Secretly Married for 4 Years, He Regrets to Tears After the Divorce-Chapter 5: Impossible to Divorce

Adrian left the club and had Isla Griffith’s address pulled up within minutes. His driver sped across the city.

"President Lancaster, we’ve arrived."

Adrian stepped out, expression arctic, presence suffocating. He looked nothing like a man who’d been drinking for hours.

He entered the elevator alone and watched the floor numbers climb. His reflection stared back at him from the polished steel doors—jaw set, eyes glacial.

Tonight, I’m bringing her home. No more games.

DING. The doors opened.

He stepped out and stopped in front of Isla Griffith’s apartment, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the hallway light.

He raised his hand to knock.

His phone rang.

The caller ID stopped him cold.

He answered immediately.

"Adrian..." Maya Marshall’s voice came through—thin, trembling, laced with tears. "My stomach hurts so much. I think something’s wrong."

Adrian’s hand dropped from the door. His body was already turning before his mind caught up.

"Hang on. I’m coming."

He was in the elevator before the call even ended, Isla Griffith’s door untouched. The mission of collecting his wife—forgotten, discarded, instantly deprioritized the moment Maya Marshall’s voice entered his ear.

He didn’t even notice the irony.

The next morning.

Wren’s attending physician cleared her for discharge. A week of recovery had done its work—the color was back in her face, and she could walk without wincing.

Isla had a last-minute work emergency, so she’d sent her housekeeper, Auntie Faye, in her place.

"Sweetie, I’m so sorry," Isla said over the phone, audibly rushing between locations. "I’m completely stuck."

"It’s fine. Focus on your work. The discharge papers are done."

"If you don’t want to go back to that cursed Lancaster house, come straight to mine."

"I have to go back first. I need to pack."

"Alright. Your call. Talk later—I’ve got to run."

Wren hung up. Auntie Faye had already gathered her things.

"Ready, Miss Sutton? I’ll take you home."

"Thank you, Auntie Faye."

They took the elevator down. When it stopped at the emergency floor, the doors slid open—and Wren’s breath caught.

A man and a woman stood waiting. The woman was leaning against the man’s chest like something fragile and precious. He had one arm around her shoulders and the other holding her hand, his head bent toward hers with careful attentiveness.

Adrian. And Maya Marshall.

The coincidence was almost laughable. Of all the floors, in all the elevators, on the one morning she was finally leaving.

A dull ache pulsed through Wren’s chest—brief, familiar, and then gone. Replaced by something colder and cleaner.

She reached into her purse, pulled out a pair of sunglasses, and put them on.

Adrian looked up. His pupils contracted.

"Wren? What are you doing at the hospital?"

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at him.

Maya Marshall followed his gaze. The instant her eyes landed on Wren’s face, a flicker of triumph—sharp and quick—darted through her expression before being smothered by a mask of sweet fragility.

"Wren." Her voice was spun sugar. "Long time no see. I’ve missed you so much."

Wren’s face was stone. "We’re not close."

Maya’s eyes widened. She bit her lower lip, the picture of wounded innocence. "I know you have the wrong idea, but it’s not what you think. My stomach was hurting last night, and I—"

"Your stomach hurt, so you called another woman’s husband." Wren’s voice was flat. Clinical. "Did everyone in the Marshall family die? Is there no one else who can take you to a hospital?"

Maya stared. Behind the injured-doe expression, something vicious flickered.

In her memory, Wren Sutton was a doormat. Meek, silent, pathetically easy to steamroll. When had she grown teeth?

Does she think marrying into the Lancaster family gives her a spine? That she can talk to me like this?

Maya recovered quickly, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "My family is overseas, so I had no choice but to call Adrian. It’s my fault. Please—don’t blame him."

"Spare me." Wren didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. "Every word out of your mouth makes me want to throw up."

Maya fell silent. Her head dipped. Right on cue, tears welled in her eyes.

The performance was masterful—engineered to make Wren look cruel and Maya look victimized, to trigger any man’s protective instinct.

It worked.

"Wren Sutton." Adrian’s voice was a whip crack. "What the hell is your problem?"

Wren turned her gaze to him for the first time. Behind the sunglasses, her eyes were calm—terrifyingly calm.

"The attitude one should have toward a homewrecker."

Adrian’s face went dark. "She is not a homewrecker."

"Then what is she, Adrian?" Wren tilted her head. "Your lawful wife?"

His jaw locked. No answer came.

DING. Ground floor.

Wren turned and walked out of the elevator. Steady. Unhurried. The click of her heels on tile was the only sound in the lobby.

She’d made it four steps when a hand seized her wrist—hard enough to bruise.

"You still haven’t answered me." Adrian’s voice was low, dangerous. "Why were you at the hospital?"

Wren looked down at his grip, then up at his face. At the anger there. At the suspicion. At the complete, breathtaking absence of concern.

Not "Are you okay?" Not "What happened?" Not "Why didn’t you tell me?"

Just: Why were you here? As if she’d been caught somewhere she didn’t belong.

She pulled her wrist free with a sharp twist.

"Ask your secretary," she said. "She knows everything about my schedule. Apparently better than my own husband does."