He Gave Our Bedroom to Her... So I Disappeared

Chapter 9

By the time Michael came to, it was already past eleven at night.

Spotting a glass of water on the nightstand—left by one of the house staff—he made the wrong assumption. Hope flickered in his eyes. Despite the pounding in his head and the stiffness in his body, he dragged himself out of bed and staggered through the estate, determined to find Ashlyn.

He climbed the spiral staircase to the rooftop terrace, drenched in cold sweat, heart racing.

What he saw at the top nearly stopped it altogether.

Ashlyn—his wife—was in Bryson's arms, the two of them locked in a slow, intimate kiss. The kind you gave someone you loved. The kind that shattered illusions.

A sharp, blinding pain tore through his chest.

With his jaw clenched and eyes blazing, Michael stormed forward, grabbed Bryson by the collar, and growled, "What the hell do you think you're doing with Ashlyn?!"

There was no point in lying to himself anymore. Bryson wasn't just the boy-next-door from their childhood. Not anymore.

"Who gave you the right to touch my wife?!"

Bryson smirked, completely unfazed.

"Your wife? Michael, have you ever actually treated Ashlyn like one—let alone cherished her?"

"You—!"

Before he could throw a punch, Bryson beat him to it. A clean hit to the cheek knocked Michael sideways.

"If Ashlyn weren't so damn compassionate," Bryson said coldly, "I'd have had you tossed out and left for the wild dogs. You're not welcome here."

Then his voice dropped to a razor-sharp edge. "Listen closely—Ashlyn is my fiancée now. No matter how desperate or pathetic you get, she's never looking back."

Michael froze.

His raised fist slowly dropped to his side as he turned to Ashlyn, eyes wide with disbelief. "Is that true? We've been apart less than a month... and you're already marrying someone else?"

I didn't bother explaining that the night I learned Daniela was pregnant, I'd said yes to Bryson's video-call proposal—straight from halfway around the world. He'd loved me quietly, patiently, since we were kids.

Instead, I leaned against Bryson's shoulder, a soft smile curving my lips. "Mhm."

Michael looked like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Are you insane?" he rasped. "You're still my wife! I never agreed to that divorce. And now you're throwing yourself at another man? How could you do this to me?!"

Do this to him?

I tilted my head, eyeing him like he'd lost his mind. "Michael, do you honestly think your consent means anything to me?"

"I'll say it one last time—you're nothing to me now. We're done. Completely and irreversibly done."

Then I turned my back to him. Without a backward glance, I laced my fingers with Bryson's, and we went right back to our moonlit conversation—like he had never been there at all.

No one knew when Michael left the estate.

And honestly? No one cared.

But he didn't fly back to the States. Instead, he bought a sleek high-rise condo near the vineyard—one with a direct view of the estate.

He settled into a daily routine: early-morning video calls with his company back home, followed by long drives to the estate gates. Each visit, he brought something new—flowers, gifts, trinkets I had once mentioned in passing. Things he never gave me during our nine-year marriage.

But I never acknowledged him.

And I sure as hell didn't change a single plan because of him.

Nine long, humiliating years had taught me something vital: a woman should never shape her world around a man. You work when there's work to be done, you live when it's time to live.

The world is vast—and my only responsibility now was to make myself happy.

As for Michael? I figured the only reason he hadn't left yet was because Grandpa Arnold couldn't bear to see me hurt. Maybe he'd begged his grandson to try winning me back.

So I made the call myself.

I called Grandpa Arnold and gently told him the truth—I was engaged now, and I'd started a new life. I asked him, from the bottom of my heart, not to let his kindness become the reason Michael stayed behind.

But even after that call... Michael didn't leave.

For an entire month, he kept showing up—waiting outside the estate in that tinted car, just to catch a glimpse of me.

And at exactly 11:40 a.m., the first one to lose control—

Was Bryson.