Divorced: The Hidden King Rises

Fire.

It was a deep, dark red that could consumed the world.

Ryan Sinclair lowered his center of gravity. Beneath the heavy firefighting gear, his vest was already drenched in sweat.

"Please... help me..."

The crying came from Room 402 at the end of the hallway.

Ryan didn't hesitate. He took two steps to build momentum, pivoted his hips, and slammed his heavy fire boots—sturdy enough to withstand a backdraft—into the charred door.

Boom!

The door collapsed. Fresh oxygen rushed in, and tongues of fire instantly shot up half a meter high, painting the room in a hellish crimson.

Ryan rushed into the smoke, his eyes scanning the area through his goggles.

Behind a messy, king-sized bed, he saw two figures huddled on the floor.

The moment he saw them, his heart skipped a beat.

It was his wife, Elise.

Her usually elegant, high-end custom suit was disheveled. The zipper had come undone halfway, revealing a large expanse of her porcelain-white back.

And in her arms, she was tightly holding a man.

The man was wearing a bathrobe, his collar wide open, his arms wrapped tightly around Elise's slender waist.

Justin Reed.

He was the "talented protégé assistant" Elise claimed she needed to "guide personally."

Flames danced on the ceiling. The air was so distorted it was unrecognizable. Ryan felt a stinging sharpness in his lungs.

"Cough... Save... Save him! Quick, save him!"

Elise's face was covered in soot and tears. She couldn't even see who this firefighter was—hidden behind a heavy helmet and covered in grime.

She just desperately pushed Justin toward Ryan.

Justin was like a frightened quail, shrinking into Elise's embrace, mumbling for help.

Ryan silently crouched down, reaching out his rough, gloved hand to pull Elise up.

Slap!

Elise swatted his hand away with disgust. Even in the middle of a fire, her ingrained arrogance as a superior shone through.

"I told you to save him first! If anything happens to him, you won't be able to pay for it in your lifetime! He's in charge of a ten-million-dollar project for my company!"

Through his goggles, Ryan stared intensely at the face of the woman he had been married to for three years.

Every morning, he prepared warm honey water for her. Every late night, he left a soft wall lamp on for her.

Now, she was filled with anxiety for another man.

"Cough... Air..." Justin gasped weakly.

Elise seemed to go mad. She suddenly stood up and grabbed the strap of the oxygen mask on Ryan's back.

"Give him yours! He's not going to make it! You're a professional—you can handle it, right?"

Ryan said nothing.

He just looked at her quietly, his heart aching.

"Hand it over! Are you deaf?" Elise screamed.

Ryan slowly raised his hand and unlatched the lock on the edge of his helmet.

With a click, the heavy firefighting helmet was removed, along with the oxygen mask.

Superheated air mixed with the smell of burnt plastic instantly flooded Ryan's nose.

His face—soaked with sweat and blackened by ash—was completely exposed to Elise.

The air froze in that second.

Elise's screaming stopped abruptly. Her mouth hung open, and her pupils constricted violently.

"Ry... Ryan?"

Her voice trembled. Her hand instinctively pulled back from the mask strap, while she subconsciously tried to cover her open collar.

Ryan didn't look at her.

He mechanically strapped the mask onto the unconscious Justin's face.

"Take him and go."

Ryan's voice was raspy as sandpaper.

He pointed to the cleared safety passage behind him.

This was a firefighter's duty, even if the person being saved was an adulterer.

Elise took one last look at Ryan but said nothing more.

She helped Justin up and dragged him out of the room.

From beginning to end, she never asked Ryan: How are you going to get out without a mask?

Ryan pushed off his knees to stand up.

Looking at the empty, flaming room, he suddenly felt that the fire wasn't that hot.

If the heart is frozen solid, no fire can warm it.

…..

Three hours later.

Ryan sat on the curb outside the hotel, clutching a half-drunk bottle of mineral water.

A clump of his hair had been singed, and his face was covered in black streaks.

The surroundings were chaotic—cries, sirens, and reporters' questions blurred together.

He waited for a long time.

He thought that after Elise settled her "talented assistant," she would come back to find him.

Even if it was just to ask, "Are you hurt?"

Until the ambulances left the scene. Until the fire was completely extinguished.

His phone screen stayed black.

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a "stay safe" emoji.

Ryan gave a self-deprecating laugh and poured the remaining water over his head.

The cold water washed away the smell of smoke, but it couldn't wash away the exhaustion deep in his bones.

He dragged his heavy steps back to the place they called "home."

The moment he pushed the door open, the rich aroma of red wine hit his nose.

"Haha, the expression you had then... you really looked like a scared little cat."

It was Elise's voice.

It was light, cheerful, and filled with a playful charm Ryan had never seen before.

"It's only because you're too charming that I forgot to run..."

That was Justin's voice, carrying a sleazy grin.

Ryan stood in the foyer, his hands not yet having removed his damaged fire boots.

The living room was brightly lit.

Elise had changed into a silk bathrobe, reclining lazily on the sofa, swirling a wine glass.

And Justin—the man who had nearly wet himself in the fire—was now boldly wearing Ryan's silk pajamas, sitting on the armchair opposite her.

Their laughter died instantly when they saw Ryan.

The atmosphere became awkward and stiff.

Elise set down her glass. The smile on her face cooled rapidly, returning to her icy corporate persona.

"You're back?"

Her tone was as flat as if she were asking a stranger for directions.

Ryan said nothing, looking down to change his shoes.

"Justin was traumatized by the fire. His apartment is too far away, so he's staying in our guest room tonight."

Elise stood up, her tone commanding and brooking no argument.

"Perfect timing. We haven't had dinner yet. Go take a shower and make some pasta. Remember to put less salt in Justin's portion—he's been working out lately."

Ryan's hand froze on the shoe rack.

He had just escaped from a living hell. His lungs still hurt.

The ash of the fire was still embedded under his fingernails.

And his wife wanted him to cook for the man who had nearly gotten him killed?

"I'm talking to you. Did you hear me?" Elise frowned, sounding impatient.

Ryan looked up. His eyes were so calm they were terrifying.

"You want me... to cook for you two?"

"Ryan, stop looking at me like a victim."

Elise walked up to him and crossed her arms, her voice dripping with superiority.

"I know you worked hard in the fire today, but isn't that your job?"

"Justin is different. He's an elite graduate from a top university. He handles my core business and helps me land ten-million-dollar deals."

She looked Ryan up and down—at his grime-covered body—with unmasked disgust in her eyes.

"What can you provide for me? Besides putting out fires, what else can you do?"

"Since you can't help me with my career, isn't it only right that you handle things at home?"

Justin, sitting nearby, pretentiously adjusted his glasses and chuckled.

"Ryan, I'm really not picky. Anything is fine. If you're tired, I can help out, though I'm not very handy in the kitchen."

Ryan looked at the two people before him.

One was the lover he had protected for three years.

The other was a shameless parasite.

He suddenly realized that his three years of sacrifice meant absolutely nothing in this house.

He took a deep breath.

The air, mixed with dust and heartbreak, finally woke him up.

"No need."

Ryan calmly spoke those two words.

Elise snorted. "No need for what? You don't want to cook? Ryan, your temper is getting—"

"I said."

Ryan interrupted her. He pulled a crumpled receipt from his pocket—an anniversary gift he had planned to give her—and tossed it onto the coffee table.

He looked Elise straight in the eye and said, word by word:

"Let's get a divorce."