CHAPTER FOUR

|| Isabella's POV ||

Divorce.

The word stared up at me from the papers scattered across my hospital blanket, black ink on white paper, clinical and final. I couldn't stop looking at them, couldn't stop my hands from trembling as I held our daughter—his daughter—closer to my chest.

He wanted a divorce.

I'd thought about it, of course. In the dark hours of this marriage, when his coldness felt like it would freeze me from the inside out, I'd imagined what freedom might look like. I imagined a life where I wasn't constantly bracing for his contempt, his suspicion, and his indifference.

But I never thought he'd be the one to demand it. And certainly not like this—hours after I'd nearly died bringing his child into the world, with that woman standing at his side like she already owned the space I was being erased from.

The cruelty of it took my breath away.

Three weeks passed. Twenty-one days of silence.

Aaron didn't come to the hospital again. Didn't call. Didn't ask about his daughter, about whether we were healing, or whether we needed anything. It was as if we'd ceased to exist the moment he'd thrown those papers at me.

Mrs. Rivera visited every day, bringing things from the house—clothes, supplies, her quiet, pitying presence. She never said it out loud, but I could see the question in her eyes: How can he do this to you?

I had no answer.

Sophia—I'd named her Sophia, hoping Aaron might at least care enough to approve or object, but he never responded to the text I'd sent—thrived despite everything. She was perfect. Ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes, eyes that were starting to shift from newborn blue to something darker. When she looked at me, when she wrapped her impossibly small hand around my finger, I felt like maybe I could survive this. Maybe we both could.

But the divorce papers sat on my bedside table, unsigned, a constant reminder that I was living on borrowed time.

Today, I had to face it. Face him.

Victoria's birthday party. The annual Styles family spectacle, where society's elite gathered to celebrate the matriarch who'd never wanted me as a daughter-in-law in the first place. Last year, I'd stood in the corner like a ghost while Victoria introduced Anastasia to everyone as "such a dear friend of the family."

This year will be worse. I knew it in my bones.

But Aaron would be there. He had to be—he never missed his mother's birthday. And I needed to talk to him. About Sophia. About the divorce. About something, anything that might make him see me as human instead of the scheming villain he'd decided I was.

I dressed carefully, my body still tender, still recovering. The dress hung looser than it should have—I'd lost weight I couldn't afford to lose. But it was elegant, modest, the kind of thing Victoria couldn't find fault with.

Sophia was with Mrs. Rivera for the evening. I'd kissed her goodbye three times, my heart aching at the separation, but I couldn't bring a newborn to this. Couldn't expose her to what I knew was coming.

The Styles mansion blazed with light when I arrived. Crystal chandeliers, white roses everywhere, string quartet playing in the corner. Wealth on display, power in every perfectly arranged detail.

I stepped inside, and the conversations around me stuttered, then picked up again in hushed whispers. Everyone knew. Of course they knew—nothing stayed secret in this world. The scandalous pregnancy, the loveless marriage. I was this season's entertainment.

My eyes found Aaron almost immediately. He stood near the bar, devastating in a black suit, his dark hair perfectly styled. And beside him, like always, was Anastasia.

She wore red—bold, confident, the kind of dress that announced ownership. Her hand rested on his arm as she laughed at something he'd said, her whole body angled toward him in a way that screamed intimacy.

My heart, foolish thing that it was, cracked a little more.

I started toward them, each step feeling like walking toward an execution.

Anastasia saw me first and her gaze instantly turned cold, her hold on him tightening. "Oh," she said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Isabella. What a… surprise. I didn't think you'd come."

Her tone said: I didn't think you'd dare.

Aaron's eyes found mine, and there was nothing in them. No warmth, no curiosity, no acknowledgment that I'd nearly died giving birth to his child three weeks ago. Just that cold, assessing stare.

"Anastasia," I said quietly, forcing myself to stay calm, to not let her see how much this hurt.

"You look… well." Anastasia's gaze swept over me, cataloging every flaw, every sign of weakness. "Motherhood suits you. Although"—she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried—"you really should have taken more time to recover before appearing in public. You look so… worn."

Heat flooded my cheeks. My hands clenched at my sides, but I kept my face neutral.

"Anastasia, dear!" Victoria's voice cut through the tension. Aaron's mother glided over, resplendent in sapphire silk, her silver hair swept up in an elegant chignon. She kissed Anastasia's cheek warmly, then turned to me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Isabella. How… dutiful of you to attend."

"Happy birthday, Victoria," I said softly.

She barely acknowledged it. "Yes, thank you." She turned back to Anastasia and Aaron, her expression softening into genuine affection. "Don't you two look wonderful together? Honestly, standing here like this, you could be on the cover of a magazine. Such a perfect match."

The words landed like physical blows.

Anastasia's smile widened. "Oh, Victoria, you're too kind."

"Not at all. I'm simply stating facts." Victoria's eyes slid to me briefly, dismissively. "Some people are just meant to be together. It's obvious to anyone with eyes. Aaron needs someone who can stand beside him as an equal. Someone sophisticated, educated, capable of navigating our world." Her gaze lingered on me for a pointed moment. "Someone who can actually… hold a proper conversation."

The barb hit its mark. I felt it sink in, felt the familiar shame and rage warring in my chest.

Aaron said nothing. Didn't defend me, didn't tell his mother to stop. He just stood there, sipping his drink, as if I weren't even worth the effort of acknowledgment.

"Only someone like Anastasia," Victoria continued, her voice carrying to the nearby guests, "is truly worthy of the Styles name. Not some vile manipulative and cheap whore. Wouldn't you agree, Aaron?"

He looked at his mother, then at Anastasia, before he sighed. "Mother's taste has always been impeccable."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the roaring in my ears. I was standing in the middle of Aaron's family home, surrounded by people who all believed I was a schemer, a gold-digger, a mistake—and the man I'd married was letting them tear me apart without saying a single word in my defense.

I took a deep breath and forced the words out. "Aaron. I need to talk to you. Please. In private."

Aaron's jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought he would refuse, but then he nodded. "Fine. Just five minutes… This is my mother's party, and for your sake, I hope you didn't come here with your shenanigans."

He turned and walked toward one of the private rooms off the main hall. I followed, acutely aware of the eyes tracking us and the whispers starting up in our wake.

The door closed behind us, muffling the party sounds. We were alone in his father's old study—all dark wood and leather, masculine and imposing.

Aaron leaned against the desk, arms crossed, waiting.

"I needed to see you," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks, and you haven't even asked about your daughter…"

"Did you sign the papers?" he interrupted.

I stared at him. After everything—after his mother's public humiliation, after three weeks of silence, after he'd missed every moment of his daughter's first weeks of life—that was his first question?

"Have you even asked about her?" My voice rose, desperation creeping in. "About Sophia? Do you even care that she exists?"

"That's not what we're discussing."

"She's your daughter!" The words came out strangled, raw.

"And she'll be well provided for. The divorce settlement includes generous child support and visitation terms. I hired the best nurse to make sure she's well taken care of… I ensured you had everything you needed to recover, and I left ten million dollars in your account."

"I don't need your fucking money!" The words exploded from me before I could stop them.

He took a deep breath and took a step toward me. "Now, did you sign the papers or not?"

Something inside me shattered. The last fragile hope I'd been clutching, the desperate belief that maybe, somehow, he might surprise me—it crumbled into dust.

I looked at him—really looked at him. At the man who'd married me out of obligation, who'd never once tried to see past his own assumptions, who'd thrown divorce papers at me hours after I'd nearly died, who couldn't even pretend to care about the tiny human being we'd created together.

And I realized… There was nothing left to fight for.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His eyebrows rose slightly. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, I'll sign the divorce papers." I straightened my shoulders, forcing strength I didn't feel into my voice. "I agree to the divorce."