Chapter 6

AVA DODSON POV:

The quiet click of my bedroom door startled me. I was sitting on the floor, painstakingly trying to piece together the mangled fragments of my grandmother' s locket. My fingers trembled, thick with the weight of unshed tears. The delicate silver was beyond repair, twisted into an ugly, unrecognizable knot.

Killian stood in the doorway, a small, sterile first-aid kit in his hand. It was the first time he had ever come to my room unbidden. A strange flicker of something-was it concern? Regret?-crossed his face, quickly replaced by his usual cold indifference. He placed the kit on my nightstand, its antiseptic smell filling the air.

"You' re bleeding," he stated, his voice flat. He pointed at my wrist, where Isabel' s fingernails had broken the skin.

I stared at him, my heart a hollow space in my chest. This was his version of an apology. A sterile kit, delivered with an emotionless voice. It was too little, too late.

"Isabel was out of line," he continued, his gaze fixed on the wall behind me, avoiding my eyes. "She shouldn' t have damaged your... trinket. I' ll compensate you for it. Name your price."

My gaze fell to the broken locket in my lap. Compensate me? With money? He truly understood nothing. He still saw everything in transactional terms, everything replaceable, purchasable. The memory of my grandmother, her gentle smile, the stories she used to tell me about the locket-they were not for sale.

"There is no price, Killian," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "It was priceless. And it' s gone." I looked up at him, my eyes steady, unblinking. The man standing before me was a stranger, a ghost from a life I was determined to leave behind.

He shifted uncomfortably, then finally met my gaze. A flicker of something unreadable-perhaps a brief, almost imperceptible shame-crossed his face. "Well. It' s done now. There' s no point dwelling on it." He paused. "And don' t mention it to Isabel. It upsets her."

My lips curved into a bitter, humorless smile. Of course. Isabel' s feelings were paramount. My grandmother' s dying wish, my cherished memory, my broken heart-they were all secondary to Isabel' s precious equilibrium.

I pushed myself up, wincing as my ankle protested. My hands, still holding the mangled locket, reached for the stack of divorce papers I had retrieved from where Isabel had so carelessly discarded them earlier. I held them out to him.

"Sign them, Killian," I said, my voice steady. "It' s all over."

He stared at the papers, then at me. His expression was blank, unreadable. Without a word, he took the pen I offered, scribbled his signature across the document, and handed them back. His movements were swift, efficient, as if signing away six years of his life was no more significant than signing a delivery receipt. He didn' t even glance at the words on the page, didn' t hesitate for a second.

Then, he turned and left, his footsteps brisk, almost a hasty retreat. He didn' t look back. He didn' t say goodbye.

I stood there, the signed papers clutched in my hand, a strange mix of bitter triumph and profound sorrow washing over me. The knot in my stomach untangled, replaced by a vast, echoing emptiness. It was done. Truly, irrevocably done.

I spent the rest of the day methodically packing the few belongings that were truly mine. The books I loved, the old art supplies I had hidden away, a few pieces of clothing I had bought before our marriage. My gaze drifted to the window as the first strains of music, loud and boisterous, drifted up from downstairs. A party.

I hobbled to the window, peering down. The mansion' s vast gardens were lit up, filled with laughing people. Colorful streamers adorned the trees, and a huge banner proclaimed: "Happy Birthday, Isabel!"

My eyes widened. Killian, the man who meticulously sanitized every surface, who banned large gatherings in his pristine home, who wore gloves to touch doorknobs, was hosting a massive birthday party for Isabel. He had broken every single one of his rigid rules for her. He had endured contamination, noise, and chaos, all to celebrate her. He had never once celebrated my birthday. Not once.

A cold, detached amusement filled me. I was witnessing the ultimate betrayal, the final, undeniable proof that I had meant absolutely nothing to him. But now, it didn' t hurt. It just... was. The mansion, once my gilded cage, was no longer mine. And I didn't care.

I watched Isabel, radiant in a shimmering gown, flitting through the crowd, like a queen holding court. Killian stood beside her, his hand resting possessively on her waist, his eyes fixed on her with an adoration he had never shown me.

Isabel' s eyes, sharp as a hawk' s, suddenly found mine in the window. Her triumphant smile faltered, replaced by a flash of annoyance. She whispered something to Killian, pointing subtly in my direction.

Killian' s face tightened. He said something to her, a gesture of reassurance, then called over a security guard. My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, gave a faint, unpleasant thud. Not again.

Isabel, her voice rising in a theatrical wail, grabbed Killian' s arm. "Killian, she' s still here! It' s my birthday! I don' t want her looking at me like that! She' s ruining everything! Make her go away!" She stamped her foot, her lower lip trembling. "Make her apologize to me, Killian! For being such a sourpuss! For being jealous!"

Killian' s jaw tightened. He looked at me, then back at Isabel, who was now clinging to him, her face buried in his chest. "Isabel is right," he said, his voice carrying clearly even over the music. "Ava, come down here. Now. Apologize to Isabel. For making her feel uncomfortable."

My blood ran cold. Apologize again? For existing? For daring to witness their happiness? A part of me, the part that still remembered pride, wanted to refuse. But then Isabel spoke again, her voice a manipulative purr.

"No, Killian, that' s not enough. She always just says sorry. I want her to show she' s sorry. Make her... make her go pick me flowers from the old rose garden on the back hill. She always hated that climb. It' ll be a nice, fresh bouquet for my room." The "old rose garden" was on a steep, unstable slope, notoriously dangerous, especially after recent rains.

Killian nodded, his eyes devoid of warmth. "A good idea, my love. Guards! Take Mrs. Rutledge to the back hill. She' ll pick roses for Ms. Griffin."

A collective gasp rippled through the party guests. Even for Killian, this was a step too far. Their horrified whispers reached my ears, but he ignored them, his gaze fixed on my face, daring me to defy him.

"Killian," I began, my voice raw, "do you really mean this? After everything?"

He simply nodded, his eyes hard as flint. "Do you want your family' s company to face a hostile takeover, Ava? Because I assure you, my connections run deep. One word from me, and the Dodson empire crumbles."

My body went rigid. My family. He knew my weakness. He always did. The thought of my aging father, his life' s work destroyed, was a pain far greater than any physical torment.

The guards seized me, dragging me out of the house, away from the glittering party, and towards the treacherous back hill. My injured ankle protested with every step, the pain a searing fire. The thorny bushes tore at my clothes, my skin. I struggled up the steep incline, scrambling, falling, my hands cut and bleeding. I could feel Isabel' s eyes on me, probably watching from the window, enjoying my suffering.

I heard the distant drone of a helicopter. Isabel, the queen of social media, was probably live-streaming my humiliation. I imagined her fans, a sea of adoring followers, reveling in her triumph.

I found a few wild roses, their petals bruised and battered, clinging stubbornly to life. I picked them, my fingers numb, the thorns digging deep into my flesh. Each bloom I gathered was a testament to my utter despair.

As I stumbled back down the hill, my foot slipped on a patch of loose gravel. I tumbled downwards, rolling awkwardly, my ankle twisting, fresh pain exploding through me. I lay there for a moment, gasping, my body aching, my expensive dress torn and covered in mud. The bouquet of battered roses lay scattered around me.

They dragged me back to the party, a grotesque spectacle. My face was streaked with mud and tears, my dress in tatters, my body a map of fresh cuts and bruises. I looked like a wild animal, dragged from the wilderness, for their amusement.

Killian looked at me, his lip curling in distaste. "Look at you," he said, his voice laced with contempt. "Filthy. Disgusting. Get her out of my sight. Isabel, my love, you deserve better than this." He turned to the microphone. "Tonight," he announced, his voice booming through the speakers, "I want to make it clear. Isabel Griffin is not just my girlfriend. She is my future. She is the woman who will stand by my side, always. She is the true mistress of this house."

The words, a public declaration of her undisputed reign, a complete erasure of my existence, were the final nail in the coffin. My heart, that stone in my chest, felt nothing. No pain, no anger, no sorrow. Just a vast, profound emptiness. I was completely unfeeling.

I pushed away from the guards, my body surprisingly steady. My hands, still clutching the broken locket, now felt surprisingly strong. I had nothing left to lose. He had taken everything, destroyed everything. But in doing so, he had also set me free.

I limped towards the door, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the triumphant gaze of Isabel. I paused at the threshold, clutching the divorce papers, already signed by Killian, against my chest. This time, I didn' t look back. There was nothing there for me. Nothing but ashes and a hollow, echoing silence. My love for him was dead. And I was finally, truly, free. The fight was over. For him. For me, it was just beginning.