**Chapter 1 The Husband Who Came Home Late**



"*Honey, today's our anniversary. Are you coming home?*”

I left the voicemail, my voice soft with hope, but the line stayed silent, no reply.

The steak on the long dining table had gone cold. The champagne I'd carefully chosen sat untouched, the ice in the chiller melted into a sad, lukewarm puddle.

The clock on the wall chimed, sharp and final. Midnight had arrived.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, the faint jingle of keys at the front door broke the stillness.

Damian Thornfield, my husband, was back.

Cold air followed him inside as he stood there, black trench coat hanging carelessly from one arm. His frost-like eyes swept over the dining table, his jaw tightening in irritation. "*I told Kyan to inform*  
*you I wouldn't be home tonight*" he snapped.

I stiffened, trying to mask my hurt with a trembling smile. "*It's our anniversary*," I said quietly. "*I just thought... maybe we could celebrate together*."

"*How many times do I have to tell you? I hate these meaningless celebrations*," he snapped, his tone  
sharp. As he loosened his cufflinks with that infuriatingly graceful precision, his gaze drifted to mv  
collarbone, and a sudden smile curved his lips.

That smile was like the sterile glow of a surgical lamp - cold, clinical, cutting.

ln a few strides, he closed  the distance between us, his fingers gripping my chin with just enough pressure to make me flinch. "*If you're so keen on celebrating, let's do it my way*".

The wine glass slipped from my hand, shattering on the floor. Fragments scattered like shards of  
ice, pricking my ankle with their sharp edges.  
  
His kiss was all hunger and dominance, his tongue forcing past my lips as if punishing me for  
my naivety, for daring to hope.

I was pinned against the table, my lower back pressing painfully into the candelabra. Hot wax dripped onto my skin, burning with the same fierce heat as his hands.

"*Damian!*" I shoved against his chest my voice sharp with a desperation I didn't recognize.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression as detached as ever.

I sucked in a breath, pointing at the table. "*I spent all day preparing this dinner. The least you could do is look at it.*"

I thought of his birthday last year how I’d carefully baked that raspberry-cherry cake, his favorite I  
flavors. He hadn’t even glanced at it, just grabbed it and left. The next morning, on my way to work, I saw it in the trash bin, half-eaten by a scavenger,

But my protest only seemed to spur him on.

He tore at my dress, the straps snapping under his grip, his hands roaming with a possessive intensity.

The pain in my hack became unbearable, and I couldn’ t hold back a cry.

"*It hurts...*" I murmured, my voice breaking. However, Damian didn’ t soften, didn’t pause.

By the time it was over, dawn was creeping through the windows.

I huddled in a chair, looking at the mess on the table - broken glass mixed with what was left of my carefully planned anniversary dinner. A bitter laugh escaped me

I'd poured my heart into this night, but to Damian, it was nothing. I felt that I wasn't his wife, not really - just a vessel for his fleeting desires.

Two years into our marriage. Damian remained distant, cold as a stranger, except in bed, where his need for me bordered on obsession.

But I wanted more than his body. I wanted his heart, his warmth, and his love.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed my phone light up.

A message from Bruce Eastwood, my senior from med school, popped up: \[Ella's back. Let’s catch up tomorrow night. I'll drop the details in group chat.\]

I frowned, switching to our small group chat . Sure enough, there was a new member.

Ella Decenzo was my senior back in med school. Like me, she was a doctor at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. She had just returned from two years of training abroad.

She was kind, well-liked, the so of person everyone gravitated toward.

But for reasons I couldn't quite pinpoint, she rubbed me the wrong way.

Maybe it was just a clash of vibes, an inexplicable unease.

I was about to ask for the meetup details when another message popped up.

  
Bruce sent: \[@Isabella, you can bring your husband to tomorrow's party! Ella’s bringing her new  
boyfriend too!\]

I hesitated, then typed: \[He's super busy. I'll have to check with him.\]

Not long after, Damian emerged from the bathroom, a towel loosely wrapped around his hips. His hair was still damp, water droplets tracing a slow path from his jaw, down his sculpted collarbone, along the taut lines of his abs, disappearing into the towel.

I flushed and looked away, grabbing a clean towel to help dry his hair.

He took it from mo before I could get close. "*I've got it.*"

He dried his hair and slipped into the clothes I’d laid out for him.

There was a time when he would sit back and let me fuss over him, and he'd even let me massage his pressure points.

I’d rack my brain for things to say, anything to keep him talking, even if he only responded with grunts or single syllables.

But today, he was different - distant, untouchable.

I bit my lip, summoning the courage to speak , "*There's a work dinner tomorrow night. Everyone's bringing their partners...*"

Damian adjusted his cuffs, his expression reverting to its usual icy calm. "*We've been through*  
*this. I don’t do office parties*.”

I wasn 't surprised.

As a Foreign Ministry spokesperson, Damian's world revolved around crafting diplomatic speeches, shadowing the president at international summits, and maneuvering through high-stakes political  
negotiations.

A casual dinner with my colleagues was beneath him.

By morning he had vanished — another early start at work . I forced myself through my hospital shift, trying to stay focused.

The day rushed past, and I found myself stuck in traffic for thirty minutes on my way to dinner. When I finally reached the restaurant, the waiter escorted me to our private room.

Bruce's voice boomed from the other side of the door. "*Don't you all want to know? What's the real*  
*story with Isabella's husband? She always has some excuse when I invite him!*"

"*Yeah, what's with all the mystery? Not even a photo!*" someone chimed in.

I pushed the door open, my checks burning as I scrambled for an excuse. But before I could speak ,  
my eyes locked onto the man sitting across the room. It was Damian.

He was there, wearing the suit I'd chosen, his commanding presence starkly out of place against the room’s; modest decor.

"*You made it, Isabella!*" Bruce bounded over, craning his neck to peek behind me. "*What's the deal? Didn't bring your husband?*"

I stood frozen , my mind a jumble, staring at Damian.

He'd flat-out refused to come this morning. So why is he here?

Bruce followed my gaze, then grinned , "*What, feeling starstruck? I was shoeked too when I heard Ella's boyfriend is the Foreign Ministry spokesperson*".

My heart stopped.

Boyfriend? Ella's Boyfried?

He was talking about Damian?

Does anyone have a free link? You Can't Have My Heart by Lila Hart