rolls-Royce Cullinan.

"Have you seen the news?" I said coldly. "I spread them. I set you up. I want a divorce."

Without saying a word, Zachary stepped on the gas, and the car roared away.

The Rolls-Royce sped through the rainy night.

The cold glow of the streetlights reflected off the wet road, illuminating Zachary’s stern profile.

"Don’t you hate me?" I asked.

He remained silent.

After the car entered the villa’s garage, he suddenly leaned over and pinned me down.

"What are you doing?" I was so shocked that I thought he might stab me.

But the next second, his lips crashed against mine.

I was overwhelmed by his familiar scent—cold, intense, and suffocating.

"Fuck off!" I pushed against his chest, but he didn’t move.

He gripped the back of my neck and deepened the kiss.

It was so fierce that my body began to weaken.

"Didn’t you hear me? Stop!" I slapped him hard across the face.

He caught my wrist and unbuttoned my blouse with cold, steady fingers.

His eyes, usually calm, were now filled with something dark—almost mad.

"Aren’t you happy when we make love?" he whispered against my lips.

My face flushed.

"Charlee is upstairs. Don’t you love her the most? You… stop it."

"I don’t love her," he said.

"I’ve never slept with her. You’re the only woman I’ve ever touched. You are my wife."

His words were crude, but his tone remained cold.

Only the slight tremble in his body betrayed his emotions.

We lost ourselves.

In the car.

And later, on the bed in the master bedroom.

Passion consumed us completely.

I didn’t even know why I agreed.

Every time I was with him, it felt like I was drunk.

I could feel my reason slipping away, but I couldn’t stop it.

The floor-to-ceiling mirror reflected my exhausted body.

My clothes were half undone.

My skin looked pale and smooth under the dim light.

My eyes were half-closed, lost in lingering desire.

Zachary’s arm rested heavily on my waist.

He looked like a python coiling around its prey.

His soft hair fell over his forehead, and his long eyelashes cast shadows over his eyes.

"I don’t think I know you at all," I said softly.

Zachary opened his eyes, confused.

For a brief moment, he looked almost innocent.

"I don’t even know myself," he said with a bitter smile.

"I’ve never really been myself."

I didn’t believe him.

He was rich, powerful, and successful—favored by fate.

If even he couldn’t be himself, then what hope did ordinary people have?

To me, he had never been sincere.

My heart turned cold.

I got up, dressed myself, and prepared to leave.

"Don’t forget," I said coldly, "we’re going to the city hall tomorrow."

"We will divorce sooner or later. It’s better to do it now while you still have some dignity."

"Otherwise, I’ll see you in court."

Suddenly, Zachary grabbed my sleeve.

"Do you want to go to the third floor?" he asked.

"I’ll tell you all my secrets. I promise."

I didn’t want to go.

Not long after our marriage, I had once tried to understand him.

But he had rejected me with coldness and indifference.

I had already given up on him.

I wasn’t interested in his secrets anymore.

"Please… come with me," he said.

There was something pleading in his voice.

Then he softly quoted a line, "I’d cut up my heart for you to wear if you wanted it."