Chapter 3 3

Fallon stared at the man standing before her. He was her husband, yet he felt like a complete stranger. She swallowed hard, forcing the sharp, physical sting in her throat down.

"I didn't hit her," Fallon said. Her voice was steady, anchored by the absolute certainty of the truth. "She ran into my car on purpose."

Corbin's jaw ticked. The corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, mocking sneer. He looked at her as if she had just told the most pathetic joke in existence.

"So, let me get this straight," Corbin said, his tone dripping with venom. "You want me to believe that Ashely risked her own life, threw her body at a moving vehicle, just to frame you?"

His disbelief wasn't just spoken; it was a physical weapon, stabbing into her ribs.

"I don't know why she did it," Fallon insisted, her hands curling into tight fists at her sides. "But I am telling you the truth."

"The truth?" Corbin took a sudden, aggressive step forward.

His sheer physical presence was overwhelming. Fallon's body reacted before her brain did; she took an involuntary step backward.

"The truth," Corbin continued, his voice rising in volume, "is that my legal team is currently pulling every piece of evidence from that street. The truth is that by tomorrow morning, your face will be on the front page of every news outlet in this country, branded as a disgrace to the Mcgowan family!"

Every word hit her like a hammer blow to the sternum.

"Corbin, we are husband and wife..." Fallon whispered, her voice cracking. She was begging, reaching blindly for a sliver of emotional connection that might still exist between them.

The word acted like a match dropped into gasoline.

"Husband and wife?" Corbin repeated the words slowly, tasting them. Then, a harsh, humorless laugh erupted from his chest. The sound was entirely devoid of joy. "Fallon, stop lying to yourself."

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket that he had tossed over a chair. He pulled out a sleek leather wallet. His long fingers extracted a folded piece of paper.

He tossed it onto the glass coffee table between them. It landed with a soft, dismissive slap.

Fallon looked down. It was a photograph. It was taken two years ago at New York City Hall, the day they signed their prenuptial agreement. In the photo, they were standing next to each other, staring blankly at the camera. Neither of them was smiling.

"This was a transaction from day one," Corbin said. His voice was as cold and unforgiving as a Siberian winter. "The Mcgowan Group needed the Terrell family's distribution channels in the new energy sector. And your father needed our capital to plug the massive holes in his balance sheets."

He stepped closer, forcing her to look up at him.

"It was a business merger, Fallon. A commercial marriage. We both knew exactly what this was."

All the blood drained from Fallon's face. Her skin turned ice-cold.

She knew the origins of their marriage. She knew the contracts. But she had thought-she had genuinely believed-that over the past two years, the quiet moments, the shared spaces, the brief touches... she thought it had grown into something real.

"So, as your business partner, I am giving you one final piece of advice," Corbin said. He broke eye contact, his posture shifting back into the rigid, highly efficient stance of a CEO. "My lawyers will contact you tomorrow morning. Sign the papers. It will be cleaner for both of us."

Fallon's lungs stopped working. "Sign what?" she asked, her voice trembling so violently she barely recognized it.

"The divorce papers," Corbin said. He spat the four words out with zero hesitation.

Time stopped. The faint hum of the hospital's air conditioning vanished. The world went completely silent.

Fallon felt the floor drop out from beneath her feet. She had expected him to yell. She had expected him to demand an apology, to punish her, to freeze her out. But she never, in her wildest nightmares, expected him to execute their marriage right here, right now.

"Because of her?" Fallon's voice suddenly spiked, sharp and shrill. She pointed a shaking finger toward the wall that separated them from Ashely's room. "You're throwing this away because of that calculating homewrecker?"

Corbin's eyebrows snapped together. "This has nothing to do with Ashely."

"How can it have nothing to do with her!" Fallon yelled, the pain finally tearing through her composed facade. "If it wasn't for her, you would still be in Zurich in a board meeting! We would be-"

"We would be what?" Corbin cut her off, his voice booming off the walls. "We see each other maybe four times a year. Our phone calls last less than two minutes. The last time we had a real conversation was six months ago, and it was about stock options. Is this the marriage you are fighting for?"

Fallon opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat was entirely blocked.

Corbin lifted his left arm and glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. The movement was precise, mechanical.

"Five minutes are up," he said, his tone returning to absolute zero. "I need to get back. Ashely needs me."

He turned his back on her and walked toward the door.

"I won't divorce you."

Fallon spoke the words to his back, pronouncing each syllable with slow, deliberate force.

Corbin stopped. He didn't turn around. His hand rested on the door handle.

"You don't have a choice," he said to the wood. "There is a morality clause in our prenuptial agreement. Attempted vehicular assault is more than enough to leave you with absolutely nothing."

"Then I'll see you in court."

Fallon's voice lost its tremble. The despair hardened into a thick, impenetrable layer of ice. "Until you can prove in a court of law that I hit her 'intentionally,' I am still Mrs. Mcgowan."