THE DISGRACED HUSBAND IS A BILLIONAIRE

02: A MAN IN HIS HOME

George staggered back slightly, as if physically struck. "But… I came back…” he whispered.

“I survived… for you… for our family." his voice is soft and loud.

Selene looked away. “I thought you were dead.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You disappeared for eight years.” Selene cried.

“I was fighting to live!” George’s voice cracked. “I was tortured, Selene! I was...”

“Enough.” Selene's voice was cold.

George froze.

“I moved on,” she said quietly.

Moved on. Those two words destroyed whatever hope George had left.

“But I’m your husband,” he said desperately.

Selene’s eyes met his again. And this time, there was no warmth in them.

“You were.”

Silence fell once more. George felt something inside him collapsing completely. Everything he endured, just to survive. Those pain, every breath he fought for... It all meant nothing.

Because the person he did it for… Was already gone, for another man now.

George slowly fell in his favorite wooden chair, which remained standing beside him. Then he rubs his face with his hands as if he didn't hear anything from his wife. He thinks that all of it was a joke.

"I still love you,” Selene suddenly admitted.

The words caught him off guard. Hopes reglazing from his mind, but his heart is weak, already broken into pieces.

Then his wife, Selene continued. "But I love him too.”

And just like that, hope died again. George let out a broken laugh. Not because anything was funny.

But because the pain was too much, almost likely to kill him.

“…So what am I supposed to do?” he asked softly.

Selene hesitated. Then she said the words that would haunt him for years.

“You can stay… if you want.”

George looked up. His eyes searched hers, desperate for something... anything. But all he found was indifference.

“…Stay if I wanted?” he repeated.

“As part of this house,” Selene said carefully. Not sure of what she wanted, but she was sure enough that George might helpful if he stay, specially for their son Gabriel.

George’s chest tightened. “And as what?”

Selene didn’t answer immediately. Instead, Silvestry did.

“A helper,” he said with a smirk.

Helper? The word echoed in George’s mind. Not her husband, and not the head of this family?

Just a freaking and weak servant..

George sat there, motionless, broke and humiliated. In a game like this, he was the first male lead, who's being destroyed by the enemy.

“…If I stay…”

George's voice was barely audible. "Will I still be able to see Gabriel?”

Selene nodded once. "That was enough."

George closed his eyes. Tears slipped down his face, silently. Slowly... he said finally. “…Then I’ll stay"

After everything, even after his wife's betrayal, pain, and humiliation. George Werch still chose love over his family.

Even if it meant losing himself completely.

The first morning after returning home, it did not feel like a beginning. It felt like punishment for a man who was like a stranger in his own house.

George Werch woke to the faint gray light of dawn, his body stiff, against the narrow couch in the living room. For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, blank, as if he were trying to convince himself that everything that happened yesterday, had been nothing more than a cruel dream.

But the silence around him was real. The unfamiliar scent of the house was real. The ache in his heart, that some kind of long loneliness. That was the most real of all.

Slowly, George sat up. A sharp pain shot through his back, and he winced, pressing a hand against his side. His body was still healing, still carrying the scars of everything he had endured. But none of that compared to the wound inside him.

Selene his wife and Gabriel.

with Silvestry?

Imagining that Selene chose her lover against him. And that image was replayed in his mind without mercy, the kiss, the cold words, the way his son looked at him last night, like he was nothing.

George exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “…You chose this,” he murmured.

And that was the truth. No one forced him to stay.

No one begged him to remain. He stayed because he still loved them. Even if they no longer loved him back.

George stood up with effort, and made his way to the kitchen. His steps were quiet, almost cautious, as if he were afraid of disturbing someone in sleep.

There were no secrets left in this house. Only distance. Only the indifference, now that he was a stranger in his own home.

The kitchen lights flickered on, revealing a space that was both familiar and foreign. The structure was the same, but everything else had changed, new cabinets, different utensils, a modern design that Selene used to dislike.

It seems that their life was rebuilt, from eight years without him.

George opened a drawer and he stopped. Even the simplest thing, spoons, knives, plates were no longer where he remembered them.

He let out a quiet breath. “…I’ll learn,” he said to himself.

Because that’s what he has to do now. Learn how to live in a place that was no longer his.

He rolled up his sleeves and began preparing breakfast. Each movement felt mechanical at first. Washing rice. Cracking eggs. Slicing vegetables. The rhythm came back slowly, like a memory his body hadn’t completely forgotten.

He had always done this out of love before. Now, he did it to survive the challenge, the challenge that could possibly be, that he can win his wife's heart again.

The sound of oil sizzling filled the silence, followed by the gentle clinking of utensils. The smell of food soon spread through the house, warm and inviting.

For a moment. It almost felt like the past again. Selene smiled, looking at him and bringing the cup of non sweetened coffee for her husband.

But that illusion didn’t last long.

"Smells decent.” The voice cut through the air.

George’s hands paused. But he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. It was Silvestry.

“I made breakfast,” George said quietly, resuming his movements.

Silvestry stepped into the kitchen, dressed neatly, his presence radiating confidence and control. He leaned casually against the counter, watching George like one would watch a servant doing his job.

"Not bad,” he said with a faint smirk. “Didn’t think you still remembered how to cook.”

George’s grip tightened slightly around the spatula.

“I used to cook for my family,” he replied.

Silvestry let cut a soft chuckle. “Used to.” he repeated. Because for him, that word is lingered like poison in the air.