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She took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay composed. “I have a date with a friend,” she said evenly. “He’s picking me up, so I won’t be going with you.”

Lorenzo stopped dead in his tracks and spun around, his entire body going rigid.

“A date?” His voice tightened. “What kind of date? Who’s this friend?”

He stepped closer, tension radiating off him.

As far as he could remember, she had never mentioned having any friends. Not once in two years. Her entire world had revolved around him—his moods, his schedule, his wants. There had never been a single damn mention of another man.

Just then, a red Ferrari pulled up and came to a stop a few feet away.

The sleek door opened, and Darren stepped out, casually leaning against the side of the car. His dark sunglasses covered half his face, but his smirk was unmistakable. He wore straight-leg brown pants paired with a cream shirt, the golden buttons catching the sunlight—effortless, expensive, cocky.

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed instantly. The cigarette in his fingers burned close to his skin, but the heat in his chest drowned out the sting. He stared, stunned for a split second, then that shock twisted into something far more dangerous.

A glare.

Darren didn’t flinch. He smirked and tilted his head, resting his weight against the car. “Let’s go, honey. What are you waiting for?”

That word—honey—snapped Lorenzo out of his stunned silence. His head whipped toward Krystal, fury written all over his face. He jerked his thumb toward Darren and hissed, voice low but biting, “He just called you honey?”

The word felt like acid in his mouth. His voice burned with disbelief, rage, and something deeper, something painful. Her words echoed in his mind—’I want to live my life. I want to fall in love.’And suddenly it all twisted into a flame inside him.

Lorenzo’s fists clenched. His voice dropped, guttural. “So that’s the man you’re trying to fall for now?”

Krystal stood stiff, trying to hide the tremble in her shoulders. Her voice was soft, her face sad as she looked at him.

“Don’t ask questions. Or I’ll start thinking you actually care about me.”

Then, without sparing him another glance, she turned to leave.

But Lorenzo didn’t let her.

He strode forward, caught her wrist, and spun her back around to face him. His eyes searched hers, frantic and raw. The end of the cigarette singed the skin between his fingers, but he didn’t even blink.

“A guy like him won’t give you a real home,” he said, voice rough and raw. “He won’t give you happiness. A future. Don’t date him.”

Krystal’s expression shifted. Whatever was in her chest cracked a little deeper.

The sadness disappeared, replaced by something blank—cold.

“I was married to you. What did you give me, Lorenzo?”

He flinched. His grip on her hand loosened on its own. She pulled free and turned, walking straight to Darren without looking back.

Lorenzo stood frozen, every nerve in his body on fire. The cigarette finally slipped from his fingers, falling to the pavement without a sound, forgotten.

He watched her climb into the Ferrari—his wife, still his in name, but now sitting beside another man.

He couldn’t breathe. Everything inside him felt like it was caving in—tight and burning, and it showed on his face now. That carefully built control? Gone.

His jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

Darren, who had opened the car door for Krystal, now walked around and slid into the driver’s seat. Before starting the car, he looked over at her. Her face was turned toward the window, but it didn’t hide the hurt written all over it.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer. “You look... off. What’s wrong?”

Krystal let out a sharp, frustrated breath and muttered,