Chapter 6

Cassian woke to a headache banging inside his skull.

He groaned and pressed his palms against his eyes. His mouth was dry. His body felt foreign. Fragments of the previous night drifted through his mind Julian's fireplace, Vanessa's laughter, the burn of whiskey but they were broken, impossible to piece together.

He reached out instinctively across the sheets.

Cold. Empty.

He turned his head. Clara's side was undisturbed, pillow smooth, blankets tucked. He frowned. She must have gone to the kitchen. Or the garden. She liked the garden in the mornings.

He pushed himself upright, and the movement sent fresh pain through his temples. He sat there waiting for the room to stop spinning, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. His shirt was unbuttoned, his trousers rumpled. He couldn't remember undressing. He couldn't remember much after leaving Julian's house.

He stood up slowly, one hand pressed to his forehead, and shuffled toward the nightstand. A glass water pitcher sat there, half-full. He reached for it and poured himself a glass of water, his fingers clumsy, and that was when he noticed the papers.

A manila envelope. A folded note on top.

He picked up the note first, unfolding it as he reached for the water glass.

The handwriting was Clara's. Neat. Small. Precise.

I'm leaving already Cassian. I know you have never loved me. Enjoy your life with Vanessa. Please don't look for me. Goodbye.

The glass slipped from his hand.

It shattered against the floor. Water splashed across the hardwood, but Cassian didn't notice. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. He stared at the three lines in his wife's handwriting, and the world narrowed to a single, roaring point of disbelief.

His hands began to tremble.

He snatched the envelope and tore it open. The document inside was thick, legal, stamped with a notary's seal. He scanned the pages irreconcilable differences dissolution of marriage the undersigned waives all claims to marital assets and his vision blurred.

Divorce papers. Signed. By her.

His signature line was still blank. She'd left him the pen.

His head pounded. This wasn't real. This was a hangover hallucination. Clara wouldn't leave. Clara never left. Clara was the constant.

He grabbed his phone and dialed her number.

The number you have dialed is not available.

He tried again. Same result.

He threw the phone onto the bed and crossed to her wardrobe. He yanked the doors open.

Empty. Bare hangers. Bare shelves. Her dresses were gone. Her shoes were gone. The small jewelry box where she kept her mother's pearls was gone.

He stumbled backward, shoulder hitting the doorframe. "No. No, no, no."

He strode down the stairs, bare feet slapping against marble. "Marie! Elena!"

The maids appeared, faces pale. They had never seen him like this disheveled, unshaven, shirt hanging open, eyes wild.

"Have you seen my wife this morning? Has anyone seen Clara?"

Marie shook her head. "No, sir. Not since last night."

"I brought Madam water yesterday evening," Elena added quietly. "She didn't come out for dinner."

Cassian dismissed them with a wave. He stood alone in the foyer, chest heaving.

He called his secretary. "Mike. I need you to find my wife. She left this morning. Track her phone. Track her cards. I don't care how. Find her."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

Cassian hung up and lowered himself onto the bottom step. His head throbbed. His hands trembled. But beneath the physical pain, something else stirred something cold and unfamiliar.

She'll come back. She's been angry before. She always comes back.

One year ago.

The charity gala at the Harrington Hotel.

Crystal chandeliers. Champagne towers. Cassian had been working the room with cold efficiency, Clara silent at his side. She'd played the role of Mrs. Cassian Kingsley with the quiet competence of a woman who had learned to make herself small.

Then she'd reached for a glass of water.

"I'm thirsty," she'd whispered. "I'll just get a drink from the bar."

Cassian's hand closed around her wrist. "No."

"It's just water. I'll be quick."

"I said no." His voice was low, cold. "You're not here to drink. You're here to stand beside me. So stand."

A reporter had been nearby. The story ran the next morning with a photograph of Clara's face flushed, eyes bright with unshed tears and the headline: Kingsley Heir Keeps Wife on Short Leash at Charity Gala.

Clara had left the next day. Packed a small bag and disappeared. Cassian came home to an empty house and a long note explaining she needed time, that she felt invisible in her own marriage.

He hadn't looked for her.

Three days. She was gone three days, and he hadn't called once. He'd told himself she was being childish, that she'd come crawling back.

On the third day, she returned.

She'd found him in his study. "I'm back."

"I can see that."

"I'm sorry for the trouble I might have caused you."

He hadn't turned around. "Fine."

"I just needed some time."

"Are you done now?"

A long pause. Then, quietly: "Yes. I'm done."

"Good. The Lockwood dinner is on Thursday. I need you there."

She'd stood there waiting for something an apology, an acknowledgment, a single word of kindness. He'd given her nothing. He hadn't even turned around. Then she walked away, and he hadn't thought about it again.

Until now.

Cassian sat on the stairs, staring at the shattered glass and scattered divorce papers.

She was gone three days, and I didn't look for her. She apologized to me, and I didn't apologize back. She needed me, and I wasn't there.

His phone rang. Vanessa.

He stared at her name on the screen, thumb hovering. He didn't want to talk to her. But old habits were hard to break.

"Cassian." Her voice was sweet and petulant. "Where are you? Why didn't you stay with me last night?"

"I had to go home."

"You should have woken me. You know how uncomfortable I get sleeping in a strange house."

"You've known Julian for years. Talk to him instead. I'm busy. I'll call you later."

He ended the call before she could respond.

The phone rang again. Mike.

"What did you find?"

"Sir." Mike's voice was careful. "She booked a cab around five AM. It took her to the international airport."

"Where did she fly?"

"Her visa was approved seven days ago. Today was the activation date. She used a private booking no commercial airline records under her name. I'm still working on it, but—"

"But what?"

"She's gone, sir. She left the country. I don't know where."

The words hit like a physical blow. Cassian felt the strength drain from his legs. He lowered himself onto the staircase again, phone pressed to his ear, Mike still speaking but the words no longer making sense.

She's gone. She left the country.

"Keep searching. I don't care what it costs. Find her."

He hung up.

The silence that followed was absolute.

He picked up the divorce papers. She wanted nothing no money, no property, no settlement. She had waived everything. She had asked for nothing but her freedom.

He picked up the note again.

Three lines. That was all she'd left him. Three lines after four years of marriage.

I'm leaving already Cassian. I know you have never loved me. Enjoy your life with Vanessa. Please don't look for me. Goodbye.

He read it again. And again. And again.

The words blurred. He blinked, and something warm slid down his cheek. He touched his face and stared at the wetness on his fingertips.

A tear.

Cassian Kingsley, who hadn't cried since he was twelve years old at his father's funeral, was crying.

He didn't wipe it away.

He sat on the stairs of his empty mansion, holding a goodbye note in his trembling hands, and for the first time in four years, he understood exactly what he had lost.