Chapter 2 2

Ciel didn't get back in the elevator. Instead, she walked down the silent, carpeted hallway to the VIP wing's rear service entrance. Her fingers, wrapped around her copy of the separation agreement, were cold and stiff. The sharp edge of the paper dug into her palm.

She knew Dion's habits. After a confrontation, he'd need to make a call. To Wall Street, to London, to someone who mattered. He'd pace the length of the hallway, his voice a low, authoritative murmur.

She waited until she heard the faint, rhythmic sound of his Italian leather shoes fading down the corridor.

Then, she pushed open the door to Baylie's suite.

Baylie was sitting up in bed, a diamond-encrusted compact mirror in her hand. She was admiring her reflection, a small, satisfied smile playing on her perfectly glossed lips. There was no trace of the fragile, weeping woman from moments before.

She heard the soft click of the door and her head snapped up. The mirror clattered as she shoved it under her pillow. Her face instantly morphed, the triumphant smirk replaced by a look of wide-eyed, innocent fear.

When she saw it was Ciel, the fear dissolved into pure, undisguised contempt.

"What do you want?" Baylie's voice was no longer weak, but sharp and brittle.

Ciel walked to the foot of the bed. She didn't say a word. She simply tossed her copy of the agreement onto the silk duvet.

Baylie flinched theatrically. "Ciel, what is this? Please, don't be angry with Dion. He's just worried about me."

"The show is over, Baylie," Ciel said, her voice flat. "You got what you wanted. You can stop."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Baylie's face before she masked it with a sigh. She reached out, her manicured fingers brushing Ciel's wrist. "I know you're upset. But I never meant to come between you two. My feelings for Dion... I just couldn't control them. I've been so, so depressed."

Her voice began to rise in volume, taking on a performative, pleading tone.

Ciel snatched her hand away as if she'd been burned. The touch felt like poison. The force of her movement was minimal, but Baylie was an artist.

She used the momentum to throw herself backward, her arm flailing out and knocking over a glass of water on the bedside table.

The glass hit the plush carpet with a dull thud. Water splashed across the floor.

Heavy, angry footsteps sounded from the hallway.

Dion burst into the room, his phone still pressed to his ear. He took in the scene in a single, damning glance: the spilled water, Baylie cowering against the headboard, clutching her chest and gasping for breath, and Ciel standing over her, her face a cold mask.

"What the hell are you doing?" he snarled, ending his call.

He rushed to the bed, gathering Baylie into his arms. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

Baylie clung to his sleeve, her body trembling. "No, no," she whispered, her voice choked with fake tears. "It was an accident. Ciel didn't mean it. It's all my fault."

The classic line. The move of a master manipulator. It sent a wave of pure, physical nausea through Ciel.

Dion turned, his eyes blazing with a righteous fury. He looked at Ciel as if she were something vile he'd found on the bottom of his shoe. "Get out. What is wrong with you? Are you insane?"

Ciel looked down at them, at the man she had married and the woman who had systematically destroyed her life. She felt nothing. No anger, no pain. Just a vast, empty calm.

"I signed your agreement," she said, her voice clear and steady, cutting through Baylie's pathetic sobs. "But not for the reason you think."

She met Dion's furious gaze without flinching.

"I'm not separating for PR. I'm filing for divorce."

The air in the room went still. Even Baylie's fake crying hitched. Dion's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of disbelief in their stormy depths.

Then, he let out a short, harsh laugh. "A new tactic? You think threatening divorce will get you a bigger settlement?"

He shook his head, a look of pitying disgust on his face. "You're pathetic, Ciel. Your little games are so transparent. You think your little salary can maintain the life you've grown accustomed to? You'll be back in a month."

Ciel didn't argue. She didn't defend herself. The sight of them, so perfectly matched in their deceit, cauterized the wound inside her, leaving behind not pain, but cold, hard resolve.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a small, plain business card. She placed it on the now-empty bedside table.

"My lawyer will be in touch with yours," she said.

Dion's eyes fell to the cheap cardstock. The name of a small, unknown family law practice was printed on it. His face darkened with a rage that was almost primal. It was the insult. The sheer audacity of it.

He took a step toward her, his body radiating menace. "You walk out that door, Ciel, and you will never set foot in my home or any other Bolton property again. You will be left with nothing. Do you understand me?"

Nothing. The word sounded like a promise. Like freedom.

She gave him one last, empty look. Then she turned and walked out of the room, leaving the two of them tangled in their web of lies.

The cold air of the hallway felt clean. For the first time in three years, she could breathe.