Gregory awoke to harsh sunlight streaming through the French windows. Blinking, he furrowed his brow, rubbed his eyes, and surveyed his surroundings. It quickly dawned on him that he was in the master bedroom—a room he had relinquished to Marianne on their wedding night—while he had retreated to a smaller room at the far end of the East Wing of the Estate. Sitting up abruptly, he noticed the disheveled state of the bed sheets, tangled and crumpled around him. His mind swirled as he tried to piece together the events that had led him here.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw his estranged wife seated in front of the dressing table, her back to him. The events of the previous night flooded back into his mind—an unsettling mix of memories. He hadn't set foot in this room for three years, deliberately avoiding her. Yet here he was, waking up in her bed, the stark reminder of their intimacy glaring at him like the bloodstain on the sheets.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, frustrated with himself. What happened last night? His mind was puzzled by the events—it remembered clearly the fragments of their passionate night, grappling with the how and why.

Sliding out of bed, he moved swiftly across the room, flinging the sheet over the crimson blemish to shield it from view. He then retrieved some of his clothing scattered across the floor and quickly put them on, keeping his gaze locked on Marianne's back.

Their eyes met in the mirror briefly. Her expression was calm as she focused on her skincare routine, seemingly oblivious to Gregory's presence. She dabbed primer on her face with measured movements before smoothing on the foundation with deliberate strokes.

Feeling frustrated and confused, his mind raced as he searched for his shirt. How did I end up here?

"Marianne," he began, clearing his throat. She gave him a sharp, piercing look as if merely uttering her name was his gravest offense since their marriage.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her, confusion deepening. This wasn't the reaction he had anticipated. Shouldn't she be pleased now that their marriage was finally consummated? Despite his guilt for taking her virginity, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t told him before. If he had known—Would it have changed anything? He needed to apologize to her.

As he finally located his shirt, it dawned on him that there were no used condoms in sight. What if he got her pregnant? What were the chances it could happen from just one encounter? His mind swirled with endless questions, making him realize that a future with Jane might be farther away than ever before.

He jolted back to reality. Something seemed off about the current scene. Why was Marianne so composed and calm? She gave off an air of indifference. Something about her—wasn't right.

Closing the distance between them, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet, forcing her to face him. The sudden movement caused the hairbrush to slip from her hand, landing with a thud.

"What do you want?" she spat, freeing her wrist. Her eyes bore into his, a mix of defiance and vulnerability.

"I..." He blinked, taken aback by her sudden surge of anger. "What happened last night?"

She stared at him, dumbfounded, unable to comprehend his obliviousness.

"Do you really think I owe you an explanation?"

"Why not?" he retorted.

"Is it part of my wifely duties to recount your drunken adventures?"

"What is wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?!" she almost shouted incredulously. "Did I stumble drunk into your room and assault you?! How dare you ask me this question?" Her voice shook with emotion.

"I wouldn't—" he faltered, but her laughter rang out bitterly, cutting him off.

"You wouldn't what? Sleep with the wife you've ignored for years, or assault her while drunk?" Anger surged through him at her accusations and outburst—emotions she had harbored for the past three years of their marriage. Admittedly, he was at fault for purposefully avoiding her, treating her like an unwelcome burden forced upon him by his grandfather. But…

Why am I getting angry? He wondered, uncertain. Was it because she essentially accused him of assault or because his memories contradicted her current behavior?

"Which is it?" he muttered in frustration.

"What?" she said, taken aback.

"Did I rape you, or did you enjoy me fucking you after all these years?" he sneered sarcastically. "If my memories serve me right, you were moaning my name the whole—"

Suddenly, his cheek stung, and the slap rang in his ears, cutting off his speech. When was the last time he had been slapped so hard? Never, he answered his own question. He clenched his teeth, restraining himself from grabbing her by the shoulder and shaking her like a leaf. Yet, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of impressed surprise that her petite frame could deliver such force.

"Don't you dare!" she challenged, emphasizing her words.

"What? I'm just speaking the truth." He decided to goad her. "Should I call the maids to confirm my statement?"

"You wouldn't!" she protested.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he savored her increasing frustration and nervousness.

"Maybe I should."

After a few moments, realizing he was taunting her, she took a deep breath and sat back down to resume her pampering.

"Look, I'm sorry about last night. I just—"

"You're sorry. Right. Of course, you are. Why wouldn't you be?" She interrupted him, her tone dripping with sarcasm and frustration.

He took a deep breath, stepped back, and wiped his hand across his face. It was clear she wouldn't let him off the hook easily. Who knew she would be so difficult to talk to? In fact, this was the first substantial conversation they'd had in years, usually only exchanging minimal, awkward words when they ran into each other.

"You just wish it was Jane," she muttered under her breath but loud enough for him to hear.

Furrowing his brows, he tried to read her expression, but she avoided his gaze.

"That's not what I was trying to say," he explained.

"Oh, no? Then what else could you be sorry about?" she challenged, putting down her makeup brush to face him again.

"Well, you said I—" he looked awkwardly and cleared his throat. "That I, you know..."

"Aww, he feels remorse," she said sarcastically. "Someone, call the judge and dismiss the case."

"I'm trying to do the right thing here, Marianne," he said, his expression darkening.

"That boat sailed a long time ago." She turned to face the mirror. "But I'm curious, what could have possibly caused you to drink so much that you were completely out of touch with reality?"

"Out of touch with reality?" he thought. That was an odd way to phrase the events of last night. He decided, for now, there was something more urgent to discuss. As his wife, he owed her that much.

"I met with Jane last night," he confessed without hesitation.

She remained emotionless, which made him nervous. He preferred her more reactive, like a few minutes ago, to this calm reaction.

"Of course," she finally muttered, her voice loud enough for him to hear. He caught the painful expression in her eyes before she turned away to face the mirror. Suddenly, a tinge of guilt washed over him. Why did her painful expression tighten his chest? He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Listen, I—" he began.

She closed her lipstick and placed it carefully on the mahogany dresser top. Then, she spoke with a clear, businesslike tone devoid of emotion.

"Gregory, I want a divorce."