Chapter 556 Theron: Sorry, I'm Married
For a moment, Theron froze.
Ondine—that name had vanished from his world so completely, so irrevocably, that he'd never expected to see it again in this lifetime. Yet there it was on his phone screen, unmistakably real.
He stopped moving but didn't answer the call.
Nicole opened her drowsy eyes, gazing at him through heavy lashes, her red lips parting as she spoke in a voice still husky from their lovemaking. "Theron, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Theron reached over and declined the call, then leaned down to kiss Nicole.
He kissed her deeply, almost desperately. Nicole could barely breathe, her delicate arms trailing weakly across his back as she softly moaned his name. "Theron."
Only then did Theron ease up slightly. His gaze was intense as he locked eyes with her, neither speaking. He looked devastatingly attractive in that moment, and Nicole felt her heart flutter as she pulled him down for another kiss, their bodies slick with sweat.
The phone rang again from the nightstand.
Theron swept it away with one hand, the black and gold device clattering to the carpet where it continued flashing persistently. When Nicole leaned over to retrieve it, Theron pinned her wrists firmly to either side of her head.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but Theron seemed rougher than before, more urgent.
Afterward, Nicole fell into a deep sleep.
The bedroom was thick with the intimate aftermath of passion, clothes scattered carelessly across the carpet at the foot of the bed.
Theron, who prized order above all else, rested briefly before slipping on a pristine white robe and beginning to tidy the chaos. He folded their discarded garments neatly on the sofa and placed Nicole's briefcase, which had been abandoned by the suite's entrance, on the nightstand.
Finally, he picked up his phone. Six missed calls, all from the same person: Ondine.
Theron carried the phone to the living room, poured himself a glass of red wine, and stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the distant river view as memories of Ondine flooded back.
Back then, he'd been nobody—just another ambitious young man clawing his way up. But Ondine had already blossomed into something breathtaking, a vision that could stop traffic and steal breath.
They'd loved each other with the fierce intensity that only comes in your early twenties, burning so bright it felt like they might consume themselves entirely. He'd never doubted her love for him, not once.
But love was one thing, and life was another.
That evening, Theron had returned to their apartment a day early, hoping to surprise her. Instead, when he pushed open the door, he found Ondine entangled with a theater director, their bodies moving together in desperate rhythm.
Crumpled tissues littered the floor like fallen snow.
Ondine had brought the man home, trading her body for a coveted role. Theron never stepped inside. He simply stood there, watching her face crumple in horror and despair, before quietly closing the door behind him.
He left everything in that apartment—every possession, every memory.
Ondine had tried everything to reach him, even arranging a meeting through mutual friends. But Theron remained unmoved, offering only three words: "It's over."
They went their separate ways. She rode that dance production to stardom, becoming the kind of luminous celebrity who graced magazine covers and red carpets. Six months later, Theron made his own meteoric rise on Wall Street.
Ondine had tried to reconnect over the years, but Theron's revolving door of girlfriends never included anyone named Ondine. For him, she represented not just lost love, but irreparable betrayal—a wound that had scarred over but never truly healed.
The night was still and quiet when Theron's phone buzzed again with a text message: [Theron, I'm staying at this hotel too. Meet me in the lobby bar?]
Theron read it several times, then tilted his head back and drained his wine in one smooth motion, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.
The hotel's twenty-four-hour bar was a study in decadent luxury, all dim lighting and gilded surfaces that whispered of expensive sins and midnight confessions.
When Theron arrived, Ondine was already there, nursing a tequila in a corner booth.
He studied her from across the room. Time had been remarkably kind to her—even in her thirties, she remained luminous, though she'd gained a sophisticated edge that made her even more magnetic than the girl he'd once known.
Sensing his gaze, Ondine looked up, and for just a moment, her carefully composed mask slipped to reveal a flash of longing and joy. But she recovered quickly, greeting him with studied casualness. "Theron, it's been too long."
Theron wore a black coat that still carried Nicole's perfume. As he draped it over his chair, Ondine caught the scent and ran her fingers through her hair with practiced sensuality. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important?"
Theron signaled the bartender as he sat down. "Martini."
The bartender recognized him immediately—word had already spread through the hotel about the famous Theron Voss and his wife staying in the penthouse suite. "Right away, Mr. Voss," he said with obvious deference.
Theron nodded curtly, then pulled out his cigarettes and lighter, taking a long drag before fixing Ondine with a cool stare. "A bit late to worry about interruptions, don't you think? What do you want?"
Ondine didn't answer directly. Instead, she studied his face—he'd always been handsome, but wealth and success had given him an almost aristocratic bearing that made him even more irresistible.
She'd never stopped loving him. Over the years, she'd been with powerful, generous men who treated her like a queen, but none of them could touch what Theron meant to her.
He was untouchable, unreachable—the one who'd walked away without looking back, leaving her with nothing but regret and what-ifs.
Jacob had sent her here, and she'd assumed Nicole was just another girlfriend. She'd believed—hoped—that the position of Mrs. Voss had been waiting for her all along.
In the intimate lighting of the bar, Ondine leaned forward with practiced vulnerability. "Theron, I never forgot you. Not for a single day."
Theron leaned back in his chair, cigarette smoke curling between them as he regarded his former lover with detached interest. "I'm married," he said, his voice carrying a rough edge.
The words hit Ondine like a physical blow. Married? Impossible. They moved in the same circles—she would have heard about a wedding. He had to be lying, punishing her for what happened all those years ago.
Theron's expression remained impassive. "We got the license two years ago. Haven't had the ceremony yet, but that's coming soon. My wife was living in Sovelan until recently, which is why you didn't know."
He leaned forward, stubbing out his cigarette with deliberate finality. "I came down here tonight to make this clear: I'm married. I love my wife deeply, Ondine. She's nothing like you—Nicole is genuinely good, genuinely pure."
The bartender approached with his martini. "Your drink, Mr. Voss."
Theron pulled out his wallet and left a hundred-dollar tip, then stood and reached for his coat. He had no intention of prolonging this conversation.
But Ondine followed him, catching up at the elevator bank and grabbing his sleeve with desperate fingers. "Theron, please! I know what I did was unforgivable, but can't you give me a chance to make amends?"
Her voice broke slightly as she pressed closer. "Just let me be with you tonight. Come to my room—we can talk about old times. I swear I won't try to destroy your marriage. I just... I've missed you so much."
Pride had always been Ondine's defining trait, but now she abandoned every shred of dignity, wrapping her arms around him from behind and pressing her body against his, trying to awaken the desire she'd once commanded so easily.
"Let go." Theron's voice was sharp with warning. "Don't make this uglier than it needs to be."
But Ondine clung to him desperately, and just as Theron moved to pry her hands away, the elevator doors slid open to reveal Nicole standing inside.
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