Chapter 15
“Who do you think you are?”
Quentin Sherwood nearly choked on his own rage at her words.
He grabbed Fiona’s wrist, his fingers tight around her delicate skin. “I’m your
husband, and you’re coming home with me!”
One of the bodyguards immediately tensed, shifting into a defensive stance,
creating a tense standoff between the parties.
Fiona gestured for her security to stay calm while fixing Quentin Sherwood with an
ice–cold stare. “Let me rephrase that: Who. Do. You. Think. You. Are?”
The real meaning behind her words was crystal clear: “What right do you have to interfere in my life?”
Quentin Sherwood hated seeing this version of Fiona – this stranger wearing his wife’s face. The unfamiliarity of it all made him deeply uncomfortable, and his
emotions began spiraling out of control.
“Fiona, stop this nonsense!” he snapped. “I know you’re just trying to get back at me, but can’t you show some self–respect?”
His voice rose with each word. “I can’t stand seeing you degrade yourself like this.
I’ve forgiven your affair, your betrayal – just come home with me! How much further are you planning to fall?”
Fiona froze for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh that held no humor. She
pulled her jacket tighter around herself, not even bothering to dignify his
accusations with a denial.
Instead, she replied with arctic coldness: “What makes you think I need your forgiveness?”
“I saw you dancing with some shirtless white guy wrapped around you. If that’s not cheating, what is?” Quentin Sherwood’s voice dripped with contempt. “Fiona, don’t forget who you are. This isn’t your scene. I love you enough to forgive you, but think about your situation without me, do you really think you could find
someone better?”
–
The mighty heir to the Sherwood fortune, reduced to jealousy over a male model.
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The irony wasn’t lost on Fiona. But in her heart, Quentin Sherwood now ranked far
below the models she’d just been working with. At least they had brought her
genuine joy.
“Listen carefully, Quentin Sherwood,” she said, exhaustion creeping into her voice. “We’re broken up.”
“Who I date and what I do is none of your business. Instead of wasting time.
lecturing me, why don’t you clean up your own mess?”
Fiona couldn’t fathom where Quentin Sherwood found the audacity to judge her so self–righteously.
In Quentin Sherwood’s warped mind, his passionate embrace with Daisy before their wedding wasn’t cheating. Pining for Daisy while Fiona was recovering from her miscarriage in the hospital wasn’t cheating. Trying to mold Fiona into Daisy’s replacement wasn’t cheating.
But Fiona goes to a club after their breakup, and suddenly she’s the great betrayer?
The hypocrisy was both pathetic and laughable.
Fiona refused to waste another word on him. She signaled her security team to
take her home.
Quentin Sherwood chased after her retreating figure.
He watched her walk away, her silhouette thin but determined in the moonlight,
and called out one last time, unable to accept defeat.
“Fiona, we’ve both made mistakes. Why can’t we be more forgiving and give each other another chance?” Quentin’s voice cracked with desperation.
“Twenty years together, Fiona. Twenty years of memories, holidays, and shared dreams. Can you really throw it all away like it means nothing?”
The evening breeze whispered through Fiona’s hair, carrying away fragments of her troubled thoughts like autumn leaves. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look back at the man who had shattered her trust.
“Yes, I can forget it all,” she replied, her voice steady despite the storm of
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The words hung in the air like daggers.
“When you were cheating with Daisy, you didn’t spare a single thought for me, you?” Fiona continued, her calm exterior masking years of pain. “If you could so
easily discard what we had, then so can I.”
did
She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “Stop wasting your time here, Quentin. Go back to Jenny, or whoever else you want to be with. Just stop trying to pull me back into your mess.”
While Quentin remained trapped in the gravity of their past, Fiona was already. charting her course toward tomorrow. She was done being the woman who
who
waited, who forgave, compromised. Unlike Quentin, who seemed forever chained to his regrets, she refused to let the past define her future.
Long after Fiona’s silhouette had disappeared into the velvet darkness of night, Quentin stumbled back to his apartment in a daze. His mind was a carousel of
memories, each one more painful than the last.
The woman he’d known since college, the one who used to laugh at his terrible
jokes and knew exactly how he liked his coffee, had become a stranger. The familiar warmth in her eyes had been replaced by an impenetrable wall of ice, and he had no one to blame but himself.
A thousand unspoken apologies crowded his throat, but it was too late. They died on his lips as his phone buzzed with an urgent call.
Before he could even process his conversation with Fiona, his assistant Zachary’s panicked voice cut through his thoughts:
“Sir, it’s about Daisy… she’s attempted suicide.”
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