Chapter 7

KILLIAN RUTLEDGE POV:

The mansion pulsed with the aftermath of Isabel' s birthday bash. Empty champagne flutes littered every surface, stray streamers sagged from the chandeliers, and a faint, sweet smell of stale perfume hung in the air. I woke late the next afternoon, a dull throb behind my eyes, the familiar meticulous order of my home replaced by a jarring disarray.

I walked into the dining room, expecting to see Ava there, meticulously arranging breakfast, as she always did, even after my worst indiscretions. The table, however, was bare. My tray, precisely laid out, sat on the counter, untouched.

"Where is Ava?" I asked the passing maid, my voice sharper than I intended. The chaos of the house, usually a source of crippling anxiety, was somehow less pressing than the unexpected absence.

The maid looked confused. "Mrs. Rutledge, sir? I haven' t seen her since... last night."

"No, not her," I snapped, irritation rising. "I mean my wife. Ava. Where is she?"

The maid' s eyes widened slightly. "Mr. Rutledge, Mrs. Rutledge left early this morning. She said she wouldn' t be returning." She gestured to a neatly folded stack of papers on the polished mahogany table. "She left these for you."

A jolt went through me. Ava left? That was... unexpected. She never left. Not really. She always came back. A prickle of annoyance, then a strange unease, began to spread through my chest. Why would she just leave?

I strode to the table, my pace quickening. The sight of the papers, crisp and white, sparked an irrational irritation. I pulled out a pair of disposable gloves from my pocket, slipping them on with practiced ease before touching the documents. The rustle of the paper, usually a soothing sound of order, now grated on my nerves, amplifying the unsettling feeling.

My eyes fell on the top sheet. "DIVORCE PETITION."

And beneath it, a familiar, elegant signature: Ava Dodson Rutledge.

Rage, cold and swift, surged through me. My hand, still gloved, slammed the papers onto the table, sending Champagne flutes rattling. She was divorcing me? Her? After everything I had put up with? The public humiliation, the constant cleaning, the way she was always so... dull. So predictable. This was an insult. A blatant, unforgivable insult to my authority.

My blood boiled. My vision blurred for a moment. She dared to leave me? This was insubordination. This was a challenge.

"Find her!" I roared, my voice echoing through the quiet house. "Send every available guard! Find Ava Dodson! Now!"

A flurry of footsteps, then the head of security appeared, his face pale. "Sir, what' s the matter?"

"She thinks she can just leave!" I spat, pointing a trembling finger at the papers. "She thinks she can divorce me! I didn' t sign these! She can' t just leave without my permission!" I grabbed the papers, tearing them into shreds, the sound a violent punctuation to my fury. "She' s not going anywhere! Not until I say so!"

The security chief nodded, his eyes wide. "Yes, sir. Immediately, sir." He barked orders into his comms system, and the house vibrated with the sudden flurry of activity.

My chest heaved. I felt... out of control. Ava, leaving? It was an unfamiliar, unsettling feeling. A faint, cold dread began to seep into my bones. For the first time, I felt a tremor in my perfectly ordered world. A sense of something precious slipping through my fingers, something I hadn't realized I valued until it was gone.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my fingers still trembling slightly. It was a text message, from an unknown number.

"Divorce finalized. Settlement agreed upon. Congratulations."

My breath caught in my throat. Finalized? But I hadn't signed anything! I' d just torn up the papers! This was impossible. Unless...

Unless the signature Isabel had forged on the papers, the one I had ignored, thinking it was a joke, had actually been submitted. A cold, creeping realization began to dawn. That day, when Ava presented the papers, Isabel had signed them, then I, in my fury, had dismissed them. Had that been enough?

I forwarded the message to my chief legal counsel, a terse command attached: "Investigate. Immediately."

Just then, Isabel emerged from the master bedroom, her silk robe clinging to her curves, her hair a beautiful mess. She stretched languidly, her gaze falling on me.

"Baby, what' s all the noise?" she purred, walking towards me. She threw her arms around my neck, pressing her body against mine. "You left me all alone in that big bed."

Her touch, usually so intoxicating, now felt... grating. I didn't return her embrace, merely patting her back. "Nothing," I mumbled, my mind still reeling from the text message.

"Where' s Ava?" she asked, her voice deliberately sweet. "Did she finally leave? Good riddance. Now, can you make me breakfast? I' m starving. And I want those special crepes. From that French place."

Her words, usually a source of amusement, now struck me as incredibly selfish. The nagging thought, the comparison, was unavoidable. Ava would never demand breakfast like that, especially not after the chaos of the previous night. She would have already prepared it, quietly, efficiently.

"Isabel, don' t you think that' s a bit much?" I heard myself say, the words escaping before I could stop them. My voice was colder than I intended.

Her eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face. She pulled back slightly, her lower lip trembling. "What? Killian, are you... are you mad at me? After everything I' ve done for you? After I saved your life?"

The familiar refrain. The manipulation. It usually worked, melting my irritation into a tide of guilt and devotion. But this time... this time it felt different. It felt hollow.

"No, no, my angel," I said, forcing a reassuring tone, though my heart wasn' t in it. "Of course not. I' m just... stressed. From work. I' ll make sure you get your crepes." I squeezed her hand, trying to rekindle the familiar spark, but it felt like clutching at smoke.