Chapter 13

Clara's POV 

The terrifying anomaly of Julian’s slip about Room 412 rattled around in the back of my skull like a loose bolt, but my trauma-fogged brain simply couldn't hold onto it. Every time I tried to process how he could possibly know, the vivid, horrifying image of Mark’s hands digging into that blonde woman’s flat waist surged back, drowning out every logical thought.

Julian dropped me off a block away from my house, respecting my panicked, desperate plea not to be seen pulling up to my suburban driveway in a billionaire's limousine.

I walked into my quiet house, locked the front door, and sat down on the living room sofa in the pitch dark. I didn't turn on a light. I didn't change out of my damp, torn clothes. I just sat there, staring at the front door, waiting for the executioner to return.

Mark didn't come home until twenty minutes past two in the morning.

I heard his key fumble in the lock, followed by the heavy thud of the door closing. He was humming a jaunty, cheerful tune under his breath, smelling strongly of expensive scotch and peppermint. He tossed his keys onto the entry console with a loud clatter.

I stood up from the sofa. My hand reached out and clicked on the floor lamp, casting a harsh, yellow glare over the room.

Mark jumped, startled, his eyes flashing with quick anger before he smoothed his face into a frown. "What the hell are you doing sitting in the dark like a lunatic, Clara? You scared the shit out of me."

"I went to the Grand Pearl today," I said. My voice didn't shake. I didn't cry. I was entirely hollowed out, stripped of fear by the sheer magnitude of the betrayal. "I saw you with her, Mark. I saw you swipe the keycard for Room 412."

For a fraction of a second, his handsome face went completely blank. Shock flickered in his eyes. But I didn't get the tearful apology I had dreamed about in my foolish heart. I didn't get denial.

Instead, Mark’s shock melted into a slow, ugly, arrogant smirk. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves as he walked casually toward the kitchen counter to pour himself a glass of tap water.

"So what?" he challenged, taking a long sip and looking at me over the glass. "Are you going to pack your little bags? Going to leave your comfortable house, Clara?"

"I'm taking Leo," I whispered, my fingernails digging into the soft palms of my hands until I felt skin break. "I want a divorce."

Mark slammed the glass down onto the granite counter so hard the water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto his leather shoes. In two terrifyingly long strides, he crossed the kitchen, backing me up against the wall beside the fridge.

"You aren't taking a damn thing from me," he snarled, leaning in until his alcohol-laced breath hit my face like heat from an oven. "Let’s play this out realistically, Clara. You have zero income. Your private savings account has what? A hundred bucks you've scavenged from grocery receipts? And let's not forget your official medical history. The documented postpartum depression. The anxiety prescriptions. The visits to the therapist I paid for."

My lungs seized in my chest. He was laying out his trap with clinical, terrifying precision.

"I have the best family law firm in the state on corporate retainer," Mark whispered, his dark eyes wide, flat, and completely devoid of humanity. "If you try to leave me, I will drag you through family court and prove to a judge that you are an unfit, mentally unstable, hysterical mother who can't even maintain her own body, let alone raise a son."

He brought his thumb up, pressing it hard against my jawbone, forcing my head back against the wall.

"I will take Leo," he whispered, "and I will make sure you never, ever see his face again. So dry your pathetic eyes, go upstairs, and get into my bed. You aren

't going anywhere."