𝓜ine 𝓤ntil 𝓽he 𝓔nd ⚞ James Potter ⚟
𝔧𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 ; 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔣 𝔢𝔳𝔞𝔫 𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔢𝔯 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯
Summary: After days of silence and distance, James finally corners you at work. The weight of unspoken words crashes down as he admits he never wanted the divorce, that he never stopped loving you. For the first time, he drops his pride, begging you to stay, vowing to spend forever proving himself worthy if you’ll just give him another chance. Warning: this story contains heavy emotional tension, divorce themes, arguments, jealousy, possessive behavior, miscommunication, and lots of angst balanced with slow-burn romance. It explores the messy and complicated emotions of an almost-divorced couple 9k (guys my hand slipped) Main masterlist || Navigation
The smell of roasted herbs and simmering sauce clung to the walls of your kitchen, warm and inviting, the sort of dinner that had once meant something. Once, before everything had started to unravel. You had been standing there for hours, apron strings tied neatly around your waist, making sure the edges of the tablecloth were smoothed, that James’s favorite bottle of wine breathed properly in its glass decanter. Every detail had been perfect because today was supposed to matter.
Your anniversary.
Three years ago, you had given up everything—your blooming career, your designs, the sketches that had once made your professors call you “the prodigy.” You had exchanged your studio desk for this house, your fabric swatches for polished silver cutlery. All for him. James Potter, your husband, the man who had asked you to stand beside him and promised you wouldn’t regret it.
But regret had crept in slowly, day by day. The late-night meetings that bled into early mornings. The way his phone buzzed with constant messages that he never bothered to hide, but never explained either. The parties where you stood like a ghost in the corner, no one knowing your name, only whispering that James Potter had come alone.
You had convinced yourself it was fine. That he was busy, that this was what marriage to a man like James meant—he was a CEO, the head of one of the largest fashion industries in London, his face splashed across magazines, his words quoted by critics. You, by comparison, were invisible. His quiet housewife, tucked away neatly like a piece of expensive furniture.
You reached for the remote to turn on the TV, letting the chatter fill the silence while you plated the food. That was when the headline slammed into you like a blow.
James Potter Returns to London—But Who’s That by His Side?
Your eyes snapped to the screen. The camera zoomed in on him, fresh from the airport, wearing the same charming smile that once made you melt. Only he wasn’t alone. A woman walked beside him, tall, poised, her glossy hair catching the camera flashes like silk. Her name plastered across the ticker at the bottom: Erthane Vane.
The anchor’s voice chimed with forced excitement. “James Potter, CEO of Potter & Co, returned today from his three-week trip abroad, accompanied by rising model Erthane Vane. Rumors swirl about a possible relationship between the two…”
The remote nearly slipped from your hand. Relationship? You had been waiting here, stitching together the remnants of your marriage, while the world speculated that your husband had already replaced you.
You felt sick. Three years of silence, of smiling through the neglect, and now this?
The doorbell rang.
Your stomach twisted as you wiped your hands on the apron, your heart already pounding. He was home. You opened the door, and there he was, James Potter, as effortlessly handsome as ever, suit crisp, his dark hair tousled just enough to look intentional. The cameras couldn’t capture the sharpness of his presence, the way he filled a room with just his stride.
He didn’t smile.
Wordlessly, you bent to untie his shoes, murmuring, “Welcome back. Today’s our anniversary. I made your favorite dish…” The words felt bitter on your tongue, but you clung to them like habit. Like if you just kept performing your role, maybe something would click, maybe he’d remember.
When you stood to face him, he wasn’t looking at you. Instead, he shoved a stack of papers toward you, the edges pressing into your chest.
“After my mother’s birthday next week, we’re getting a divorce.”
It was like the air had been sucked from the room. You blinked, your fingers trembling as you clutched the papers, trying to make sense of the black letters swimming before your eyes.
“What?” your voice cracked. “A divorce? James—today’s our anniversary. Is this… is this because of Erthane Vane?”
For the first time, his gaze met yours. Cold. Detached. A stranger.
“You don’t need to know the reason,” he said flatly. “Just sign your name here.” He tapped the page with one long finger, as if that was all you were good for now—your signature.
Anger surged up, choking the hurt in your chest. “And what if I don’t agree? What if I refuse?”
James sighed, like you were a child throwing a tantrum. “(Y/N), I only married you because of my mother. Don’t push your luck.”
The words struck harder than any slap could have. Married… because of his mother. Not because of love. Not because of you. Just duty. Obligation.
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a sleek black card, tossing it onto the table between you. The sound of it hitting the wood echoed in the silence.
“This card has more money than my mother promised you. Just sign the papers, and it’s yours.”
The bile rose in your throat. Money. That’s what he thought of you. A transaction. Not a wife. Not a partner.
He turned toward the door, as if that was it, as if your entire life together could be dismissed so casually. Three years, reduced to ink and a plastic card.
Something inside you snapped.
“Fine,” you said, your voice steel even though your chest burned. “If you want a divorce so badly, I’ll make it happen.”
You stalked to the counter, grabbed a pen, and signed your name with deliberate strokes, glaring at him the entire time. The ink bled into the paper, but you didn’t care. You shoved the document back into his hands, your voice shaking with fury. “Are you satisfied now?”
James didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at you. He simply slipped the papers back into his briefcase and said, “You can stay here until Mother’s birthday.”
Then he walked out, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him louder than any explosion.
The silence that followed was suffocating. You stood there, staring at the empty doorway, the food still warm on the table, the candles flickering like they mocked you. Three years. Three years of loving him, waiting for him, molding yourself into whatever shape he needed.
And in the end, you were nothing more than a shadow. A ghost. A maid.
But as the sting of his words lingered, so did something else. A spark. A realization.
You were done.
If James Potter wanted to erase you, then fine. But you would not go quietly.
Not anymore.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the wide bedroom windows, soft golden rays falling across the untouched half of your bed. James had already left—probably for the office, probably to meet her. You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, numb.
Then your gaze landed on the sleek black card he’d tossed at you the night before. Still sitting there, glinting faintly in the morning light.
A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “Fine, James. Let’s see how it feels to actually use it.”
By mid-morning, you were walking through London’s most luxurious boutiques. Not in your plain, overlooked housewife clothes, but in something new—something sharp. You let stylists drape you in silk, slide you into perfectly tailored dresses that were modest yet daring, elegant yet commanding. The kind of clothes that whispered power instead of submissive wife. You bought them all. If James wanted to reduce you to money, then you would use that money to remind yourself who you truly were.
By afternoon, your arms were laden with shopping bags, each one heavier with a satisfaction you hadn’t felt in years. You weren’t doing this for him. You were doing this for you.
Later, you headed straight to Pandora Rosier’s townhouse. Your best friend since school, she opened the door with wide eyes and an even wider grin.
“(Y/N)! Look at you—you look like you own the world!”
You laughed, stepping inside. “Maybe I should.”
Over tea and pastries, Pandora pressed for details, her sharp eyes catching the flicker of sadness behind your smile. You told her everything—the anniversary, the papers, Erthane Vane, the way James had dismissed you like a stranger. Her mouth tightened in fury, but she didn’t interrupt until you fell quiet.
“So what now?” she asked. “What are your plans?”
You stared into your cup, swirling the tea absently. “For three years, I gave everything up for James Potter. My entire design career, my work, my dreams. I can’t keep doing this. I should go back to work. I should be myself again.”
Pandora’s lips curved into a slow smile. “There’s the (Y/N) I know. The girl who could turn scraps of fabric into gowns fit for queens. James Potter doesn’t deserve to have buried her.”
Warmth flooded your chest, the first genuine spark of hope in a long time. “Then I’ll do it. I’ll start tomorrow.”
By nightfall, you returned home, dressed in one of your new outfits, the confidence it gave you settling into your bones. James was sprawled on the couch, eyes fixed on the television, his tie loose around his neck. He barely looked at you as you set down your dinner plate across from him.
The silence stretched until, without realizing it, the words slipped from your lips. “I’m going back to work.”
The reaction was immediate. His head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing in his hazel eyes. “WHAT?!”
You lifted your chin. “You heard me. I’m going back to design. I wasted three years playing the quiet little wife, and I’m done.”
His brows furrowed, the vein at his temple ticking. “Absolutely not.”
A scoff escaped you. “Excuse me? You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore, James.”
“I’m still your husband.” His voice was low, dangerous.
“Not for long,” you shot back. “And even if you were—husband or not, you don’t own me.”
For the first time in years, you saw him falter, his mouth opening and closing without words. But he said nothing more. Just turned back to the TV, jaw clenched.
The next day, determination carried you through the polished glass doors of one of London’s leading design companies. It had taken a few calls, a few meetings, a few signatures on thick stacks of paperwork, but by noon, you had officially joined their ranks. Not as an assistant, not as a low-level designer—no, they had taken one look at your portfolio and reputation and given you the role of Director.
The office buzzed with energy as your new colleagues gathered, congratulating you, shaking your hand, welcoming you warmly. For the first time in years, you weren’t invisible. You were seen.
Then, silence fell.
You turned to find every eye fixed on the doorway. And there he was. James Potter.
Of course, you’d known. You weren’t stupid—you had done your research. This was his empire. He was the CEO. But seeing the shock flicker across his face when his eyes landed on you? That was priceless.
“(Y/N)?” His voice carried across the room, rough with disbelief.
Murmurs rippled through your coworkers. Confusion. Curiosity. How did the new Director know the CEO?
Before you could answer, James closed the distance in long strides, his hand clamping around your wrist. “Come with me.”
Gasps filled the room as he pulled you out, whispers breaking out behind you. But no one dared stop him. After all, James Potter was not only the CEO but devastatingly handsome—and everyone wanted his attention.
He didn’t stop until you were inside your new office. Then he shut the door behind him with a click, caging you against the desk with both arms braced on either side. His scent surrounded you, familiar and maddening.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his face inches from yours.
You met his glare without flinching. “Working. Obviously.”
“This is my company.” His tone was sharp, possessive.
“Good for you,” you shot back. “And now it’s mine too. Director, remember?”
“You think you can just waltz in here to get my attention?” His eyes burned into yours, searching, accusing.
A bitter laugh escaped you. “Get your attention? Don’t flatter yourself, James. The last thing I want is you. I’m here because I’m good at what I do. Because I deserve this. And whether you like it or not, you’re going to see me every single day.”
His jaw tightened, but for a flicker of a moment, something else passed over his face. Something almost vulnerable. Then it was gone, masked by his usual arrogance.
You held your ground, the desk at your back, his presence suffocating but no longer breaking you.
For once, James Potter didn’t have the final word.
The days that followed felt like a battlefield.
James Potter made it his mission to test you.
Endless reports, impossible deadlines, sudden presentations dropped into your lap at the last possible second. Any ordinary person might have cracked under the weight of it all, but not you. You refused to give him the satisfaction. With sheer grit—and the unwavering loyalty of your team—you completed each task flawlessly. If anything, every success only fueled you more.
After one particularly brutal project, when you and your department managed to pull off the impossible and land a high-profile client, you decided your team deserved a reward.
“We’re going out tonight,” you announced in the office, smiling as your exhausted coworkers perked up. “Dinner’s on me.”
Excitement rippled through them, and plans were quickly made for one of London’s most exclusive restaurants.
That was when she spoke.
Erthane Vane.
She was stunning in that delicate, cold sort of way—blonde hair sleek, eyes sharp, her beauty almost intimidating. She had joined the company only recently, but it hadn’t taken long for her to make herself known. Everyone admired her looks, her elegance. But you noticed the way her eyes always lingered on James Potter, the way her smile sharpened whenever you happened to be nearby.
“Why don’t we invite Mr. Potter to join us?” Narcissa said lightly, but her gaze flickered toward you. “After all, he is our CEO.”
You opened your mouth before anyone else could answer. “He’s busy.”
“Coincidentally, I’m free tonight,” James’s voice cut in from the doorway.
You stiffened, whipping around. Of course he’d appear at that exact moment. His lips curved into that infuriating smirk, the one that said he enjoyed seeing you flustered.
“Perfect timing,” Narcissa all but purred.
Your jaw clenched, but you forced a polite smile. “How convenient.”
The rest of the team buzzed with excitement at the idea of dining with their CEO. You said nothing more, but James’s amused glance followed you all afternoon.
The days leading up to the dinner only made things worse.
It seemed like fate—or perhaps James’s deliberate maneuvering—kept placing the two of you in uncomfortable situations. Reaching for the same file in the cabinet, your hands brushing. Standing too close during a team huddle, his arm brushing yours. Once, you tripped over a loose wire in the design room, and James caught you before you fell—strong arms steadying you, his breath fanning your cheek.
The entire department saw.
And now, rumors were swirling. Whispers followed you in the hallways, sly grins exchanged between your team members. They shipped you two, their teasing smiles making your stomach churn.
It was ridiculous.
And dangerous.
The night of the party arrived, the restaurant buzzing with soft jazz and golden lights. Your team filled an elegant private dining area, laughter echoing over the clink of glasses. For the first time in weeks, you felt a little lighter, enjoying the warmth of your colleagues’ company.
Until Narcissa struck.
“So, (Y/N),” she began sweetly, her voice carrying just enough to silence the nearby chatter. “You never talk about your personal life. I heard you have a husband?”
The words dropped like a stone.
Several pairs of eyes turned to you at once, surprise flashing across their faces. A murmur rippled through the table.
Husband.
If they believed her, everything you’d worked for could unravel. In their eyes, all those uncomfortable situations with James would suddenly look scandalous. Wrong.
Heat surged into your cheeks. “That’s a lie,” you said firmly, meeting Narcissa’s gaze head-on. “I don’t have a husband.”
But Narcissa only tilted her head, her smile sly. “Oh? Funny. People talk, you know.”
More whispers broke out, your coworkers exchanging uncertain looks. The atmosphere shifted, your carefully built image teetering on the edge.
And then—
“Funny thing to lie about, isn’t it?”
The deep, unmistakable voice sent shivers down your spine.
James Potter.
He had just arrived, standing tall in the doorway, his sharp suit impeccable, his hazel eyes fixed on the scene before him. The chatter died instantly, all eyes swiveling toward him.
Narcissa was the first to recover. She shot up from her chair, her face lighting up as if she’d been waiting for this moment all night.
“Mr. Potter!” she greeted, voice dripping with admiration. “What a surprise—”
But James wasn’t looking at her.
He was looking at you.
His eyes held yours across the room, unreadable, sharp as glass.
The private dining room was warm with laughter, wine glasses clinking, and the hum of a dozen conversations. Your team had eaten well, and someone—probably Carter from accounting—thought it would be hilarious to turn the night into a drinking game.
“Dare or Shot,” he’d declared, slapping a stack of folded slips onto the table. “Pick a dare, do it, or drink. Simple.”
You should’ve refused. Should’ve said you weren’t interested. But peer pressure had a way of circling the table like wildfire, and soon everyone was nodding along.
Your stomach twisted the moment you realized James Potter had actually accepted a seat. Not just anywhere, but right between you and Erthane.
Of course.
Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
“Ladies first,” someone teased, shoving the bowl of folded papers toward you.
Suppressing a sigh, you pulled one free, unfolding it with reluctant fingers. Your eyes scanned the words—and froze.
Kiss the person on your right three times.
Your right.
Your gaze slid sideways.
James.
His hazel eyes met yours, steady, unreadable, but there was the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Your pulse quickened, heat climbing your throat.
“Nope,” you muttered, tossing the paper down and grabbing the shot glass. “Not happening.”
You downed it in one go, the liquid scorching a trail of fire down your throat. You coughed, face scrunching, but it was worth it. Worth it not to give James Potter the satisfaction.
The table erupted into laughter and groans. “Boo! Come on, (Y/N), live a little!”
But you ignored them, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Anything was better than kissing him.
What you didn’t see, couldn’t see, was the flicker that crossed James’s expression.
She’d rather burn her throat with cheap penalty wine than kiss me?
For the first time, James Potter was unsettled.
“Your turn, Potter,” someone called, shoving the bowl toward him.
James reached in, plucked a slip with deliberate calm, and unfolded it. His brows lifted.
The room leaned in as one.
“Well?” Erthane asked eagerly, her manicured nails drumming against her wine glass.
James’s lips curved.
“French kiss the opposite sex for one full minute.”
Gasps and shrieks broke out around the table. The excitement was instant, contagious.
“I’ll do it, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa declared, straightening in her seat, her voice honey-sweet. She leaned forward, her hair sliding over her shoulder, lips parted just enough to leave no doubt what she was offering.
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Or,” you interjected, “you could just drink. No one would judge.”
“Oh, we would!” Carter crowed. “Come on, Mr. Potter, don’t chicken out!”
“French kiss! French kiss!” they cheered, the chant catching fire like a drumbeat.
Narcissa edged closer, practically glowing. Her hand brushed James’s arm. “Well?” she purred.
And that was when James did the last thing you expected.
His hand shot out—not toward Narcissa, but toward you.
Fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face up.
Your protest caught in your throat as his hazel eyes locked on yours. There was no teasing in them now, no smirk. Just raw intensity.
“Potter—” you began, flustered, but your words died as his mouth closed over yours.
The kiss hit you like a tidal wave.
Warmth. Pressure. Heat.
His lips moved against yours with deliberate force, claiming, commanding. Your eyes flew wide, your hands clutching at the edge of the table as the world tilted. You could taste the faint tang of wine on his tongue, feel the strength of his grip as he held you steady, his thumb brushing your jaw.
You made a muffled sound of protest—half groan, half rant that melted against his mouth. “You—James—ugh, I—”
But he didn’t let you finish.
Instead, he deepened the kiss.
Your breath hitched as his mouth slanted over yours again, firmer, slower, drawing out every second as if he wanted to etch the memory into your skin. His other hand came up, bracing on the table behind you, caging you in.
The room had gone silent.
No laughter, no chants now. Just stunned stillness.
Your heart pounded so violently you swore he could feel it through the thin layers of your clothes. Every nerve sparked alive where his lips pressed, where his fingers held your chin, where the heat of his body radiated too close to yours.
And then—he parted his lips.
Your gasp slipped free before you could stop it, and his tongue slid against yours, slow, deliberate. The kiss turned molten, dizzying, a clash of defiance and something darker, hungrier. You wanted to push him away. You wanted to melt into him. You wanted—
The timer buzzed.
Exactly sixty seconds.
James pulled back casually, as if he hadn’t just upended your entire world. His expression was maddeningly calm, though his lips were slightly swollen, his chest rising a fraction faster than usual.
“Next round,” he said smoothly, releasing your chin as if nothing had happened.
You sat frozen, breath shallow, your skin buzzing like it had been lit on fire.
Across the table, Erthane’s expression was carved from stone. Her hands clenched tight around her wine glass, teeth grinding behind her forced smile.
But all you could hear was the echo of your pulse, the ghost of James’s mouth still lingering on yours.
And all he could think was:
She still tastes the same.
The morning after the party was no less chaotic in your mind. You were seated in Pandora’s office, still sipping the coffee she’d shoved into your hands, replaying that kiss—uninvited, infuriatingly passionate, and way too real.
Pandora leaned against her desk, smirking as she stirred sugar into her mug.
“Maybe he still likes you, you know?”
You shot her a glare over the rim of your coffee.
“Pandora, don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t ‘like’ me. He tolerates me. Barely. And have you forgotten the whole divorce thingy?” You threw your free hand up dramatically. “Seven days from now, signatures, papers, done. There’s no liking here. Just… survival.”
Pandora raised a perfectly arched brow. “Survival? That looked like something more than survival last night.”
You groaned into your coffee, hiding your face. “That was a game. Alcohol. Peer pressure. Stupidity. Nothing else.”
She hummed like she didn’t believe you. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
The next day, the mood of the office was entirely different. Excitement buzzed through the air; the company had secured a collaboration with one of your biggest rivals. An opportunity too big to ignore. The opposing company’s CEO was sharp, powerful… and Pandora’s twin.
When Evan Roser walked in, the entire meeting room seemed to tilt. Tall, impeccably dressed, with that same quicksilver charm Pandora had, he spotted you instantly.
You blinked in surprise. “Evan?”
His grin split wide, boyish and familiar. “Y/N?” He crossed the room in strides, and before you knew it, you were in his arms, hugged tight like no years had passed at all.
“God, it’s been forever!” you laughed, pulling back to really look at him. “You look—exactly the same.”
“Flatterer,” he teased, squeezing your shoulders.
Across the table, James Potter went still. His jaw flexed. He’d been leaning casually in his chair a moment ago, but now he sat upright, eyes narrowed like he could cut glass with them.
Through the entire discussion, James and Evan might as well have been dueling. Every time you spoke, Evan leaned in, engaging, smiling at you like you were the only person in the room. And James? He interrupted. Corrected. Shot down points Evan hadn’t even finished making, just to yank your attention back to him.
By the end of the meeting, your head was pounding from the tug-of-war.
The meeting had finally wrapped, but instead of heading straight to your office, you found yourself lingering in the corridor with Evan. He was easy to talk to, that same charming grin from your school days still intact, and against your better judgment, you were laughing.
“Remember when Professor Binns caught us passing notes in class?” Evan asked, smirking. “Except mine wasn’t a note, it was a whole sketch of him snoring at the desk.”
You burst out laughing, clutching your side. “You nearly got us suspended that day! I had to fake a coughing fit just to cover you.”
His laugh softened into something warmer, and he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an intensity that made your smile falter.
“You know,” he said casually, “I wouldn’t even be here if not for Pandora.” liar.
That made you pause. “What do you mean?”
“She asked me to,” Evan said simply, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Told me to hang around you. Distract you. Make Potter burn.”
The air left your lungs in one sharp breath. “what?”
He shrugged, like it was nothing. “She thought it would be fun. Said it would be interesting to see James Potter’s perfect composure crack.” His gaze swept over your face, sharp and deliberate. “Judging by the way he looked at us during the meeting? I’d say it’s working.”
Your chest tightened. “Evan, that’s—”
But before you could finish, he leaned in closer, deliberately brushing his hand against your arm. “And maybe…” his voice dropped, slow and deliberate, “…it wouldn’t be the worst thing if I actually enjoyed this assignment.”
Before you could back away, a strong hand gripped your wrist, tugging you out of Evan’s reach.
James.
He dragged you down the hall, ignoring your protests, until he shoved you inside his office and slammed the door behind him. The sound echoed off the walls.
You barely had time to breathe before his voice, low and sharp, filled the space.
“So that’s what you do now? Flirt around with other men?”
Your eyes widened. “Flirt? Excuse me?”
“You were practically giggling all over him!” James shot back, stepping closer, fire blazing in his hazel eyes.
You planted your hands on your hips. “James Potter, when exactly did laughing at a childhood memory become flirting? You’ve lost your mind.”
“You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?” he growled.
“Maybe open your eyes properly next time! Because I wasn’t doing anything wrong!”
The two of you were nose to nose now, voices rising, the heat of his anger mingling with the stubborn fury building inside you.
Finally, you snapped.
“Why do you even care, James? Tell me that! We’re about to divorce in a week. A week! Why does it matter to you who I talk to or laugh with?”
For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then his answer cut through it, raw and unflinching.
“As long as we’re not divorced, you’re still my wife.”
Your breath caught. “Really? That’s your excuse?” You laughed bitterly. “In that case, why don’t you explain Miss Erthane Vane to me? You know, your lovely little shadow who seems to orbit around you 24/7?”
That hit home. You saw it in his face—the flicker, the silence that followed. His lips parted, but no words came out.
You took a step back, shaking your head. “Exactly. Nothing to say.”
You turned, walking toward the door. You made it three steps before his hand caught your wrist again, spinning you. Your back slammed into the wall, his hand braced by your head, his chest pinning you.
Your eyes flared. “James—”
“Shut up.” His voice was hoarse, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was brutal, consuming, a clash of teeth and pent-up rage. You shoved at his shoulders, but your body betrayed you. You kissed him back, just as hard, just as desperate. His lips split against your teeth, and you tasted iron, but neither of you pulled away.
When you finally tore free, breathless and furious, you shoved him back hard enough that he stumbled. “Don’t touch me again.”
His chest heaved, eyes wild. “Y/N—me and Erthane, it’s not what you think—”
But you were already at the door. You didn’t look back
Evan insisted on taking you home after everything, his tone light but his presence protective. The car ride was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the silence between you. He didn’t push, didn’t tease like earlier; he just sat there, glancing at you every so often, like he already knew the storm raging in your chest.
When you finally reached your doorstep, you sighed. “You didn’t have to—”
“I know,” Evan interrupted, offering a small smile. “But Pandora told me everything. About you and James. About how close you two were back in school.” His voice softened. “She thought maybe I should… be around. Just in case.”
Your chest tightened at the mention of Pandora. She always meddled, but this time, the truth in Evan’s words hurt.
Before you could respond, the door opened.
James was there.
Leaning casually against the frame, tie undone, eyes sharp as they flicked from you to Evan. The air thickened instantly, tension pressing down hard.
Evan straightened, his jaw set. “Potter.”
James’s lips curved, but his eyes burned. “Rosier.”
The restaurant was softly lit, chandeliers casting a golden glow over polished tables. Crystal glasses clinked around you, the hum of conversations blending with the faint sound of a piano in the background. Seated across from Pandora and Evan, you finally felt… lighter. The three of you shared wine, reminiscing about school days and old mischiefs, laughter slipping easily between bites of food.
Somewhere between the main course and dessert, you leaned back with a small smile. “You know, Pan, I never actually thanked you.”
Pandora paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “For what?”
“For asking Evan to do all this—hang around me, distract me, make James jealous.” You chuckled, swirling your glass. “It worked, you know. James practically lost his composure.”
The air at the table shifted. Pandora blinked, confusion etched across her face. “Wait… what are you talking about?”
You frowned, brows furrowing. “Didn’t you? Evan said you asked him to.”
Under the table, unseen by you, Pandora’s hand shot to Evan’s thigh. Her grip was sharp, nails digging just enough to make him flinch. Her eyes locked with his, burning with silent fury.
You dare hit on my best friend? Wait till we get home.
Evan forced a laugh, shifting in his seat. “Ah—you must’ve misunderstood. I might’ve… stretched the truth a bit.”
Your confusion only deepened, but Pandora smoothed over the moment effortlessly, changing the subject. “Anyway,” she said warmly, “tell me about your designs. You always had the sharpest ideas, even in school.”
You let yourself relax again, talking about the project you were working on, while Pandora’s protective gaze lingered on you like a shield. Evan smiled and nodded, but under the table, his leg still throbbed where Pandora’s warning had landed.
The house was quiet when you returned, the heavy click of the front door echoing through the dimly lit hallway. You slipped off your heels, rubbing at your aching feet, still carrying the faint scent of wine and spice from the restaurant. For a moment, you thought maybe James had gone to bed early.
But then you saw him.
He was slouched on the sofa in the living room, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his shirt slightly wrinkled, tie undone. A half-empty glass of firewhisky gleamed in the lamplight beside him. His green eyes lifted to meet yours the second you entered, sharp and waiting.
“Where were you?” His voice wasn’t loud, but the edge in it was undeniable.
You sighed, already feeling your patience fray. Rolling your eyes, you tossed your bag onto the side table. “Dinner.”
“Dinner?” His tone tightened, and then his mouth curled bitterly. “With Rosier?”
Your head snapped toward him, brows knitting. “Rosier?”
“I heard,” he said, standing now, every movement taut with tension. “People talk. And apparently, you’ve been out a lot lately. With him.”
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Who I have dinner with is none of your concern, James.”
The room thickened with silence, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock. His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering along his cheek. “None of my concern? You’re still my wife.”
“Not for long,” you shot back coldly. “Four days. Then I’m free.”
That made him flinch—just slightly—but enough for you to catch it. You moved toward the stairs, wanting to end this before it spiraled further, but his voice followed you like a lash.
“Free?” he repeated, almost spitting the word. “Is that what these last three years were to you? A cage?”
You whirled around, anger sparking in your chest. “Don’t twist this, James. You barely even looked at me for three years. You never—” Your voice cracked, but you forced it steady. “You never even touched me. Not once. What kind of marriage is that?”
His face paled, then flushed with something darker. “That’s not—”
“Yes, it is!” you snapped, stepping closer, fists clenched at your sides. “Do you have any idea what that felt like? To lie in the same bed every night and feel invisible? To wonder if maybe you just… couldn’t? If you couldn’t even fuck your own wife?”
The words hung heavy, poisonous, filling the space between you. His eyes hardened, burning into yours, and for the first time in years, he looked dangerous.
In two strides, he was in front of you. Before you could move, his hands shoved you down onto the sofa, your back sinking into the cushions. He leaned over you, caging you in, breath hot against your cheek.
“Oh, I’ll show you,” he growled, his voice low, edged with fury. “I’ll show you if I can or not.”
Your heart pounded, a swirl of panic and heat rushing through you at his sudden closeness. His weight hovered just enough above you, the tension crackling as his lips inched closer—
“Don’t mess around, James!” you snapped sharply, pushing against his chest. “We are about to get divorced!”
The words cut like glass. He froze, his face hovering inches from yours, and for a long moment, the only sound was both your ragged breaths.
Then slowly, he pulled back just enough to search your face. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. “Do you really want a divorce that badly?”
You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Yes.”
The single word seemed to gut him. His throat bobbed, jaw clenching tight as he swallowed everything he wanted to say. A mask slid over his face—cold, impassive, unreadable.
“Fine,” he said flatly, pushing himself off you.
You sat up quickly, eyes flashing. “Fine? That’s it? You were the one who wanted this divorce first!”
But he didn’t answer. He grabbed his keys, shoved it into his pocket, and stalked toward the door.
“James!” you shouted, voice cracking with anger. “Don’t you dare walk away from me—!”
The slam of the door cut you off, reverberating through the hollow house.
You sat there, trembling, your fists gripping the fabric of the sofa. Anger burned in your chest, but beneath it, something else lingered—something you refused to name.
He had walked out. But this time, the silence he left behind felt louder than ever.
The corridor was quiet that night, eerily so, the only sound the faint echo of your heels against the marble. Most of the building had already emptied; even the interns had gone home hours ago. But you had stayed, grinding away at the designs James had overloaded you with, determined to show him you wouldn’t be broken down so easily.
Now, file in hand, you walked toward his office to drop off the finished work. The heavy glass door was slightly ajar, golden light spilling through the crack. You raised your hand to knock—
And froze.
A low, velvety voice slithered through the gap. Ertane Vane.
You recognized it instantly, that fake-sweet tone laced with venom. “You look tired, James. Carrying secrets is exhausting, isn’t it?”
You frowned, leaning closer, pulse thrumming.
James’s voice followed, sharp and strained. “You’ve made your point, Ertane. Drop it. I’ve already done what you wanted.”
A humorless laugh rang out. “Oh, darling, don’t be foolish. Do you think one signature on a set of divorce papers is enough to pay me off? No, no. Not when I hold your entire family’s legacy in my hands.”
Your breath hitched. Divorce. Legacy. Your grip on the folder tightened.
James’s tone turned icy. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” Ertane’s heels clicked against the floor as she moved closer—you could almost picture her circling him like a vulture. “What would the public say if they knew the great Potter empire wasn’t built as cleanly as everyone thinks? That your grandfather’s fortune wasn’t exactly earned… legally?”
There was a pause. Heavy. Suffocating.
Your mind spun. Grandfather?
James finally spoke, voice low and furious. “Those records were destroyed decades ago. No one could possibly—”
“I found them,” Ertane cut in smoothly. “Bank statements. Ledgers. Proof that your grandfather laundered money through shell companies to build Potter Industries’ foundation. And you know how the world is, James. Once a scandal breaks, no one cares if it was seventy years ago or seven days. The Potter name will burn. The company will burn. You will burn.”
You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from gasping.
James… his family… criminals?
But no—no, you knew James. Whatever mistakes his ancestors made, he wasn’t them. He wasn’t corrupt. He wasn’t a liar. So why would he—
“You’d ruin everything just to get to me?” James demanded, voice cracking under the weight of anger and despair.
Ertane hummed. “Not everything. I’d spare you the worst… if you did exactly as I say.”
“And what you say,” James ground out, “is divorce her.”
“Exactly.”
Your heart stopped.
Ertane’s voice dripped satisfaction. “She’s the weakness, James. Everyone thinks of her as a ghost, a quiet little housewife no one sees. But I see. She’s the chink in your armor. With her by your side, you’re vulnerable. So you’ll let her go. Make it believable. Humiliate her if you must. And once she’s out of the picture, you’ll give me what I want.”
“And that is?” James spat.
A pause. A cruel smile in her voice. “Everything. A place by your side. The world already thinks we’re… entangled. Why not make it true?”
The silence that followed was so sharp it cut into your chest. You could almost hear James’s breathing, harsh and ragged.
Finally, he snarled, “You disgust me.”
But Ertane only chuckled, low and triumphant. “Disgust me all you want. As long as I hold those files, you’ll dance to my tune. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to watch your company crumble, your employees scatter, and your precious wife dragged into a public scandal she wouldn’t survive.”
Your knees nearly buckled.
This was it. This was why James had been so cruel. Why he’d pushed you away. Why he’d shoved those divorce papers in your face, why he’d dangled money like you were nothing. He wasn’t doing it because he wanted Ertane. He was doing it because she had him chained by the throat.
James’s voice broke through your thoughts, quiet but raw. “I’ll never want you, Ertane. Not in this lifetime. You’ll never have my heart.”
“Oh, James,” she purred, “I don’t need your heart. I just need your obedience.”
You stumbled back, pulse roaring in your ears. The folder in your hands slipped, scattering papers across the floor. Panicked, you bent to grab them, praying neither of them had heard.
Inside, James hissed, “Get out.”
The weight of what you’d just overheard pressed down on your chest like iron, every step down the corridor heavy, mechanical. You weren’t even thinking anymore—your body just moved. The folder of finished work dug into your palms, papers still crumpled from when you’d dropped them.
James. Ertane. Divorce. Blackmail. Family secrets.
It all swirled in your head until you felt sick.
Your hand hovered at the handle of his office door. You didn’t want to see. You didn’t want confirmation. But your body betrayed you—you pushed it open anyway.
The sight inside was enough to make your stomach churn.
Ertane was pressed up against James, her manicured hands clutching his collar as she leaned into him, lips dangerously close to his jaw. James’s face was turned away, jaw clenched, his hands braced against the desk as though holding himself back from throwing her off entirely.
For a split second, no one moved. The sound of the door clicking shut behind you was deafening.
Ertane turned first, a slow, smug smile curling her painted lips. “Oh. Look who it is. The little housewife turned director.”
Your grip tightened on the folder until your knuckles whitened. “You two can do whatever the hell you want,” you said flatly, your voice calm but shaking with restrained fury. “But do it after working hours. Not in this office.”
The air cracked.
James’s head snapped toward you, and in that instant, your eyes locked. His widened—shock, panic, guilt—before narrowing, almost pleading. He knew. He knew you’d heard everything.
Ertane, oblivious or perhaps delighted, let out a mocking laugh. “Oh, how noble. Pretending not to care. You really are too good at playing the indifferent wife.”
You ignored her, staring straight at James. The weight of the truth sat between you, unspoken but undeniable. You didn’t need to say it aloud; the way his throat worked, the way his lips parted soundlessly, told you everything.
He knew you’d heard.
And he hated it.
Finally, James shoved Ertane back—not roughly, but firmly enough to make her stumble a step. “Get out,” he said, voice like steel.
Ertane’s smile only widened. “Touchy, aren’t we?” She leaned in close to him again, whispering loudly enough for you to hear, “Careful, James. Don’t forget who’s really in control here.”
Your stomach twisted.
James didn’t answer her. He didn’t even look at her. His gaze never left yours, burning, searching, begging.
But you wouldn’t give him what he wanted. Not now.
You lifted your chin, clutching the folder tighter. “I’ll leave this here,” you muttered, crossing the room and dropping the folder onto his desk, right between him and Ertane. Your fingers brushed his for a brief, electric second, and you saw his jaw tighten, his chest rise like he wanted to speak—
—but you weren’t giving him the chance.
You turned on your heel, striding toward the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Potter. Miss Vane.”
The way you spat her name was venomous.
Before James could move, before he could explain or stop you, you wrenched the door open and slipped out, the slam reverberating through the corridor.
Outside, your heart hammered in your chest, your legs trembling with every step. Rage and heartbreak collided inside you, and you didn’t know if you wanted to scream, cry, or burn the entire building down.
Behind you, in that office, James Potter stood frozen—Ertane’s smug grin lingering in his ears, your words carved into his chest like knives.
And worst of all, he knew:
You’d heard everything.
That night, the house was cold, almost too still. You had buried yourself beneath the sheets, back turned toward the door, your breathing slow and steady in practiced rhythm. Pretending to sleep felt easier than facing him after what you’d witnessed—the blackmail, the way Erthane’s hands clung to him, the way James didn’t push her away fast enough.
The door creaked open, footsteps crossing the room. He stopped at your side.
“Y/N.” His voice was low, tired, but firm.
You didn’t move.
“I know you’re awake.”
Your hand curled tighter around the blanket. “Then maybe you should know I don’t feel like talking.”
There was a beat of silence, heavy enough to press down on your chest. Then, his voice sharpened. “You heard.”
Finally, you turned, meeting his eyes in the dim light. “I heard enough. Enough to know my husband is divorcing me because some snake decided to dangle secrets over your head. Enough to know I’ve been wasting three years of my life on someone who couldn’t even fight for me.”
His jaw locked. He moved closer. “You think I wanted this? That I wanted her?”
“Didn’t you?” Your laugh was bitter. “From the outside, it looked convincing. You stood there and let her touch you.”
That hit. His hand slammed against the wall beside you, caging you in. “Don’t. Don’t you dare think I would ever choose her over you.”
“Then why?” Your voice broke, hot tears stinging your eyes. “Why not just tell me the truth, James? Why push me away instead of fighting for me?”
His chest heaved, his eyes searching yours, torn between fury and desperation. “Because if those secrets came out, it wouldn’t just ruin me—it would drag you down with me. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you was suffocating, heavy with everything unsaid. Then he leaned in, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice raw. “I’m losing my mind, Y/N. Every day I stay away, every night I lie next to you and don’t touch you—it’s killing me.”
Your breath hitched, your hands trembling at your sides. You should’ve pushed him back. Reminded him of the divorce papers waiting. But instead, when his lips finally crashed against yours, you didn’t resist.
Anger, grief, longing—it all spilled out, tangled into something fierce and reckless.
That night, the line between love and hate blurred, and you gave in.
The morning light didn’t feel kind. It cut sharp across the room, illuminating the discarded clothes on the floor, the twisted sheets that smelled too much like him. You sat up slowly, pulling the blanket higher around yourself, your chest tight.
Last night replayed in flashes—the anger, his words, his mouth on yours, the way everything you’d been holding in for years came crashing out in a moment of recklessness.
And you hated yourself for it.
James stood near the dresser, buttoning his shirt. He looked almost normal, almost composed, except his hands shook ever so slightly. He caught your gaze in the mirror, his expression unreadable.
“Morning,” he said, voice softer than you’d heard in months.
You looked away. “Don’t.”
He turned, brows furrowing. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend like last night fixed anything,” you snapped, clutching the sheets tighter. “It didn’t. It was—” your voice faltered, throat dry. “It was a mistake.”
His jaw clenched. He came closer, but you held your ground, glaring up at him.
“A mistake?” His voice was rough, cutting. “That’s what you call it?”
“What else should I call it?” you demanded. “We’re divorcing in two days, James. two days. What happened last night doesn’t change that. If anything, it just made this whole mess worse.”
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, he looked as if you’d physically struck him. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? You think I wanted to do this—sign those papers, hand you over like you were nothing to me?”
You stood then, the sheet wrapped around you like armor. “Then why are you doing it? Why, James? If you love me so damn much like you claim, why are you letting her control you?”
He froze, his mouth parting as if to answer, but nothing came. Nothing except silence.
That silence told you everything.
You nodded, your chest aching. “Exactly. You can’t even say it out loud. And that’s why last night was a mistake. Because it gave me hope for something you’re not willing to fight for.”
He flinched at that, his fists curling at his sides. “Y/N—”
“No.” You cut him off sharply, voice shaking but firm. “I want the divorce. And I want it clean. No more nights like last night. No more pretending we’re something we’re not. I deserve better than being your weakness in the dark.”
For a long, heavy moment, he just stared at you. His mask slipped then, just slightly—you saw the hurt, the regret, the fury he couldn’t control. But then it was gone, replaced by cold distance.
“Fine,” he said finally, voice low. “If that’s what you want.”
He left without another word, the sound of the door closing echoing like a final nail in the coffin.
And though you told yourself it was what you wanted, your hands still trembled, your lips still burned, and deep down, you hated how much last night still lingered on your skin.
James hadn’t gone into the office the next day.
Instead, he sat alone in his study, curtains drawn, a drink untouched at his desk. The divorce papers sat where he’d left them, crisp and ready, mocking him with every second that passed.
For three years he had lived in silence, convincing himself he was protecting you by keeping you at arm’s length. And when Erthane Vane had cornered him with those family secrets—threatening to drag the Potter name, and by extension you, through the mud—he thought signing those papers was the only way to keep you safe.
But last night… last night shattered that illusion.
He could still taste you on his lips, still hear your broken voice when you called it a mistake. A mistake. The word had cut him deeper than any blade.
And yet, even in that anger, all he could think was how much he wanted to hold you again.
He stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room. Erthane’s smug face flashed in his mind, her hands clutching at him in that office while you stood in the doorway, eyes full of betrayal. He remembered the look on your face, the way his chest physically ached at the thought of you believing her lies.
No. Enough.
He grabbed the untouched drink and hurled it into the fireplace, glass shattering against the stone.
For too long he had let Erthane hold him hostage. For too long he had told himself that protecting you meant pushing you away. But what protection was it, if it left you broken, doubting yourself, doubting him?
James Potter was many things—reckless, proud, flawed beyond measure. But coward was not one of them.
He reached for his phone, fingers tightening around it. He could end this. He would end this. He would not lose you because of Erthane’s poison.
Her threats meant nothing compared to the thought of losing you forever. If the world had to burn, if his name had to be dragged through the mud, so be it. He didn’t care about the company, the legacy, the secrets. He only cared about you.
For the first time in weeks, a sharp clarity filled his chest.
He didn’t care about Erthane Vane anymore.
He cared about fighting for his wife.
James didn’t wait for a scheduled meeting. He stormed straight into Erthane Vane’s sleek corner office, ignoring her assistant’s startled protests. The door slammed shut behind him with a force that made her flinch.
“Well, well,” Erthane purred, leaning back in her chair with a glass of wine in hand. “To what do I owe this—”
“Shut up.”
The bite in his tone froze her smirk. James stalked across the room, every step radiating fury he’d been holding back for weeks.
“You’ve had your fun, Erthane. Waving secrets around, blackmailing me, thinking you could control me. But it ends today.”
Her eyes narrowed, though her lips curled into a mocking smile. “Ends? Oh, James. Don’t be foolish. You know what I have. If I expose your family’s little… mishap, the Potters are finished. You, your mother, your empire—it all burns.”
“Then let it burn.” His voice was low, lethal. He leaned across her desk, his hands flat against the polished wood. “I don’t care anymore. If you think for a second I’m going to destroy my marriage just to protect your petty little game, you’ve underestimated me.”
Her smugness faltered. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He straightened, his gaze sharp as steel. “I would. And I will. I’ve signed the papers, but I’ll be damned if I let you think you’ve won. My wife deserves the truth, and she deserves me fighting for her, not hiding behind your threats.”
Erthane rose from her chair, fury flashing in her eyes. “You’re making a mistake. That woman—she’ll never forgive you. She’ll hate you for keeping her in the dark.”
James stepped closer, his voice a low growl. “She can hate me all she wants. But at least she’ll know I chose her over you. Over everything.”
The silence that followed was razor sharp, a battle of wills. Erthane’s nails dug into the stem of her glass, but James didn’t flinch, didn’t look away.
Finally, she laughed, brittle and sharp. “You’ll regret this, Potter.”
He smirked, the expression cold. “The only thing I regret is letting you think you had power over me.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, the door slamming behind him.
For the first time in months, his chest felt lighter. The war wasn’t over—there were secrets still to face, and you still wanted a divorce. But one thing was certain: Erthane Vane no longer held his leash.
He was free.
And now, he was coming for you.
The office was unusually quiet that afternoon. Papers sat neatly stacked on your desk, the quill tapping against your notepad the only sound. You’d buried yourself in work all day, determined to think of anything except James Potter.
The door opened without a knock. You didn’t even have to look up—you knew his footsteps by heart.
“Y/N,” James said, voice rough.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m busy, James. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
But he didn’t leave. Instead, the door clicked shut, and when you finally glanced up, you froze. James stood there like a shadow of himself—tie loose, eyes ringed with exhaustion, jaw tight like he’d been clenching it for hours.
“I can’t let this go on,” he said quietly, almost more to himself than to you. “You need to know the truth. All of it.”
Your heart stuttered. You’d spent nights replaying Erthane’s words, the blackmail, the pieces you’d overheard. But to hear him bring it up—it cut deeper.
He stepped forward, hands open like he was afraid you’d bolt. “She blackmailed me. Erthane. She found something about my family, something I couldn’t risk touching you. I thought ending things between us was the only way to keep you safe.”
Your chair scraped as you stood. “Safe? By breaking my heart? By making me believe you wanted someone else?”
His face crumpled. “I never wanted her. Not for a second. It’s always been you.”
He crossed the room slowly, carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal. His voice cracked. “I’m not asking you to forgive me today. Hell, maybe not ever. But I need you to know—I never stopped loving you. Everything I did, I did because I was a coward who thought I could protect you by losing you.”
You swallowed hard, anger and longing tangling in your chest. “And now what? You think you can just say that and I’ll magically forget what you put me through?”
James shook his head, dropping onto his knees right there on your office floor. “No. I don’t want you to forget. I want to spend every bloody day proving myself to you. If it takes a lifetime of groveling, I’ll do it. Just… don’t sign those papers. Don’t let her win. Don’t let us end because of her.”
The sight of him—your proud, infuriating husband, broken and desperate on his knees—left your throat tight, your eyes stinging. He looked up at you, every mask stripped away.
“Please, Y/N,” he whispered. “Reconsider. Don’t give up on me yet.”
