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"Krish..."

In the European-style luxurious bedroom, Layla's pale hands tightly clutched the sheets, with a pained expression on her face.

Krish's charming face was in the dim light, and his clear voice became low and hoarse at the moment, but with obvious anger. He asked, "Oh, you want to divorce me that much?"

Layla finally broke out and shouted, "This reason is enough to persuade Grandpa!"

After Layla finished speaking, she struggled hard. However, under the condition of Krish, her struggle had no effect at all.

Krish's slender fingers penetrated Layla's hair, and he grabbed the end of her hair fiercely, forcing her to turn her head and look at his face. Krish said coldly, "The title of Mrs. Joan is not rubbish. You can't just throw it away as you wish."

Layla suddenly felt cold, and her body trembled.

Perhaps in anyone's eyes, it would be a pity to give up the identity of Mrs. Joan.

But others would never understand what it was like to wake up alone in such a big bedroom every day.

For three years, Layla obeyed the order and waited for Krish to come home, watching him accompany different women on the TV screen.