chapter 3

The car slowed at the traffic signal.

Alexander wasn’t paying attention at first. His mind was still tangled in thoughts of lawyers, signatures, divorce papers.

Then he saw her.

Across the street.

Sara.

She was standing near the old stone church steps, dressed in a flowing white dress that moved gently with the breeze. Her hair was left open, falling softly over her shoulders. Minimal makeup, yet she looked radiant — fragile and beautiful in a way he had never allowed himself to notice.

And she was smiling.

Not the forced, polite smile she wore in the mansion.

A real one.

The sight unsettled him.

Then he noticed something else.

She wasn’t alone.

A young man stood before her, dressed neatly in a crisp suit. In his hands was a bouquet of red roses — deep crimson against the white of her dress.

Alexander’s jaw hardened.

He lowered the car window slightly.

“Sorry, John… I can’t accept this,” Sara’s voice floated toward him.

The young man’s voice trembled. “But why, Sara? I’ll wait for you. I love you. I don’t care about anything else.”

The world seemed to go silent.

Alexander didn’t remember telling the driver to stop.

The next second, the car door slammed shut behind him as he stepped onto the pavement.

He began clapping slowly.

The sharp sound cut through the air.

“Well done,” he said mockingly, laughter dripping from every word. “You’ll wait for her?”

Sara froze.

John turned, confused.

Alexander’s eyes were cold, dangerous.

“Even if I tell you,” he continued, walking closer, “that she’s a kept woman of a rich man?”

The words hit like a slap.

Sara’s face drained of color.

John looked between them, shocked. “What are you talking about?”

Alexander smiled — a cruel, calculated smile.

“I’m not saying it’s just a rumor,” he added casually. “She is my kept woman.”

Silence fell.

The roses slipped slightly in John’s trembling hands.

Sara felt as if the ground had vanished beneath her feet. Every eye on the street suddenly felt like it was watching her. Judging her.

Kept woman.

Three years of sacrifice.

Three years of silence.

Reduced to two humiliating words.

“Alexander…” she whispered, her voice barely steady. “Stop.”

But he wasn’t finished.

“You think you can play innocent in white?” he said, his gaze darkening. “You live in my house. You wear what I provide. You breathe because I allow it.”

John stepped forward angrily. “You can’t speak about her like that!”

Alexander’s expression sharpened.

“I can,” he said coldly. “Because she belongs to me.”

The possessiveness in his tone wasn’t love.

It was ownership.

Control.

Sara felt something inside her finally break — not loudly, not dramatically.

Just quietly.

Like glass cracking under pressure.

She looked at John, whose hopeful eyes were now filled with doubt and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly to him.

But this time, the apology wasn’t about the roses.