"Let's get a divorce."

Adrian Whitmore's voice was soft, like a feather falling on a still lake, yet it stirred a tempest in your heart.

With those words left hanging—like a discarded chess piece that had served its purpose—he turned and walked away without a backward glance.

The door closed gently behind him, the muted *click* drowned in the lingering champagne scent from the party in the living room—it all felt so surreal.

Five hours earlier, you had been on the cruise ship's deck, surrounded by envious socialites.

You flicked your wrist, letting the massive pigeon‑egg diamond ring he bought you refract blinding sunlight.

Beside you sat the Hermès Birkin in rare leather, used only twice—another badge of your privileged life. Amidst the hollow flattery, you casually missed at least three of his calls.

You stood frozen in place, your fingertips still tingling with the chill from last night's wine glass.

Divorce? The word hovered in your mind for two seconds before you scoffed and dismissed it.

Instinctively, you reached for your phone, ready to share this absurd "joke" with your father—the city's biggest real estate tycoon, your eternal pillar of confidence.

You were certain that with just one call from your dad, no matter what tantrum Adrian Whitmore was throwing, he'd come crawling back to apologize.

After all, when you married, he had just been an obscure junior lawyer, while you were the celebrated real estate heiress.

Everyone called your marriage a "downgrade," and you had always worn that label with pride.

This pride kept you perpetually on the high ground in your relationship. You often threatened him, "Don't make me divorce you," and each time, he would simply gaze at you quietly, his eyes brimming with unwavering certainty and sincerity. He'd say, "I'll treat you well—better than anyone ever could, for a lifetime."

You often feel that when he looks at you with such focus, even the air becomes still and tender.

You're certain he loves you—enough to embrace everything about you.

So his current behavior is just another boring act to get your attention.

You sneer and toss your phone back onto the couch. You recall it's been two full weeks since you last saw each other.

It started when you went out partying at night. He searched for you all night and finally found you, drunk and passed out, at a friend's place.

On the way home, he remained uncharacteristically silent the entire time.

That silence irritated you more than any scolding could—like a lump of cotton clogging your chest.

So you seized the moment to pick a fight—no, to be precise, you lashed out at him hysterically while he didn't utter a single harsh word from start to finish.

Fed up with what you called his nagging, you simply moved out for two weeks.

He's making such a fuss now simply to make you yield. Think about it—after cooling off for a couple of days, he'll come back to coax you, just like countless times before.

The next day, you lie on your six‑figure mattress until the sun is high, but the familiar figure never walks into the room to gently wake you for breakfast.

Two years ago, he became a partner at the law firm. Though visibly busier than ever, he still insisted on making breakfast for you every day.

You loved watching him in his crisp white shirt, sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms, revealing those firm, beautiful lines of his arms as he cooked for you in the morning light.

That refined yet sexy look carried the charm of a particularly dependable, mature man.

The dishes he made were just like him—seemingly simple, yet gentle and nuanced, always soothing your stomach.

After two weeks without them, your stomach actually aches with a faint sense of longing.

But you immediately suppress this ridiculous emotion. "You shouldn't care," you tell yourself. "What delicacies can't you have? With over a dozen restaurants under your family's name, can't they compare to a dish he made?"

Talking about "a lifetime" is pure bullshit.

You drive off in that latest limited‑edition Aston Martin Valkyrie LM, flooring it to your family's restaurant. Only ten of these cars exist worldwide—back then, you had to have it, and Adrian pulled countless strings to get it for you. You used to cherish it dearly, but now you just find the ground clearance annoyingly low, scraping the front lip on slightly uneven roads. You've already decided to replace it in a few days—just a piece of junk anyway.

You have the chef prepare a lavish spread, a dazzling array of dishes, and invite a bunch of your usual party‑going friends.

Amid the clinking glasses and boisterous chatter, your phone pings with a notification.

It's from his assistant David, written in Adrian's characteristic businesslike tone: "Mrs. Whitmore, Mr. Whitmore asked me to remind you about the civil registry appointment on Friday. He has prepared all the necessary documents."

The smile freezes on your lips before twisting into a sneer. You flip the phone face down and slam it onto the table, not even bothering to reply.

"Who pissed off our precious princess this time?" a friend leans in with a teasing grin.

"Someone who doesn't know what's good for him." You grab a beer bottle and take an aggressive swig.

"Who is it? Name them, and the boys will teach them a lesson."

"Why bother mentioning trash?" You bang your glass down. "Drink!"

The beer mixed with some liquor hits hard, and you're soon tipsy.

As you sway slightly, you imagine Adrian frowning at you—he'd definitely nag about daytime drinking being unhealthy, blah blah blah—until your ears grow calluses from his lectures.

The mere thought of being disciplined by him gives you an inexplicable, almost morbid sense of satisfaction.

"Wait here, stop drinking—I'm calling your husband to pick you up," your friend says disapprovingly as she picks up her phone.

You mumble a slurred protest: "Don't call him... don't wanna see him."

But the call has already gone through. "Hey, Adrian, it's me. Cherry's drunk—could you come get her? Yeah, at Warmhill Restaurant."

You can't hear the response clearly, no matter how hard you strain your ears. You only see your friend's face turn pale, then flush with embarrassment before she abruptly hangs up.

"What did he say?" you ask, frowning.

"He said... he's a bit busy and told us to take you home," your friend replies hesitantly. "Also, he mentioned he's going on a business trip for a few days. Said to contact his assistant if needed and... for you to take care of yourself."

The air in the private room seems to freeze for a moment. For the first time, in front of your friends, you've been humiliated.

Adrian Whitmore actually dared to reject you so bluntly in front of outsiders.

You feel inexplicably irritated, then suddenly laugh at your own frustration.

Was it worth getting angry over him? Who did he think he was? What right did he have to upset you? If he wouldn't drive you home, so what? Were you short of people willing to escort you? Just crook your finger, and there'd be a line of suitors vying for the chance.

"Are you two okay?" your friend asks cautiously, eyeing your expression.

You wave a hand dismissively, your voice several decibels louder than usual. "What could possibly be wrong? Isn't this just his personality? A stuffy gourd, suffocatingly reticent—I can't be bothered with him."

"Seriously?" Another friend lowers their voice and leans in. "Sis, don't say I didn't warn you. Your Mr. Whitmore isn't the same poor guy from back then—he's now the youngest partner at Whitmore & Co., ridiculously handsome, and his win rate is through the roof. He's practically untouchable! Remember that life‑or‑death case he just won for your dad? My dad said if it weren't for him, your dad would've been in deep trouble. And let me tell you, the line of people—men and women alike—trying to get close to him stretches from his office all the way to the Huangpu River."

A sharp, inexplicable irritation pricks at your heart, like a needle jabbing into you.

You grab a glass of white liquor, take a fierce swig to suppress the discomfort, then abruptly stand up. "This is boring. I'm out."

Sliding into the driver's seat of your sports car, the more you think about it, the more indignant you feel. You can't stand this loss of control.

You don't even bother calling your driver. Instead, you immediately dial Adrian Whitmore's number.

The phone rings for three seconds before being answered. The voice on the other end remains gentle and deep, sounding especially pleasant through the receiver. "What's wrong?"

Hearing this familiar voice, a surge of bitterness and overwhelming grievance rushes up in you, and you demand without hesitation, "Come pick me up."

There's a pause on the other end, as if he's taken aback. "Where are your friends?"

"They've all been drinking—they can't drive," you lie without batting an eye.

"Then I'll call a driver for you," he replies calmly, entirely unaffected by your mood.

Your temper flares instantly. "Adrian Whitmore!"

His voice remains maddeningly composed, as if discussing something entirely unrelated to him. "What is it?"

"If you don't come, I'm not leaving today!" You resort to your tried‑and‑true tactic—knowing full well he can't stand your stubbornness, fearing something might happen to you outside.

The sound of rustling papers comes from his end, followed by a trace of genuine exhaustion you've never heard before in his voice. "I'm about to board a plane—there's no time. I'll arrange a driver for you. He'll take you home safely."

The fire in your heart flares up completely, leaving you both miserable and furious.

You feel like a clown who has exhausted every trick in the book, only for the audience not to spare you a single glance.

Before slamming the phone down, you hurl one last remark. "Adrian Whitmore, I mean what I say. You'd better think carefully!"

You slump over the cold steering wheel, your stomach churning. After rubbing your belly for a while, a few involuntary tears of frustration escape the corners of your eyes.

In the past, no matter how late it was, he would insist on picking you up whenever you got drunk. If you refused, he'd wait downstairs until you were done having your fun.

Back then, you saw it as restraint and hated how he controlled you. But now, looking back, that very restraint had made you feel utterly secure.

You've been slumped over for half an hour when you lift your head and spot a familiar car pulling to a stop not far away.

Adrian steps out of the car, clad in a simple trench coat, his figure tall and straight as he crosses the street toward you.

The irritation and resentment in your heart instantly melt away, replaced by a twisted, triumphant thrill.

A smug smile creeps onto your lips—you even feel like laughing out loud. See? No matter how angry he gets, he still has to obediently listen to you in the end.

He approaches, opens your car door, and as always, his dark eyes find yours first, reflecting your somewhat disheveled appearance. His brow furrows slightly. "Are you alright?"

So he *does* care about you the moment he arrives—what was all that posturing about on the phone? Deliberately curling your lips, you reply in the most taunting tone, "Never better. Drank myself *real* good."

He studies you in silence for two seconds, then climbs into the driver's seat and starts the car.

You gaze at his profile as he drives—his slender fingers, prominent veins, gripping the steering wheel with effortless poise, exuding an air of quiet authority.

Suddenly, you recall how he sometimes uses that very hand to pin your wrists firmly against the bed, and then... The mere thought of his touch sends your mind wandering.

As your thoughts drift, he speaks, his tone indifferent. "Don't drink like this again. It's barely noon."

You lift your chin defiantly, triumphantly. "Weren't you the one who wanted a divorce? Why bother with me now?"

Adrian falls silent. The air in the car seems to freeze. Just as you assume he won't respond, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he utters five icy words, each one striking your heart like a hammer.

"This is the last time."

Your stomach lurches violently at his words. A surge of resentment and unprecedented panic grips your heart without warning.

This time, you can't even force a smile.

He Left Before I Learned to Love Him — Chapter 7

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