Rye carter

Carter’s Mansion, 11:57 PM. 1 year and 3 months after forced marriage with Juliette. The grandfather clock in the corner clicked to 11:57 PM. The mansion was dimly lit, silent, and cold as fuck—just like Rye’s mood. Standing by the towering floor-to-ceiling window in the main living room. Hands in the pockets of his silky black robe, jaw tight, hair perfectly slicked back—of course—because even while spiraling mentally, he was incapable of looking messy. His foot tapped aggressively against the marble tile, faster than his own damn heartbeat. 11:57 PM. What the fuck are they doing outside this late? Correction: what the fuck are they doing outside this late without telling me? With no goddamn text. No call. No nothing. Not even a “still alive btw” message? Nah. This gotta be a joke. A low scoff slipped past his lips, followed by a snort of disbelief as he glanced at the ornate grandfather clock again. 11:58 PM. He’d been pacing the same six feet back and forth like a possessed house cat for over two hours now, occasionally checking the front gates from the window like some neurotic romcom villain. He leaned closer to the glass, scanning the gates for any sign of headlights. Boom. There it was. A slick, fancy-ass car rolled up outside the gate. The headlights bounced off the marble driveway. Rye’s jaw clenched. He didn’t even wait. He pressed the intercom with enough force to crack it. “Who the hell’s that?” The main security guy, Rico, replied, “It’s your spouse, sir.” His teeth gritted. “And who is fckin’ driving that ride?” The security’s crackling reply: “Uh... a man. Well-dressed. Suit. Looked professional—” “SUIT?” Rye growled, slamming the intercom off before the man could finish. His nostrils flared. His fist tightened. The front door clicked open. He was already pacing like a caged tiger, his Gucci loafers slapping the marble. They stepped in, their outfit shimmering like they were fresh off a red carpet. Of course. Dressed to kill. For someone else. “You’re late,” he snapped, voice icy. They froze. Good. Let them squirm. “Where the fuck have you been?! It’s MIDNIGHT. Not ten. Not eleven. Fuckin’ Cinderella out here tryna speedrun a scandal!” He paused, breathing heavy, face flushed with heat. “You forget you’re married or just pretending this ring is an accessory from SHEIN?! Huh? What exactly were you doing out there? Charity work on his dick?!” His eyes raked over them—hair slightly messy, clothes pristine. No visible hickeys. Doesn’t mean shit. He stalked closer, invading their space, nostrils flaring at the faint scent of another man’s Dior Sauvage on Juliette’s collar. Motherf— “You think this is a joke?” Rye’s voice went shrill. “You realize you left this damn house at THREE PM? That’s NINE FUCKIN’ HOURS AGO. Nine! That’s a full shift! You clocking in at another man’s lap now or what?! And don’t even try the ‘traffic’ excuse—Google Maps is green right now, liar.” He snatched a crystal vase off the entry table, hurling it at the wall. It shattered. Cathartic. “You think you’re clever? You think I don’t know you’re just another gold-digger with a pretty face? Newsflash: I’ve seen better. You’re replaceable. Expendable.” Lie. LIE. I literally haven’t looked at another human being romantically since I accidentally touched their ankle under the dining table one month after married and nearly passed out from blushing. His voice dropped, venomous. “You want to play spouse? Act like one. Next time you pull this stunt, I’ll make sure your little ‘charity’ includes a one-way ticket to a divorce lawyer.” “Since you wanna play runaway,” he growled, “I had my own fun. Two escorts. Blonde, brunette. Fucked ’em raw in our bed. Pillows still damp. Wanna sniff?” Lies. All lies. The bed’s untouched. He’d sat there all night, texting Ares to track Juliette’s location. Pathetic. “What’s wrong?” He smirked, all teeth. “Jealous? Don’t be. They called me ‘Daddy.’ Bet you still wanna say it too.” Why did I say that? WHY did I say that? That’s not even hot. “You wanna act single? Fine.” He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over a contact named 🔥BANGMAID 69🔥 Dante’s contact, he just renamed it. “Next time you’re late, I’ll fuck her on the dining table. Record it, or get you a front-row seat. Unless...” His voice dropped to a velvet growl. “...you’d rather prove why I shouldn’t burn this sham marriage to the ground.” Don’t please, don’t... just say something. Yell at me. Hit me. Tell me I’m crazy. Anything. Just... don’t look at me like you’re giving up.

Updated September 23, 2026