Chapter 6

The boardroom on the top floor of Bray Enterprises was a cathedral of glass and steel. The table was a single slab of polished obsidian, reflecting the faces of the twelve men and women who sat around it.

Donovan stood at the head of the table. He was in his element. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his hair was styled flawlessly, and his eyes were sharp and focused. The incident with Clementine was a closed book, shoved to the back of his mind. He was in control. He was the king.

"The risk assessment is conservative," Donovan said, his voice cutting through the murmur of the room. He slid a tablet across the table toward the dissenting board member. "The AI integration is sound. We move forward with the vote."

The board member, an older man with a red face, opened his mouth to argue, but a sharp knock on the door silenced him.

Donovan's head snapped up. His jaw tightened. "We are in session."

Leo Sutton, who had been standing by the door, looked apologetic. He stepped outside for a moment, then returned, his face pale. He walked quickly to Donovan's side and leaned in close.

"Sir, an urgent and personal delivery. It requires your signature."

Donovan's eyes narrowed. "I told you, no interruptions. Sign for it yourself."

Leo shifted on his feet. "I'm sorry, sir. The messenger is insistent. He says Mr. Bray must sign personally."

The room had gone quiet. Every board member was watching, their eyes darting between Donovan and his assistant. The power dynamic in the room had shifted, just a fraction.

Donovan's temper flared, a hot spark in his chest. He didn't like being challenged. He didn't like his authority being questioned, especially not in his own boardroom.

"Fine," he snapped. He held out his hand.

Leo opened the door. A man in a courier uniform stepped inside. He was holding a thick manila envelope. He walked directly to Donovan and held out a clipboard.

"Sign here, please."

Donovan grabbed the pen and scribbled his signature, a sharp, angry slash across the paper. He snatched the envelope from the man's hand.

The courier nodded and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Donovan looked at the envelope. It was heavy, professional. And on the top left corner, in elegant gold lettering, was a logo he recognized. Rosenfeld & Associates. The top divorce attorneys in the state.

His blood ran cold.

He didn't hesitate. He tore the envelope open, his fingers suddenly clumsy. He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers.

He looked at the first page. The bold, black letters at the top seemed to leap off the paper and slap him across the face.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

Clementine Woodard Bray vs. Donovan Bray.

His name and her name, printed side by side, not in a wedding announcement, but in a legal declaration of war.

He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the text too fast to read. Divorce. Property division based on the prenuptial agreement. And then, a separate motion, highlighted in yellow.

Petition for Order of Protection.

The reason cited: Domestic violence resulting in severe physical and emotional harm to the petitioner.

The fall. The stairs. She was using it against him. She was calling him an abuser.

A red haze descended over Donovan's vision. The paper crumpled in his fist. His knuckles turned white, the tendons in his wrist standing out like cords.

The silence in the boardroom was absolute. No one dared to breathe. They could feel the rage radiating off him, a physical force that made the air pressure drop.

He took a deep breath. He forced his fingers to unclench. He smoothed out the crumpled paper, his movements deliberate and controlled. He placed the papers back into the envelope.

"A minor domestic issue," he said, his voice flat and cold, cutting through the silence like a blade. He tossed the envelope into the trash can next to his chair. "Let's proceed with the vote."

The board members exchanged uneasy glances, but no one said a word. They voted. The motion passed. The meeting adjourned.

The moment the last person left the room, Donovan pulled out his phone. He dialed Clementine's number. It rang once, then went straight to voicemail. He dialed again. Voicemail.

He called the penthouse. The housekeeper answered on the second ring.

"Sir," the woman's voice was trembling. "Sir, the madam... she's gone. Her bed hasn't been slept in. Her clothes are still here, but she's gone. We can't find her anywhere."

Gone.

Donovan stared at the city skyline, his reflection a dark smudge on the glass. A cold, cynical smile twisted his lips.

She was playing games. She wanted attention. She wanted him to come crawling after her, to beg her to come back. She was just like all the others, trying to manipulate him with cheap tricks.

He wasn't going to play.

He dialed another number. The private line for the bank.

"This is Donovan Bray," he said, his voice dripping with ice. "Immediately freeze all supplementary cards issued under my primary accounts. Suspend any transfer capabilities from our joint accounts and lock my personal funds from any access linked to Clementine Bray. I want her cut off. Now."

He hung up. He turned back to the window, his smile widening.

"Let's see how long you can survive without me," he said to the empty room.

He was certain. He was absolutely, one hundred percent certain, that she would be back within twenty-four hours, crying and begging for his help.

He had never been more wrong in his life.