Chapter 4

Kennedy POV:

They finally took me into surgery six hours later. Six hours of lying on a gurney in a hallway, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of Corbin's frantic concern for Annis.

When I woke up, the first thing the nurse told me was, "The surgery went well, but there was significant tissue damage from the delay. I'm afraid you're going to have a permanent scar on your leg."

She said it with pity, the way you deliver bad news. She suggested a top plastic surgeon, rattling off names and procedures.

I just stared at the ceiling. A scar. It seemed fitting. A permanent, visible reminder of this final, devastating betrayal.

"It doesn't matter," I said, my voice flat. "I won't be wearing short skirts anymore."

The nurse gave me a confused look. "But you're Mrs. Franco. You have to attend so many functions-"

"Not for much longer," I said, meeting her gaze. "I'm getting a divorce."

As if summoned by the word itself, Corbin appeared in the doorway. He must have heard me again. His timing was impeccable.

The nurse, sensing the sudden drop in temperature, quickly excused herself.

Corbin walked to my bedside. For the first time, he actually looked at my leg, at the fresh bandages and the tubes snaking out from under the sheets. His expression was unreadable.

"I heard your surgery was delayed," he said, his voice softer than I expected. "I was with Annis. I thought you were safe, that the nurses were taking care of you."

He thought. He assumed. He never checked.

"I was," I said quietly. "For six hours. In the hallway."

He had the grace to flinch. "Kennedy, I-"

"Don't," I said, cutting him off. "It's fine. You've been absent for every important moment of my life for six years. Why should a near-death experience be any different?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He knew it was true. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a checkbook. A gesture so quintessentially Corbin it was almost funny. Trying to pay his way out of guilt.

"I'll cover all the medical expenses," he said. "And for your pain and suffering... name a price."

I looked at him, at his handsome, clueless face. And an idea, cold and sharp, formed in my mind. He wanted to pay? Fine. I would make him pay.

"One hundred million dollars," I said without blinking.

He froze, his hand hovering over the checkbook. "What?"

"You heard me," I said, my voice like steel. "One hundred million. Consider it an early alimony settlement. A severance package for six years of my life."

He stared at me, his eyes wide with a shock that, for the first time, seemed genuine. He was finally seeing that the doormat he'd married had grown teeth.

"Is the Pitts family in some kind of financial trouble?" he asked, his mind immediately going to the most logical, transactional explanation.

"No," I said. "This is personal."

He studied me for a long moment, then, to my surprise, he clicked his pen and began to write. The scratching sound filled the silent room. He tore out the check and placed it on my bedside table.

Then his phone buzzed. Annis, no doubt.

"I have to go," he said, already turning away. "We'll talk later."

I picked up the check. The numbers were staggering. It was a fortune. But to me, it wasn't money. It was freedom. It was the first installment of my divorce settlement.

"Corbin," I called out as he reached the door.

He paused, his hand on the knob.

"When we finalize the divorce," I said, my voice clear and steady, "you and I will be completely, irrevocably finished. No ties. No obligations. Nothing."

He didn't answer. He just walked out, leaving me alone with the check and the scent of another woman's perfume.

When I was finally discharged, I returned to our vast, empty penthouse. The first thing I did was go to Corbin's side of the closet. That "gift closet" he'd created.

I opened it. Everything I had ever given him was there. The cashmere sweaters, still in their original boxes. The expensive watches, their protective plastic still on the faces. The first-edition books, their spines uncracked. Nothing had ever been touched. Six years of my love, catalogued and stored away like evidence in a cold case.

I called my assistant. "Have everything in this closet donated to charity," I said. "And pack up the rest of Mr. Franco's belongings. Put them in storage."

That evening, Corbin came home to a half-empty apartment.

"Kennedy, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, gesturing to the empty spaces on the walls where his sterile, abstract art used to hang. "Where are my things?"

"I had them put away," I said calmly, sipping my tea. "The apartment felt cluttered."

He stared at me, a deep frown creasing his brow. He looked around, as if noticing for the first time that I had changed, that the very air in the room was different. He couldn't place it, but the shift unnerved him.

Then his eyes widened in panic. He rushed to his study, me following slowly behind. He tore the room apart, pulling books off shelves, opening drawers.

"Where is it?" he growled, his voice tight with desperation. "Where is the music box?"

I feigned ignorance. "What music box?"

He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture. It was a simple, antique-looking wooden box, intricately carved. "This. Annis gave it to me for our first anniversary in college. It's the most important thing I own. Where is it?"

The most important thing he owned. A gift from her. Not our wedding album. Not the portrait of us that used to hang in the hall. A trinket from a past love.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "It must have gotten packed up with the rest of your things."

"Find it," he hissed, his eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity. "Find it, Kennedy, or I swear to God, you will regret it."

For the next two hours, we searched. Even Corbin, the man who wouldn't touch a doorknob without gloves, was on his hands and knees, tearing through the boxes the movers had left, his perfect suit covered in dust.

I watched him, a strange detachment settling over me. I saw the panic in his eyes, the beads of sweat on his forehead. I saw how much this object, this piece of Annis, meant to him. He was more frantic looking for this box than he had been when I was bleeding on the pavement.

And in that moment, any lingering trace of love I might have had for him died a final, quiet death.