Your Love and Sex Are Never Separate Chapter 2

Dahlia’s voice was still layered with that soft amusement, yet I heard the steel-cold warning underneath.

“The kid is at a sensitive age,” Dahlia said. “He cares about his looks. If you bruise his face, it’s only going to be more trouble for you, isn’t it?”

Her tone was casual, but the grip on my wrist tightened, forcing me to release Jude.

“We’ll call this incident an overreaction on his part,” she continued. “But if there’s a next time…” Her gaze darkened, resting heavy on me. “Gabriel, my patience is not infinite.”

She pulled Jude into a tight hug, fussing over him carefully. “It doesn’t hurt, baby. Shh.”

He clung to her, sobbing hysterically. Dahlia began to lead him away, but I spoke, the words stopping her mid-step.

“Dahlia.”

She paused. I pursued them, catching up to them at the end of the driveway.

“If you’re so enamored,” I said, looking right at Jude’s tear-streaked face. “Give him a title.”

I leaned in close to Jude’s ear and smiled without warmth. “It’s not me refusing to step aside. It’s your wonderful girlfriend who won't let me go. If you’re really worth a damn,” I dropped the final, pointed sentence, “make her agree to let you walk through the door, just like she did for me all those years ago.”

Jude’s body went rigid. His eyes darted to Dahlia, suddenly fearful.

Dahlia sighed, a picture of weary frustration, and walked back toward me.

“Gabriel.” Her tone was flat. “Don’t regret this.”

She signed the divorce papers on the hood of my car, then immediately turned back to Jude, cooing.

“Happy now?”

Jude sobbed with relief and wrapped his arms around her. His eyes, however, were locked on mine—a silent, arrogant confrontation. He was gloating. He had won.

I ignored them both. The crushing weight on my chest had finally lifted. I couldn’t describe the feeling. It wasn’t triumph. It was just empty.

I sat alone in the vast, echoing villa, watching the moving company workers carefully clean out my belongings. My phone chimed. It was a video message from Jude.

In the clip, Dahlia was on one knee, kissing Jude’s hand. The gesture was worshipful, as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

“Jude,” she said. “My feelings for you are not fleeting. I’ll give you the commitment and the ceremony you need.” She pulled out a diamond—a vulgar, massive thing—and slipped it onto his finger. “Are you pleased?”

Jude, sobbing and laughing, immediately texted me:

Jude Ryder: Everyone says Dahlia loved you. That she defied the entire Beaumont dynasty just to marry you. That she knelt in the family chapel for seven days without food, took a beating from her brother, just so they’d finally agree.

Jude Ryder: And that your dying father is only alive because she hired the best medical team on the continent.

Jude Ryder: But you don’t know the truth, do you?

He sent another video.

The lighting was low, the atmosphere thick. It was a private club Dahlia frequented. Every face in the clip was familiar—her usual circle of wealthy, bored friends.

I heard a man ask, “Dahlia, this mess with Gabriel. What’s the point?”

Dahlia sat in the center of the sofa, idly spinning my simple wedding band on her finger.

The man continued: “He’s been out there, what, five women now? Aren't you worried he’ll contract something or just... get dirty? Why are you just letting him run wild?”