Secretly Married for 4 Years, He Regrets to Tears After the Divorce Chapter 1: My Husband’s White Moonlight Is Back

Editor: Henyee Translations

In four years of marriage, this was the first ti Adrian Lancaster hadn’t used protection.

Wren Sutton noticed it the instant he entered her—raw, bare, nothing between them. Her breath caught, fingers twisting into the sheets.

Every single ti before this, without exception, he had used a condom. She’d stopped asking why after the first year. The answer had always been written on his face: he didn’t want anything permanent tying him to her.

But tonight was different.

He’d co ho with liquor on his breath and sothing restless behind his eyes. She hadn’t even finished blow-drying her hair before he was behind her—hands gripping her waist, mouth dragging hot and open down the curve of her neck.

"Adrian, my hair’s still—"

He didn’t let her finish.

He lifted her off the vanity stool and carried her to the bed, kissing her hard enough to bruise. His tongue swept past her lips, swallowing whatever protest she’d been forming. One hand found the neckline of her wine-red silk slip and pulled. The fabric tore with a whisper.

Cool air hit her bare chest. She gasped.

He drew back just enough to look—flushed skin, dark hair fanned across white sheets, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each uneven breath. His jaw tightened. His Adam’s apple dipped.

Then his mouth was on her, trailing from her collarbone downward. Teeth grazed. Tongue tasted. He closed his lips around one stiffened peak and sucked—slow, deliberate, almost punishing.

"Ah—"

Her back arched off the mattress. She pressed her thighs together on instinct, but he was already between them, one knee pushing them apart. His hand slid down her stomach, fingers hooking the edge of her underwear and dragging it down with no ceremony.

She was already wet. Embarrassingly, helplessly wet—and he’d barely touched her.

That was the cruelest thing about Adrian Lancaster. He was ice everywhere else—but in bed, he made her body betray every ounce of dignity she had. She hated how much she craved it. Hated that this was the only place he ever made her feel wanted.

His fingers found her first. Two of them, sliding in with practiced ease, curling against the spot that made her vision swim.

"Oh god—Adrian—"

He watched her face while he worked her open. No tenderness in his expression. Just focus. Precision. Like he was mapping which angle made her clench tighter, which rhythm made her moan louder.

Not once did he call her na.

He never did.

When he finally replaced his hand with himself, the stretch made her cry out. Without latex between them, every sensation was magnified—the heat of him, the friction, the way she could feel every ridge and pulse.

He groaned low against her ear. A rare, unguarded sound that sent electricity down her spine.

His pace was relentless. He gripped her hip with one hand and the headboard with the other, driving into her so deep her vision whited out. The bed fra cracked rhythmically against the wall.

"Too—too much—" she whimpered, but her legs locked tighter around his waist, pulling him in. Her nails scored down his back, leaving raised red lines on his skin.

He grabbed both her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand. His hips didn’t slow.

"Take it." Low. Commanding. The only two words he’d spoken since they started.

She shattered. The orgasm tore through her—white-hot, blinding—her inner walls clamping down on him in waves. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, spilling inside her for the first ti in their entire marriage.

For a mont, neither moved.

Wren lay trembling beneath him, sweat-dampened hair clinging to her temples. She could feel him still inside her, softening slowly. Could feel the warmth of what he’d left behind.

She placed a hand on her lower stomach and let herself smile.

He finally wants a child with .

The bathroom faucet turned on. Then off.

Adrian erged wrapped in a towel, not a trace of the man who’d groaned against her neck minutes ago. His face was blank. His eyes were cold. Like soone had flipped a switch and the man who’d just been inside her had ceased to exist.

He walked into the closet and ca back in a tailored charcoal suit, adjusting his cufflinks with chanical precision. The sharp click of his leather shoes on marble sounded like a countdown.

Wren forced herself upright, wincing. The ache between her thighs was sharp—he’d been rougher tonight than usual. Much rougher. The sheet pooled at her waist, leaving her bare from the chest up, his mouth’s work still blooming in red marks across her skin.

"You’re going out? It’s nearly midnight."

Adrian picked up his watch from the nightstand. He didn’t look at her.

"Maya’s back. She’s not feeling well. I told her I’d be there tonight."

The words landed like a blade dropping.

Wren’s smile died on her lips.

Maya Marshall. Adrian’s first love. His white moonlight. The woman who had left the country four years ago—who had rejected his airport proposal, a pigeon-egg diamond, a man on his knees—and still owned every chamber of his heart.

The woman he had never, in four years of marriage to soone else, stopped loving.

"Adrian."

He was already at the door.

"Whatever it is," he said, not turning around, "it can wait until tomorrow."

"Don’t go." She hated how small her voice sounded. How desperate. "Today is our wedding anniversary. Four years."

He paused. Not out of hesitation—out of annoyance.

"It’s a aningless anniversary, Wren."

The words hit her sternum like a fist.

She forced herself to keep going, even as her throat closed. "You and Maya broke up four years ago. I’m your wife. You can’t leave our bed to go to her."

Adrian glanced back. His gaze swept over her—bare shoulders, swollen lips, the lovebites he’d left on her throat twenty minutes ago—and there was nothing in his eyes. No guilt. No conflict. Not even the faintest shadow of the desire that had consud him monts earlier.

"Don’t wait up."

The door closed behind him.

Wren sat frozen in the bed that still slled of sex and him, still feeling the ache he’d left inside her body, and listened to his footsteps recede down the hallway until there was nothing left but silence.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

She pulled the sheet up to her chest and stared at the closed door.

He didn’t call my na. Not once. Not the entire ti.

She didn’t know how long she sat there before the familiar chi of a notification broke the silence.

2:14 AM — Trending Now: [Lancaster heir spotted on late-night rendezvous with rumored first love—are they back together?]

The photo showed Adrian outside a hotel, holding an umbrella over Maya Marshall. She was tucked against his chest, fragile and perfect. His left shoulder was soaked through with rain, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He was looking down at her with an expression Wren had never once—not once in four years—seen directed at herself.

Tenderness. Pure, unguarded tenderness.

So that’s what it looks like, she thought numbly, when he actually loves soone.

She should have closed the app. She didn’t.

She scrolled through four years of Maya’s social dia instead. Every holiday Wren had spent alone, Maya had docunted with Adrian by her side. Christmas in Vienna. New Year’s in Tokyo. Valentine’s Day in Paris. He’d flown halfway around the world, repeatedly, while his own wife sat in their empty penthouse eating takeout on her birthday, pretending it didn’t matter.

In every photo, he looked at Maya the way n look at won in movies—like she was the only person in the fra.

Wren didn’t have a single photo with him. Not one. Their marriage certificate picture was it—where he’d faced the cara with the enthusiasm of a man at the DMV.

DING.

A text from an unknown number.

She opened it, and the floor dropped out from under her.

It was a photo of a dical report. A pregnancy test.

Patient Na: Maya Marshall Result: Positive (6 weeks)

Below the image, one line of text:

[This is Adrian’s baby. You can keep the ring. I’ll take the man.]

Wren read it three tis.

Six weeks.

Maya had been pregnant for six weeks. Which ant Adrian had been sleeping with her well before she returned to the country. Which ant every business trip, every "ergency" that called him away—

Wren looked down at her own body. At the finger-shaped bruises darkening on her hips. At the rawness still throbbing between her thighs.

The realization hit her like ice water.

He didn’t skip the condom because he wanted a baby with .

He skipped it because he couldn’t bear to be rough with Maya—not while she’s carrying his child. He needed an outlet. A body he could use without worrying about consequences.

That’s all I am. That’s all I’ve ever been.

She pressed her palm against her mouth to hold the sound in.

It didn’t work.

The sob ca anyway—ugly, heaving, the kind that cracked her ribs. She curled into the sheets that reeked of him, of sex, of the cruel illusion of intimacy, and cried until her throat was raw.

"Adrian Lancaster," she whispered into the dark, "you absolute bastard."

Four years. Four years of convincing herself that patience and devotion could lt even the coldest heart. That one day he’d look at her the way he looked at Maya—just once—and it would all have been worth it.

What a joke.

She pressed her face into the pillow and scread until she had nothing left.

Then she lay still.

The tears dried. Her breathing evened out. And sothing behind her eyes shifted—quietly, irreversibly—like a door swinging shut on rusted hinges.

I’m done.