Chapter 2

Isabella

The house was quiet when the front door unlocked. Midnight, maybe later—I’d stopped checking the clock hours ago.

I was curled up in the sitting room armchair, blanket wrapped tight around me, legs tucked beneath me. The lamp glowed faintly beside me, throwing soft pools of light onto the rug, but the corners of the room swallowed the rest in shadow. On the coffee table, the papers waited like an accusation. I hadn’t planned on waiting for him, but something in me—stubborn, desperate—wanted to see his face when he realized what I’d done.

The lock clicked, then the familiar sounds: the rustle of his suit jacket sliding from his shoulders, the metallic clink of keys in the dish, a weary sigh that filled the silence before his footsteps did.

And then Gabriel walked in.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Untouchable. Even disheveled—tie loose, shirt undone, hair mussed from his restless hands—he carried that aura of command the world worshipped. The kind of presence that made entire boardrooms fall silent.

But beneath the polish, I saw it clearly: the man who had no idea his wife was already gone.

His eyes flicked toward me, surprise flashing, quickly buried. “You’re awake.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” My voice came out too calm, startling even me.

He bypassed me for the bar cart, pouring whiskey like it was ritual. “Another late meeting,” he said, as if that explained everything. “The Tokyo deal’s dragging.”

Always a deal. Always an excuse. Always something more important.

He drank, jaw tightening with the burn. The silence between us thickened, heavy as fog, until it broke from me first.

“I went to see a lawyer today.”

The words cracked the room in half. Gabriel froze mid-sip. He set the glass down slowly, deliberately, the faint clink of crystal on glass echoing too loud in the silence.

“A lawyer,” he repeated, quiet, unreadable.

“For a divorce.”

Finally, his gaze locked on mine. Sharp. Calculating. The look he wore in boardrooms when cornered. But behind it—something I couldn’t name. Something fleeting.

He crossed the space, stopping a few feet away. His presence was overwhelming, close enough that I could smell the faint mix of whiskey and cologne clinging to him. “You’re serious.”

I nodded, fingers tightening around the blanket. “Yes. I can’t do this anymore, Gabriel. The empty dinners. The nights waiting. The silence. I don’t even exist in your life anymore.”

For the first time in months, maybe years, he didn’t have a quick reply. He dragged a hand down his face, the mask faltering, then settling back into place. His sigh was long, slow.

“If this is what you want, Isabella… I won’t stop you.”

My throat burned. I hadn’t expected him to beg, but I’d hoped for something—a plea, a flicker of regret, proof that somewhere under all the marble and glass and money, my husband still existed. Instead, he accepted it like another contract on his desk.

I pushed the folder toward him. “The papers are there.”

His jaw clenched. He didn’t open it immediately, just stared at me with something unreadable in his eyes. Not anger, not grief. Just a searching silence. When he finally flipped through the pages, his movements were precise, detached, like a man checking numbers.

Then he picked up the pen. And with the same elegance he signed billion-dollar deals, Gabriel Thorne signed away our marriage.

The scratch of ink was louder than it should’ve been, each stroke nailing shut the coffin of what we once had. When he set the pen down, the papers were no longer mine alone. They were ours.

Five years of vows undone in seconds.

I forced myself to look at him, chin high though my heart felt raw.

“Is that all?” he asked, calm as ever.

I wanted to scream. To demand how he could be so indifferent, how I could mean so little. My chest burned with words unsaid, with questions that had no safe answers. But my voice betrayed nothing. “That’s all.”

He closed the folder carefully, aligning the edges, and slid his hands into his pockets. His gaze lingered on me, searching, unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just… distant.

And then he turned away.

No plea. No fight.

And that cut deeper than anything else.

His footsteps faded upstairs. A door clicked shut. I sat frozen in the armchair, tears welling until I couldn’t hold them back. Hot, angry, aching. I hated him. I loved him. I hated that I still loved him.

By the time I dragged myself upstairs, the master bedroom door was closed. I pressed a hand to the wood, tempted to beg him to tell me I mattered.

But I didn’t.

I walked to the guest room instead. For the first time since we married, I slept in another bed.

The next morning, Gabriel was gone.

His side of the bed was made, his closet doors closed, his world in perfect order. As if nothing had fractured overnight.

James greeted me downstairs, bowing politely. “Good morning, Mrs.—” He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the study. His voice softened. “Good morning, Isabella.”

The shift pierced deeper than I expected. I smiled faintly. “Good morning, James.”

The staff had always been discreet, but not blind. They’d seen the empty chairs, the quiet rooms, the way I carried conversations with silence. Maybe none of them were surprised it had come to this.

In the study, sunlight streamed across the desk where the folder lay. Both our signatures stared back at me. Isabella Reyes-Thorne. Gabriel Thorne. Side by side, for the last time.

I traced the ink with trembling fingers before pulling back sharply. Enough tears.

The phone on his desk buzzed, his assistant’s name glowing on the screen. I let it go unanswered. He couldn’t face this house—face me—but he could chase another meeting. Of course.

That afternoon, I packed a small suitcase. Not because I was leaving today, but because I needed the reminder that I could.

Mia arrived with iced coffee and croissants, pulling me into a hug before I even spoke.

“It’s done?” she asked softly.

I nodded.

She squeezed me tighter. “You’re braver than you think, Isa.”

I wanted to believe her. But all I felt was hollow.

We ate in the kitchen, forcing small talk—movies, work, her latest disastrous date. She teased me until I laughed, the sound brittle but real. For a little while, it felt like life outside Gabriel’s orbit was possible.

When she left, the loneliness returned. But it wasn’t the same emptiness. It felt like space. Like possibility.

I stood at the window as dusk fell, the city flickering to life. Somewhere out there, Gabriel was probably buried in another deal, pretending nothing had changed.

My hand drifted to my stomach, flat beneath my blouse. He didn’t know. Maybe he never would.

But I knew.

And I promised that this child—my child—would grow up wanted. Loved. Even if it meant loving enough for two.

That night, I crawled into the guest bed again, suitcase at the foot. The ceiling loomed above me, heavy with change.

This was the end.

But maybe—just maybe—it was the beginning too.