Saintess's Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander novel Chapter 2

The banquet hall glittered like something out of a fever dream—all crystal chandeliers and polished silver, tables groaning under the weight of gourmet dishes that cost more per plate than Marcus earned in a month. Wine flowed freely, the bottles bearing vintage dates older than some of the guests. Jewelry sparkled on every wrist and throat, enhanced with cultivation energy that made precious stones glow with an otherworldly light.

And there, at the head table beneath the largest chandelier, sat Quinn.

She’d changed into an elegant emerald dress that hugged her figure perfectly, making her look like some fairy-tale princess. Her Saintess aura radiated from her skin, a soft golden glow that made her appear ethereal, untouchable. Divine.

Alexander Grant sat close beside her—too close—serving food onto her plate with practiced intimacy. He murmured something in her ear, and she actually laughed. A real laugh, musical and light, the kind Marcus hadn’t heard from her in over a year.

“Perfect pair, aren’t they?” someone whispered nearby.

“Born for each other,” another voice agreed.

Marcus sat at the smallest table near the entrance, separated from the main gathering by what felt like miles of polished floor. His table was meant for overflow guests, distant relatives nobody cared about, people who needed to be present but not seen.

He pushed food around his plate mechanically, tasting nothing.

“Marcus!” Victoria Hartford’s voice rang out, Quinn’s cousin, all false sweetness and genuine malice. “How’s the job search going? Still looking after all this time?”

Conversations quieted. Heads turned. The predators smelled blood.

“I’m exploring opportunities,” Marcus replied carefully.

“Exploring opportunities,” Wellington Radcliffe repeated with a snort. “That’s corporate speak for ‘unemployed for three years.'”

Laughter rippled through the hall.

“Now, now,” Harrison Hartford boomed from the head table, his voice carrying effortlessly. “Let’s be fair. Marcus helps with household chores. That’s… something. Every great woman needs someone to handle the domestic duties.”

More laughter, sharper this time.

“He does the laundry beautifully,” Elena Hartford added, examining her wine glass. “I’ve seen the sheets. Very crisp. Perhaps that could be his career path—professional laundryman.”

The humiliation burned through Marcus’s chest like acid, but he kept his face neutral. Three years had taught him how to swallow rage, how to smile through contempt.

“Speaking of careers,” Harrison continued, standing now, commanding the room’s attention, “Alexander here closed three major deals this month! Three! The Whitmore contract, the offshore expansion with the Chen family, and that tricky negotiation with the Morrison Group. The boy’s a natural!”

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