Chapter 4 The Tender Trap

Lila POV

The emerald silk dress clung to my curves like liquid starlight, its deep neckline and elegant cut transforming me from the understated wife Marcus had grown accustomed to into something that stopped him mid-sentence when I descended the stairs. The fabric caught the warm light of our home's chandelier, casting an ethereal glow across my pale skin.

"Jesus, Lila." His voice came out rougher than intended. "You look..."

"Like your wife?" I smiled, a practiced curve of lips that didn't reach my eyes. The diamond earrings—a third anniversary gift when he still pretended to care—caught the light as I tilted my head. "I thought we should dress up tonight. It's been too long since we've had a proper evening together."

Marcus set down his scotch, his predatory gaze following the line of my dress. "You're stunning. Absolutely stunning."

The restaurant was everything I'd hoped—intimate lighting, private corner booth, expensive wine that loosened tongues and lowered guards. Marcus couldn't stop staring at me across the table, his usual confident demeanor replaced by something almost boyish.

"Remember our first date?" he asked after the waiter had poured our second bottle of Bordeaux. The alcohol had brought color to his cheeks and a nostalgic gleam to his dark eyes. "You wore that little black dress, and I was so nervous I knocked over the wine glass."

Despite myself, despite everything I knew, I felt my throat tighten. "The maître d' was so angry. You tipped him fifty dollars to get us a new table."

"I would have tipped him everything I had." Marcus reached across the table, his fingers finding mine. "You were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Still are."

The sincerity in his voice was like a knife twisting. How could he sound so genuine? How could he look at me with such tenderness while another woman carried his child?

"Do you remember what you said that night?" His thumb traced circles on my hand. "When I walked you to your door?"

I remembered. Of course I remembered. "I think I'm going to marry you someday," he'd whispered against my hair, and I'd laughed it off as wine talk. But he'd been serious. We both knew it even then.

"You said you'd never felt anything like that before," I whispered, my voice catching despite my best efforts. "That you didn't believe in love at first sight until you met me."

"I meant every word." His grip tightened. "God, Lila, I still mean it. These past few weeks, watching you—you've been so beautiful, so present. It's like falling in love all over again."

The tears came before I could stop them. Hot, traitorous tears that spilled down my cheeks despite every rational thought screaming at me to maintain control. Because somewhere, buried beneath layers of betrayal and calculated revenge, that twenty-six-year-old girl who'd believed in fairy tales still lived. And she was mourning what we'd lost.

"Hey, hey." Marcus was around the table in an instant, sliding into the booth beside me. Strong arms pulled me against his chest, and I breathed in the familiar scent of his cologne—cedar and bergamot, the same one he'd worn on our wedding day. "What's wrong, sweetheart? Talk to me."

I know about Vera. I know about the baby. I know you call me your 'singing wife' like I'm some trained pet.

"I just—" I let myself lean into him, let my voice break just enough to sell the performance. "I've been thinking about us lately. About our future. About children..."

I felt him stiffen slightly, and it took every ounce of my acting ability not to pull away in disgust.

As we left the restaurant, Marcus's hand warm and possessive on the small of my back, he signaled our driver. "Let's stop by the wine bar on Fifth. I want to celebrate properly."

"Marcus, you've already had quite a bit—"

"Come on, beautiful. It's not every day my wife looks like a goddess and wants to plan our future together." He pulled me close, his words slightly slurred. "One more drink. For us."

An hour later, I watched Marcus stumble through our front door, the expensive Bordeaux from dinner mixing badly with the whiskey shots he'd insisted on at the bar. His usually perfect posture had dissolved into loose-limbed movements, his sharp grey eyes now glassy and unfocused.

"You're incredible," he mumbled, pulling me against him in the foyer. "So fucking beautiful. How did I get so lucky?"

"Let's get you some water," I said gently, guiding him toward his study. "And maybe we should look at those papers while you're in such a good mood."

"Papers?" He blinked slowly, trying to focus. "Right, the... the trust thing. David's paperwork."

Perfect. The alcohol had made him compliant, suggestible. I helped him into his leather chair, noting how his expensive suit was now wrinkled, his perfect facade cracking just like our marriage.

"Just a few signatures," I said, placing the documents in front of him. Not trust papers—divorce papers. Clean, simple, and heavily weighted in my favor thanks to careful legal consultation. "Right here, sweetheart. And here."

Marcus squinted at the pages, his hand moving unsteadily as he signed his name with practiced muscle memory. The same signature that had closed million-dollar deals was now signing away his claim to our shared assets, granting me significant financial protection while I waived any future support.

"There," he slurred, dropping the pen. "All official. My beautiful wife, protected forever."

I collected the papers, my hands steady despite the adrenaline. "That's right, Marcus. Forever."

As he passed out in his chair, I quietly filed the signed divorce agreement in our safe. Tomorrow, I would have the documents notarized and filed. But tonight, I had exactly what I needed.

The emerald dress rustled as I turned off the lights, leaving my soon-to-be ex-husband sleeping in the darkness of his own making.