His Lover's Dawn, My Cold Floor

For three years, my estranged husband, Dayton Cole, paraded his childhood sweetheart around while I upheld our billion-dollar family merger. His latest hotel scandal splashed across the news, and I was once again called to clean up his mess, playing the part of the devoted wife.

But this time was different. My best friend handed me divorce papers, urging me to finally choose myself. Yet, Dayton cornered me, using my family's ambitions as leverage. He demanded I maintain our charade for three more months-a performance that included sharing his bed.

He'd humiliate me, calling me a tool for his family's image, then turn around and whisper that I was a beautiful woman he couldn't let go of. His jealousy flared when another man showed me kindness, yet he spent his nights rushing to his lover's side.

The ultimate degradation came when he forced me to sleep on the floor of our shared room at his family's estate, declaring he had no desire for a wife who didn't want him.

But in the dead of night, as I shivered on the cold floor, I felt his arms wrap around me, his lips brush my temple in a secret, tender gesture.

I woke up alone, the warmth gone. A quick check of social media showed a new post from his sweetheart, thanking her "quiet strength" for being there at sunrise.

That was the moment everything snapped. The game was over. He could have his fragile flower. I was taking back my life.

Chapter 1

Alyssa York POV:

The phone call hit me like a physical blow, even though I' d been expecting it for three years. It was Jerald Cole, Dayton' s grandfather, and his voice, usually calm and commanding, was sharp with barely suppressed fury. "Alyssa, you need to fix this. Now."

I stared at the news headline flashing across my tablet screen, the image of Dayton Cole, my estranged husband, with Kristin Goodwin, his childhood sweetheart, plastered everywhere. "Tech CEO Dayton Cole Caught in Hotel Scandal with Aspiring Actress." The words burned, not with jealousy, but with a familiar, dull ache of public humiliation. We had been separated for three years, living in different cities, but the world still saw me as Mrs. Cole. His scandal was, by default, my scandal. Our companies, the York family's architectural firm and the sprawling Cole tech empire, were in the midst of a billion-dollar joint venture. This PR nightmare threatened to derail everything.

"I understand, Grandfather," I said, my voice flat, a practiced calm I' d perfected over years of navigating this family's expectations.

My hands, however, were not so steady. They trembled slightly as I scrolled past comments, each one a fresh stab. "Poor Mrs. Cole," "She must be devastated," "Dayton always had a soft spot for Kristin." Each word a public carving of my private grief. I saw Kristin' s face in the blurry night-shot, her delicate features and wide, innocent eyes seemingly tear-filled, clinging to Dayton' s arm. She was always the damsel in distress, and Dayton, always her knight.

"I'll be there," I promised, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. Duty. Always duty.

The ride to the discreet boutique hotel, a place Dayton favored for its privacy, felt endless. Each red light was a pause, a moment to brace myself. My heart was a drum against my ribs, a frantic rhythm against my will. I rehearsed my lines, the calm, collected architect, the understanding wife. The façade felt thinner with every mile.

When I stepped into the hotel suite, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the unspoken tension of a thousand arguments. Dayton stood by the window, his back to me, the city lights a blur behind him. Kristin was huddled on a plush sofa, a delicate white shawl draped around her, looking fragile, her eyes red-rimmed. She sniffled, a tiny, almost inaudible sound that somehow filled the vast room.

It was a familiar scene, one I had witnessed countless times in the ghost of our marriage. Kristin, the victim. Dayton, the protector. And me, the outsider, always the last to arrive.

Dayton turned, his eyes, usually sharp and intense, were clouded with a weariness that made him seem older. But when his gaze landed on me, it was cold, dismissive. "You're here," he stated, not a question, no warmth. "Grandfather called, I assume?"

"He did," I replied, my voice steady, betraying none of the raw pain that clawed at my throat. "He's concerned about the merger. The headlines aren't helping."

Kristin looked up, her lower lip trembling. "Alyssa, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. Dayton was just helping me after... after I had a bad episode. The paparazzi, they just came out of nowhere." Her voice was a soft whisper, laced with an almost childish vulnerability. She played her role perfectly.

"I understand," I said, my gaze sweeping over her, taking in her carefully mussed hair, the tear tracks on her cheeks that weren't quite dry. "This can be managed." I looked at Dayton, meeting his unreadable eyes. "The best course of action is to issue a joint statement. A show of solidarity. We' ll say that the photos are misleading, that you were merely assisting a long-time family friend in distress. We' ll emphasize our commitment to our marriage and the merger."

Kristin' s head snapped up. "Our marriage?" she whispered, her eyes wide with feigned shock.

"It's the most effective way to dispel the rumors and protect both families' interests," I answered, my voice firm, ignoring the faint tremor in my hands. It was a business transaction, a public performance. What else was our marriage, after all?

Kristin lowered her gaze, her shoulders shaking slightly. "If that's what's best," she murmured, her voice barely audible. She rose slowly, her movements delicate, as if any sudden motion might shatter her. "I should go then. I don't want to cause any more trouble." She cast a mournful glance at Dayton, a silent plea for him to stop her.

Dayton, predictably, stepped forward. "I'll arrange a car for you, Kristin. And make sure the doctor checks on you tomorrow." His voice was soft, laced with a concern he never offered me, even when I was at my lowest. It was that tenderness, reserved only for her, that twisted the knife in my gut every single time.

I watched her leave, her fragile silhouette disappearing through the door. A familiar bitterness washed over me, a taste like ash in my mouth. It was always like this. Dayton' s immediate, almost instinctive care for Kristin, a reflex that seemed to bypass any thought of me. It reminded me of the early days, before the chill set in, when I secretly cherished him.

I had married Dayton not for the merger, not for the families, but because I had loved him. A quiet, stubborn love that had bloomed in the shadows of our arranged engagement. He was brilliant, intense, sometimes even kind. I remember his hand, warm and firm, on my back during our engagement photoshoot, a fleeting touch that had ignited a secret hope within me. He had looked at me then, truly looked at me, with an intensity that promised something more than a business arrangement.

But that was a lifetime ago, before the accident. Before the trauma that had turned him into a ghost in our marriage, before his emotional withdrawal had left me stranded in a silence that echoed with the death of our shared future. After that, he had built walls around himself, and I was left outside, watching him tend to Kristin, the only person he seemed to let close.

The illusion of our marriage had long since crumbled, leaving behind only the cold, hard reality of obligation. My love had not been enough to melt his ice, to bridge the chasm that had opened between us. It was a lonely truth, one I carried with the quiet dignity of a woman who had learned to survive heartbreak in silence. I was bound to this until I wasn't. And I knew, deep down, that the time for "wasn't" was rapidly approaching. My heart was tired of fighting a battle it had already lost.

"Change into something more... appropriate," Dayton's voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. He gestured vaguely at my tailored black dress. "Something that projects warmth, stability."

I nodded, my jaw tight. The uniform of the dutiful wife. I walked into the adjoining bedroom, the silk rustling around me like a whisper of my fading hopes. I pulled out a soft cream dress, one I hadn't worn in years, a relic from a time when I still believed in the possibility of genuine connection with him. It was elegant, understated, and utterly devoid of the fire I once possessed.

When I re-entered the room, Dayton was standing by the window again, facing away. He turned, his eyes scanning me with an almost clinical detachment. "Better," he conceded, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "You look... the part."

He walked towards me, his hand reaching out, not for comfort, but for purpose. He linked his arm through mine, a public gesture for the unseen cameras. His touch was cold, a stark contrast to the warmth I remembered. It was a performance, a charade for the world. My heart hammered, not from excitement, but from the sheer exhaustion of maintaining this façade.

The moment we stepped out of the suite, the flashes began. A barrage of blinding light, a symphony of clicking cameras. We smiled, we nodded, we played our parts. I leaned into him, feigning intimacy, my head resting lightly against his shoulder. His arm tightened around me, a possessive grip that felt less like love and more like ownership.

This is what my life has become, I thought, a bitter laugh bubbling up inside me. A carefully orchestrated public relations campaign, starring the broken wife and the indifferent husband.

"Just like old times, huh?" Dayton murmured, his lips brushing my ear, a mockery of affection. "You always were good at playing the role, Alyssa."

I pulled back slightly, my smile faltering. "Grandfather expects us at the annual charity gala next week. He wants us to make a joint appearance. A grand show of unity."

Dayton' s jaw tightened. "He knows I have a prior engagement." His voice was low, edged with steel. The prior engagement, I knew, was with Kristin.

"He insisted," I said, my voice unwavering. "He explicitly said 'no excuses'."

Dayton scoffed, a humorless sound. "He'll get over it."

I looked away, the weight of his indifference crushing me yet again. Get over it. That was his solution for everything. My heart clenched, a sharp, painful spasm. How much longer could I pretend? How much more of myself could I sacrifice for a marriage that had died long ago? I just wanted to be free.

The next morning, I found myself driving to Breanna's apartment. She was my anchor, my fiercely loyal best friend, and the only person who understood the suffocating gilded cage I lived in. She was recovering from a suspicious "accident" that had left her with a nasty concussion and a broken arm – a clear message from a rival firm she was investigating.

I found her propped up on her sofa, a colorful cast on her arm, a mischievous glint in her eyes despite the pain. "Took you long enough," she grumbled, but her smile was genuine.

"I had to perform for the masses," I said, sinking onto the armchair opposite her, the exhaustion finally catching up to me.

Breanna shook her head. "It's insane, Alyssa. You deserve so much more than this public circus. Dayton is a fool." She reached for a stack of papers on her coffee table, her good hand carefully pushing them towards me. "I ran these divorce papers through my firm. They're ready. All you need to do is sign."

I stared at the pristine white pages, the words "Petition for Dissolution of Marriage" stark and final. My breath hitched. This was it. The end. The freedom I craved. Yet, a part of me, a small, foolish part, still hesitated. "Breanna, I..."

"Don't 'Breanna' me," she interrupted, her eyes blazing with protective fury. "He parades his 'childhood sweetheart' around, humiliates you publicly, and you're still considering holding back? Alyssa, he doesn't deserve another second of your loyalty. Let him burn."

My gaze drifted to the window, the city sprawling beneath us. "He wasn't parading her, Breanna. He was helping her. She was having an episode." I tried to defend him, a reflex born of years of habit.

Breanna snorted, a sharp, derisive sound. "An episode? That's what they're calling it now? That woman, Kristin, is a master manipulator. She's been pulling this 'fragile flower' act for years. Do you remember what happened three years ago? The day of your anniversary, when he stood you up for dinner because Kristin had 'a crisis'? It was the same story then, wasn't it?" Her words were a chilling echo of the past, of the day my heart had first truly shattered.

"I know," I whispered, the memory a fresh wound. The lavish dinner, the waiting, the phone call. His hushed, concerned voice, telling me he had to be with Kristin. My anniversary. My heart had died a little that day.

Breanna leaned forward, her eyes softening slightly. "He chose her then, Alyssa. He chooses her now. It's time you chose yourself. Sign these papers. Start fresh."

I picked up the pen, its weight heavy in my hand. The ink felt cold against my fingers. This was a chance, a real chance, to reclaim my life, to shed the skin of Mrs. Cole and become Alyssa York again. But looking at the blank line where my signature should go, a wave of sadness washed over me. It was more than just a signature. It was the final nail in the coffin of a love I had secretly nursed through years of neglect. The love I had held onto, even after it had been starved, bruised, and left for dead. Was it truly time to let go? I closed my eyes, the pen poised. The choice felt impossible.