Sloane Is Back

The blare of a car horn echoed across the sprawling grounds of the Carlisle estate. Tessa Vance’s heart did a familiar leap. She dropped the magazine on the living room sofa, pushed to her feet, and hurried through the grand double doors into the afternoon sunlight.

“Honey, you’re home!” she called out, a bright smile stretching across her face.

Desmond Carlisle killed the engine. Through the windshield of his sleek black sedan, he watched his wife bound down the stone steps. For the past three years of their marriage, this had been her unwavering routine. She saw him off every morning and waited on the driveway to welcome him back every evening. Not a single missed day.

Tessa reached the car just as he stepped out into the crisp air. She reached out and took the heavy leather laptop bag right from his grip. “Welcome home! Let me take this.”

A shadow passed over Desmond’s face, a brief tightening of his jaw, before he followed her inside. Once they crossed the threshold of the lavish mansion, he guided her toward the velvet sofa in the center of the living room.

“Tessa, there’s something I want to tell you,” he said, taking a seat next to her.

She beamed, shifting to give him her full attention. “Sure, I’m listening.”

Before Desmond could form his next sentence, the sharp clack of heels on marble interrupted them. Mrs. Higgins, their longtime housekeeper, approached carrying a silver tray. Resting on top was a steaming bowl of medicinal liquid, pitch-black and reeking of burnt herbs.

“Madam, it’s time for your medicine,” Mrs. Higgins announced, her tone gentle.

“Okay!” Tessa didn’t hesitate.

Two years ago, after failing to conceive, her mother-in-law had dragged her to a specialist. The clinical infertility diagnosis sparked a firestorm. Her mother-in-law demanded Desmond divorce her on the spot. He refused. He stood by Tessa, holding her hand in the sterile hospital corridor, and promised it did not matter. From that day on, he treated her with an even deeper tenderness.

Tessa reached for the bowl. The heat seeped into her palms. She brought the dark sludge to her lips, suppressing a physical gag as the foul concoction coated her tongue and slid down her throat. She forced herself to drink every last drop, guided by the desperate hope that it would fix her.

Mrs. Higgins took the empty bowl and retreated.

Desmond reached into his suit pocket. He pulled out a small, foil-wrapped candy.

“Thank you.” Tessa took it, peeled back the wrapper, and popped the sweet onto her tongue. The sugar dissolved, chasing away the bitter medicinal aftertaste.

Desmond watched her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Is it sweet enough?”

“It is!” Tessa grinned. She felt a familiar warmth pool in her chest, relishing this small, intimate act of devotion.

Tessa shifted closer, her eyes shining with starry expectation. Tomorrow marked their third wedding anniversary. She had spent the entire week wondering what he had planned. A special dinner? A surprise vacation? Honestly, she did not care if he drove them out to a remote cabin in the woods to start a farm, as long as she got to be by his side.

“What did you want to tell me just now?” she prompted.

Desmond leaned back. The warmth drained from his expression, replaced by a chilling detachment. He stared at the empty space above her shoulder.

“Tessa, we both know we were forced into this marriage three years ago. The elders backed us into a corner.”

The smile froze on Tessa’s lips. She blinked, thrown off balance by the jarring shift in his tone. “Yes. We were. And?”

She had known Desmond since childhood. She harbored a secret, burning crush on him for decades, wishing and praying he would notice her. He never did. He only looked her way when her cousin, Sloane Mercer, abruptly moved overseas, leaving their prominent families scrambling for a replacement to secure the alliance. Tessa had been the convenient substitute. The sacrificial lamb. But over the last three years, she thought they had built something real.

Desmond kept his voice flat. “I remember you told me once that you wanted to marry for love. You wanted a real romance.”

Tessa’s chest tightened. “I did say that.”

“I’m going to set you free,” Desmond stated. “Go and find the person you love. Fall in love. Get married. When you do, I’ll be there to support you as part of your family.”

The air vanished from the room. Tessa stared at him. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. The blood rushed to her ears. “What… What are you saying?”

Desmond refused to meet her gaze. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, extracting a single cigarette. He brought it to his lips, but paused. Remembering she hated the smell of smoke inside the house, he lowered his hand, merely rolling the unlit paper between his fingers.

He looked down at the floor and spoke the words that shattered her world. “Sloane is back.”

Tessa clamped her teeth over the tip of her tongue. The sharp physical pain grounded her.

“My cousin is back,” she repeated, her voice hollow.

“Yes.”

“So? You want a divorce?”

“Our union was a mistake in the first place.” Desmond’s grip on the cigarette tightened, slightly crushing the paper. “You know Sloane and I grew up together. I want everything to return to how it was supposed to be.”

Tessa swallowed hard. What about the last three years? He had played the part of the perfect husband. He held her when she cried, he laughed with her over breakfast. Was he just acting?

“Tessa, I hope you can allow us to become whole.” Desmond finally lifted his head and met her eyes.

A crushing wave of panic crashed into her ribs. The tears clawed at the back of her throat, thick and suffocating. If she stayed on this sofa for one more second, she would fall apart.

“I’m having a stomachache,” she blurted out, springing to her feet. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Alright. We can continue when you’re done.”

Tessa scrambled across the polished floor, her footsteps erratic, and threw herself into the downstairs bathroom. She slammed the heavy oak door shut and twisted the lock.

Her trembling hands reached for the polished chrome faucet. She cranked it to maximum pressure. Water blasted into the porcelain sink, the loud rushing sound masking the ragged sob that ripped from her throat.

She sagged against the vanity, burying her face in her hands. Tears streamed through her fingers. She wept, gasping for air, her mind agonizing over the life she thought she had.

They had been happy. They woke up tangled in the same bed sheets. They read books together on rainy Sunday afternoons. They lived and loved like a normal, deeply passionate couple.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She remembered the heat of his skin, the heavy weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. She remembered the rigid thickness of his cock sliding deep inside her vagina, the wet sounds of their bodies slapping together, his ragged breaths against her neck as he fucked her. How could a man fuck a woman with such intense passion if he felt nothing? If there was no love in his heart? She could never spread her legs for a man she didn't care for. So did he love her even a little? Or had he just been using her body to pass the time until his true love returned?

She turned on the cold water, cupping it in her hands, and splashed her flushed, tear-stained face.

She had loved him in secret for decades. She was just a country girl compared to Sloane Mercer—a blue-blooded socialite, an accomplished pianist, the woman who truly belonged by Desmond’s side.

Tessa grabbed a towel and patted her skin dry. She forced herself to swallow the agony. She had to pack away her decades of devotion. She had to give him what he wanted.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Tessa unlocked the bathroom door and walked back out to the living room.

This time, she bypassed the cushion next to him. She chose a single armchair on the opposite side of the glass coffee table, physically manifesting the new distance between them.

Desmond tossed the mangled, unlit cigarette into the trash bin. He rested his elbows on his knees. “Tessa, I told you this three years ago. Once we sign the divorce papers, we won’t interfere with each other’s affairs anymore—”

“I agree to it.” Her voice sliced through his sentence, sharp and decisive.

Desmond paused, caught off guard by her swift capitulation.

Tessa kept her gaze fixed on the corner of the rug. She resolved to bury her love and step aside for Sloane. A twisted, grim sense of relief washed over her. For two years she had choked down that black, bitter sludge, praying for a baby. Thank God she was barren. Thank God her clinical infertility meant she hadn’t brought an innocent child into her impending tragedy. She could not imagine the horror of a child watching their father abandon them to run back to his childhood sweetheart.

Desmond leaned forward, his brow furrowing as he studied her face. He noted the slight puffiness around her eyelids, the redness staining the whites of her eyes. He frowned, his habitual protective instinct flaring up.

“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s just a stomachache.” Tessa offered the flimsy excuse, refusing to look him in the eye. “I’m going to be fine after taking some medicine.”

Desmond stood up. In two long strides, he crossed the space between them. His large hand shot out, clamping tightly around her delicate wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding.

“Let’s go,” he commanded.

Tessa flinched, trying to pull her arm back, but his fingers were like iron bands. “Where to?”

“To the doctor’s.”

“There’s no need for that!” Panic flared in her chest. “It’s just something minor.”

“A lot of minor illnesses turn serious because people ignore them,” Desmond insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. He tugged her toward the front door. “We can’t delay.”

Minutes later, Tessa found herself trapped in the passenger seat of Desmond’s sedan. The engine hummed as they sped down the paved road leading away from the sprawling Carlisle estate.

Tessa sat rigidly still. She kept her posture stiff, her head turned sharply to the right. She fixed her eyes on the blur of passing trees, streetlights, and buildings outside the window. She did not dare blink.

The silence inside the cabin was thick, heavy with all the unsaid words hanging between them. Desmond drove with one hand on the steering wheel, his presence beside her a suffocating reminder of everything she was about to lose.

She was terrified. Her heart hammered against her ribs in a frantic, desperate rhythm. She knew that if she turned her head—if she let herself look at his sharp jawline, his dark hair, those hands that had held her every night for three years—the fragile dam holding her emotions back would break. The carefully constructed wall of resolve would turn to dust.

She dug her fingernails into the fabric of her jeans, fighting a brutal internal battle. She could not make eye contact. If she looked at the man sitting beside her, she knew she would fall apart. She would throw away every ounce of her dignity, break down sobbing, and pathetically beg him not to leave her.