My Husband Chose Her Over Me Novel – Chapter 17
“Where have you been all day? I’ve been so worried about you?!” Caden exclaimed, his voice strained with an emotion I’d never heard from him before.
He sounded worried and I raised a single eyebrow, studying him. Golden prince of Verloren looked disheveled, his perfectly coiffed hair now tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly. The impeccable royal mask had slipped, revealing something raw underneath that I wasn’t prepared to see.
I walked past him, the scent of his familiar cologne making my heart clench despite my determination to remain unmoved. “Since when did Prince Caden begin to worry about a nobody like me?”
His expression changed in an instant, recognition, then guilt, then something that almost resembled pain flashing across his features. I savored it, this small victory. Let him feel a fraction of what I’ve endured these past months.
“And why are you in my room?” I asked pointedly, moving toward my dressing table and removing my earrings with deliberate calm. Each piece of jewelry clattered against the polished wood, filling the silence between us.
“Our room,” he corrected, his voice softer now.
It was indeed our matrimonial chamber, adorned with the royal blue and silver of Verloren intertwined with the emerald and gold of Verdana, a symbolic unity that had never extended beyond these walls. I couldn’t even remember the last time we had slept together in the same room. The bed had remained cold and empty, much like our marriage.
I ignored him and walked to the closet to get changed into my pajamas. The weight of his gaze followed me, heavy and insistent. I could feel it burning into my back as I pulled out a silk nightgown.
If Father hadn’t insisted on my leaving, I wouldn’t have come back. Dani made sure I was in before he left in his carriage.
“Leave, Caden,” I said without turning. “I need some privacy.”
“You’re my wife,” he replied, as if those three words explained everything, excused everything.
I wanted to tell him I was no longer the only wife he had, I wanted to hurl accusations and grievances that had been building for months. But I kept my mouth sealed, unwilling to reveal how deeply his betrayal had cut.
“I need to get changed,” I said instead, my voice carefully neutral.
“You’re my wife,” he repeated, as if the title alone granted him unrestricted access to me, my body, my space, my heart.
Something inside me snapped. The careful control I’d maintained in public, the dignified silence I’d wrapped around myself like armor, it all crumbled in an instant.
“So is Islode,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them.
His face darkened, shadows gathering in the hollows of his cheeks. “Elara…” he began, taking a step toward me.
I held up a hand, stopping him. “Because you know about my real identity doesn’t mean you should change your ways towards me,” I said, my voice growing stronger with each word. “Continue being nonchalant like you’ve always been, Caden. Don’t treat me differently because your trick won’t work.”
“I’m not tricking you or anything,” he protested, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I was shocked, fine, but that doesn’t mean—”
I laughed, the sound foreign even to my own ears—brittle and sharp-edged. “Can you please leave?”
He didn’t move, his tall frame blocking the path to the door. The stubborn set of his jaw told me he had no intention of going anywhere. Fine. If he wanted to play this game, I would call his bluff.
With deliberate slowness, I began to undress, my fingers working at the laces of my gown. I felt a small, vindictive satisfaction as his eyes widened slightly, but he made no move to leave. Instead, he stood there watching as I changed into my nightgown, his expression unreadable in the dim lamplight.
When I finished, I moved to the bed and slouched in, dragging the duvet over me. I expected him to leave then, to retreat to whatever corner of the palace he’d been occupying these past months. Instead, he surprised me by sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his boots with methodical precision. Before I could voice another protest, he jumped in beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, clutching the duvet tighter.
“Going to sleep,” he replied simply, as if we did this every night, as if nothing had changed between us.
“We can’t sleep together on the same bed,” I said, inching away from his warmth.
“Why not?” he asked, turning to face me. The lamplight caught the angles of his face, highlighting the aristocratic nose, the strong jawline that graced every royal portrait in the castle.
“Because I asked for a divorce, remember?”
The words hung between us, heavy. I expected him to argue, to negotiate, to employ the diplomatic skills he’d been trained in since birth. Instead, he said nothing. His expression turned sour, a muscle working in his jaw as he processed my rejection.
With a sudden movement, he dragged the duvet away from my grasp, the loss of its warmth momentarily startling me. But it wasn’t the cold that made me shiver, it was the look in his eyes. Beneath the hurt and anger swirling in those blue depths, I glimpsed something I’d never seen directed at me before: desire.
I was about to say something when he snapped his head towards me. Before I could react, he grabbed me, one hand cupping the back of my neck, the other pressing against the small of my back, pulling me against him.
And then he kissed me.
His lips were warm and insistent against mine, not asking but demanding a response. For one treacherous moment, I felt myself melting into him, my body recognizing what my mind refused to acknowledge.