Chapter 7 The Forbidden Name
Vera's POV
"What did you just say?" His voice was dangerously low, like the rumble before a storm.
I maintained my composure, sliding the divorce agreement closer to him. "I said I want a divorce. Everything's outlined here—fair and simple. I'm not asking for alimony or any of your assets. Just my freedom."
Idris slammed his cup down, coffee sloshing onto the tablecloth. "Because of yesterday? Because I left to help a sick friend?" His voice escalated with each word. "You're being ridiculous, Vera. This is a massive overreaction."
"Three years, Idris," I said quietly. "I'm tired of pretending. I can't live like this anymore."
His laugh was harsh, scraping against my nerves like fingernails on glass. "How ironic. This marriage was your grandmother's idea. She practically begged my family to accept you. Now you want out?"
I gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows, memories of our three-year marriage washing over me like a cold tide. Idris with different women featured in gossip columns every month—actresses, influencers, even company secretaries. Each time I confronted him, he would deny everything, his PR team immediately releasing statements refuting the "baseless rumors."
Half the Ashford Corporation PR department existed solely to manage his scandals. I'd eventually realized he might be deliberately torturing me—punishing me because he believed my grandmother had separated him from Raven.
I turned back to him, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "This marriage was a mistake. It's time to correct it."
Idris's face darkened to an alarming shade, veins protruding at his temples. He kicked his chair over with such force that it crashed against the floor, the sound reverberating through our spacious dining room like a gunshot.
"Finally dropping the act, aren't you? You regret it now, don't you?" he snarled, looming over me.
I met his gaze unflinchingly. "Yes, I regret marrying you."
With a sweep of his arm, Idris grabbed the divorce papers and tore them violently, shreds fluttering down onto our breakfast like confetti at a funeral. "You want a divorce? Over my dead body."
He stormed out of the dining room, slamming the door hard. Moments later, I heard the roar of his Ferrari as he sped away, leaving me alone with the torn remnants of my freedom scattered across our breakfast table.
I picked up a piece of the torn agreement. Three years of neglect, humiliation, and loneliness had crystallized into this moment. His reaction only confirmed what I already knew: Idris viewed me as a possession, not a partner.
Calmly, I cleared the table, sweeping the torn papers into a neat pile. He could destroy the physical documents, but he couldn't tear apart my resolve.
The mansion was eerily quiet at midnight. I curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a cashmere throw, a fresh copy of the divorce agreement on the glass coffee table before me.
The front door opened with a soft click, and Idris stepped in, his expression hardening when he spotted me still awake. His eyes flickered to the divorce papers, then back to me. The scent of whiskey clung to him.
He removed his suit jacket, draping it over an armchair. "Is this divorce really necessary?" His voice was controlled but strained.
I looked up at him, noting the slight dishevelment of his usually perfect appearance. "Yes."
The tension between us was suffocating.
I stood, walking toward the windows, my reflection against the night sky. "Do you think what we have is a good marriage, Idris?"
Turning to face him, I decided to reveal the truth we'd both avoided. "We've been married for three years, and we've never even had sex."
My mind involuntarily drifted back to our wedding night. Idris's eyes had been dark with desire as he pushed me against the bedroom wall, kissing me hungrily. I'd responded shyly, my hands trembling as I loosened his tie.
When we finally reached the bed, half-undressed with skin against skin, I felt a wave of nervousness wash over me. I gently placed my hands against his chest, creating a small space between us. "I'm a bit nervous," I whispered. "This is my first time. Could we... could we take it slower?"
In that moment, I witnessed the desire in his eyes vanish like a receding tide, replaced by a coldness that chilled me to the bone. "So uptight," he muttered.
Without further explanation or apology, he simply left the room, leaving me alone, confused and ashamed, clutching the sheets around me.
Since that night, he had slept in the guest bedroom for three consecutive years. Once, when I gathered the courage to ask why, he coldly replied, "I don't want to share a bed with someone like you." Those words remained carved into my heart like a knife wound.
My voice quivered slightly. "This marriage is torture for both of us. We're living a lie for the sake of appearances."
Idris averted his gaze, his expression complicated but stubborn. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking rhythmically beneath his skin.
A dangerous smile twisted his lips. "Is that what this is about? Sex?" He began unbuttoning his shirt as he walked toward me, his movements deliberate and threatening. "I can fix that right now."
He moved closer, his intentions clear. When he grabbed my waist, I pushed against his chest. "Idris, stop!"
His grip tightened as he tried to force a kiss, his breath hot against my face. In the struggle, I slapped him hard across the face, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Idris Ashford, you're insane!"
He froze, touching his cheek where a red mark was forming, a cold laugh escaping him. "You knew that already, didn't you?"
I straightened my disheveled blouse, my fear transforming into steely resolve. This moment confirmed what I already knew—divorce was not just an option but a necessity. No marriage should feel like a battlefield.
"Let's get divorced," I said, my voice quiet but firm. Then I spoke the name that had been forbidden in our household for three years: "Andrew wouldn't want to see us like this."
