Reclaiming His Wife

Chapter Two: The Dreaded Moment

Three years into their marriage of convenience, Jessica Thomas had done the unthinkable—she’d fallen in love with her husband.

Utterly, hopelessly, and irrevocably.

And the worst part? There was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

From the beginning, Mark had made himself crystal clear. He didn’t believe in love. Not as a concept, not as a possibility, and certainly not as something he would ever feel for her. Love, he said, was messy. Illogical. Fragile. And most dangerously, unpredictable. He’d told her he valued their friendship too much to risk it on something as fleeting as emotion.

He had set the boundaries. But Jessica? She’d plowed through every one of them, heart first.

She was the textbook definition of insanity—doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. Always hoping. Always trying. She’d found a dozen ways, a hundred gestures, to show him how much she loved him. Little things. Quiet things. Subtle, yet deliberate. A touch on his arm when he looked tired. His favorite pastries were waiting in the kitchen after a long day. Thoughtful surprises on anniversaries he never remembered. She wasn’t expecting grand gestures in return. Just... something.

But he never gave her anything back. Nothing that mattered, at least.

And each time her love was met with indifference—or worse, polite dismissal—it chipped another piece off her heart.

Still, it wasn’t his fault. He had warned her. He had told her plainly. But her foolish heart hadn’t listened. It never did.

Now, finally, she was done. Done bleeding for a man who had no intention of catching her when she fell. Done sacrificing her pride for crumbs of affection. Done pretending.

It was time to reclaim her life.

She cast a sidelong glance at him from beneath her lashes.

He was removing his cuff-links, his movements fluid and practiced. The tailored gray dinner suit he wore hugged his athletic frame perfectly, the crisp cut emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrowing around his slim waist. His thick brown curls, just long enough to graze the collar of his shirt, gave him an effortless charm, softening the hard angles of his otherwise commanding presence.

Jason Momoa had nothing on Mark Thomas.

Every time Jessica looked at him, her heart reacted like a schoolgirl’s. It was ridiculous, really. Like trying to stare at the sun. She couldn’t look directly at him for too long without feeling blinded, burned.

There was something about him. Wherever he went, people stopped what they were doing. They listened. They followed. His presence demanded attention—no, devotion—without ever needing to ask for it.

This was Mark Thomas: billionaire hotel magnate, international playboy, and now the CEO of the VIBE Nightclub empire.

And Jessica? She had a front-row seat for all of it.

She also knew the man behind the mask. The ruthlessness that fueled his success. The cold logic he wielded like a weapon. The man who didn’t believe in failure—and wouldn’t tolerate it in others.

That was why she had hoped to slip away unnoticed, while he was still busy downstairs entertaining guests at the lavish celebration he'd thrown in his own honor.

Her early departure had not been part of the official plan. But tonight was the night. She’d made her decision. And one of the many reasons for it was standing a few feet away from her now, his sharp gaze cutting through her like a scalpel as he casually rolled up his sleeves.

Jessica lowered her eyes quickly. She couldn’t afford to get drawn in—not now. Not when she was so close.

“To answer your question,” she said, lifting the pendant she’d retrieved from beneath the bed, “the clasp broke. It rolled under. I didn’t want to lose it.”

Mark eyed the tiny gold charm. “You should’ve left it for the maid to find in the morning,” he said, his voice clipped but even. “You treasure that thing far more than you should. It’s the cheapest piece of jewelry I’ve ever given you.”

Jessica stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt, and walked to the dresser. She opened her jewelry box and placed the pendant inside gently, almost reverently. The delicate gold heart gleamed under the soft bedroom light, its tiny key engraving catching her eye.

“It’s also the first gift you ever gave me,” she said softly.

He hadn’t replied then—not really—just blinked in confusion. But she remembered the moment well. It was the day they got married. A quiet courthouse wedding, no frills. She’d asked why he chose the key design, and he grinned and said, “It’s the key to my heart. Which means the key to the world—because I’d do anything for you.”

It had felt, for a fleeting moment, like something real. Like something tender. But maybe it was just another scripted gesture, another performance.

His mother certainly hadn’t thought so. To Elaine Thomas, that pendant symbolized the moment her son had officially lost his mind.

Jessica had never forgotten the way Elaine had looked at her—as if Jessica were a disease that needed to be eradicated. A gold-digging harpy who’d somehow conned her brilliant son. The absence of a prenup only added fuel to the fire.

Elaine had been livid. But Jessica was ready—more than willing—to sign a prenup. She didn’t want his money. She’d told Mark that.

He refused.

Absolutely, stubbornly refused.

“I trust you,” he had said. “I’m not insulting you with a contract.”

She’d called him an ass, and he’d smirked in return.

Elaine, of course, had blamed Jessica. She’d even gone so far as to suggest that some form of obeah—Guyanese folk magic—was at play. Jessica had grown up poor, but proud. Magic had nothing to do with her relationship with Mark. She had liked him long before she understood just how deep his wealth ran.

The money hadn’t been part of her calculation. But it had been part of the offer.

Mark had promised her two million dollars for every year of marriage, with a ten-million-dollar bonus upon their eventual divorce. A total of twenty million dollars. Nineteen million more than she had any clue what to do with.

She hadn’t married him for the money. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew a golden cage was still a cage.

Behind her, she heard the quiet swish of fabric as Mark slipped off his tie. Then he stopped.

“What’s this?” he asked, his tone shifting. He was staring at the half-packed suitcase sitting at the end of the bed.

Jessica’s breath caught.

Mark’s gaze darted from the bag to her, sharp and assessing. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked slowly. “I don’t recall us having any travel plans.”

Jessica didn’t answer. Her fists clenched at her sides. This was it—the moment she’d dreaded, the one she’d rehearsed in her mind a hundred times.

Mark took a step closer. His eyes, normally so composed, were now flickering with something else—uncertainty.

“Jess…” His voice was softer now. Tentative. Suspicious. “Where are you going?”