Divorced Finally

Chapter Eight

Pain dragged me back into the world. Not sudden, not sharp, but a relentless weight pressing from all directions. My ribs screamed when I breathed. My knees pulsed as though the bones themselves had cracked. Even my skin burned, raw and scraped from the impact.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

The ceiling above me was wrong. Not hospital white, not glittering chandeliers. Just plain. Cream paint, a small water stain in the corner. The guest room.

My heart stuttered. Why here?

I turned my head, slow, every motion echoing pain through my bones. My cheek brushed the pillow. A faint crimson blotch smeared against the linen where my split lip had bled. The taste of copper lingered at the back of my mouth. My hands lay useless at my sides, one bruised, the other stiff as though dislocated.

And then I heard it.

A sound steady and smooth, too deliberate to be anything but purposeful.

The scrape of a pen across paper.

I forced my gaze to shift, just enough to see him.

Daniel.

He sat in a chair beside my bed, posture as rigid as ever, his suit still crisp. His hair, not a strand out of place. His hand moved easily, signature after signature, across a stack of papers laid neatly on the bedside table.

For a moment, I thought foolishly of consent forms, of medical authorizations, of treatment. Then his voice cut the thought to pieces.

“Divorce papers.” He didn’t even look at me. His tone was flat, almost bored. “It’s better this way. Cleaner.”

The room tilted. Divorce. Not a doctor. Not help. Not care. My lips parted, but nothing came. My throat felt carved from sandpaper.

I tried again. A rasp escaped. “Daniel…”

Finally, he looked at me. His eyes were ice. Detached. I had seen him look at business partners that way, men he planned to crush.

“You’ll sign them when you’re strong enough to hold a pen.” His voice carried no hesitation. “For now, rest. Elizabeth and I have arranged everything. You’ll be provided for. Quietly. But this marriage…” His mouth curved, not in kindness but in a final stroke of dismissal. “This marriage is over.”

Elizabeth and I.

My stomach turned, nausea rising at the name.

I swallowed painfully. “You pushed me.” The words came broken, shredded, but they were all I had.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then his lip twitched, amusement flashing across his face. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping low.

“You fell. Everyone saw. Don’t embarrass yourself further with lies.”

My body flinched at the sharpness in his tone. My ribs screamed, my skin stung. But inside, something darker rose, desperate to claw out of me.

He leaned back, unhurried, and with one last flick of his pen, he signed the final page. He slid it onto the stack, adjusted his cufflinks, and rose to his feet.

“You’ll rest,” he said simply. “You’ll need your strength for what comes next.”

And then, as if summoned by the devil himself, the door opened.

Elizabeth.

Her perfume filled the air before her voice did, rich and suffocating. She wore cream silk, her neckline plunging, the fabric clinging in ways meant to taunt. Her smile was soft, but not for me. It curled for him, and only him.

“Is it done?” she asked, her voice honey-dipped.

Daniel handed her the papers. “Almost.”

Her gaze slid to me. Deliberate. Slow. She drank in the bruises, the blood at my mouth, the way I lay stiff and useless beneath the blanket. Her smile widened like a blade unsheathed.

“Good,” she whispered. “Then soon she’ll only be a memory.”

The words echoed louder than the slam of the door when they both left.

Silence again.

But not empty silence.

Through the door, muffled voices stirred. Footsteps. A low hiss of whispers.

Two maids.

“…saw her fall. Like a doll down the stairs.”

“Hush, someone will hear.”

“It’s true. And now they put her here, the guest room, as if she were no more than a guest herself. Did you see his face? Cold as ice. Didn’t even touch her.”

“What of the mistress?”

A pause. A sharp intake of breath. “She came in smiling. Smiling while the madam lay bleeding.”

“Then she’s as good as dead already.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t.”

Their voices faded as they hurried away, but the words clung to me. As good as dead.

My chest tightened. The slow toxin still threaded through my veins, pale fingers of weakness pulling me under inch by inch. And now bruises layered over it, raw reminders of how little strength I had left.

Not dead. Not yet. But they wanted me gone.

I stared at the stack of papers still on the table, the ink drying where his hand had pressed down with such calm certainty. Divorce. Erasure.

My eyes blurred, tears threatening, but I blinked them back. Crying was for the weak, and weakness was exactly what they wanted to see.

No.

No, if they wanted me erased, they would have to drag me out kicking, clawing, fighting for every inch.

Because I was not finished.

Not yet.

The hours dragged. Servants slipped in and out, silent, nervous, careful not to linger. They adjusted my pillows, replaced the bloodied sheets, left trays of untouched food. Their eyes darted away quickly whenever mine caught theirs, but I could feel the truth humming behind their silence. They all knew. Everyone in the house knew.

Late in the night, the door creaked again. Elizabeth entered alone this time.

She didn’t stand at the doorframe. She came close. Close enough that her perfume choked me, close enough that her gown brushed the edge of the bed.

“You’re still alive,” she murmured. Her smile was soft, almost tender, but her eyes gleamed with malice. “Stubborn little thing.”

I forced myself to hold her gaze. My body trembled, but I would not look away.

“Daniel said you’re to rest,” she went on, her tone mocking. “Rest, and then sign. Isn’t it easier that way? To let go gracefully?”

My throat ached, but I found my voice, broken though it was. “You pushed me.”

Her smile widened. “Prove it.”

The words landed like a slap. Prove it.

No one had seen her hand on my back. No one but me would ever believe it.

She leaned closer, her whisper brushing hot against my ear. “You think anyone will take your word against mine? Against his? You’re nothing, Ava. A fading shadow. Soon he won’t even remember the sound of your voice.”

Her hand grazed my cheek, almost affectionate, then pressed hard against the bruise at my jaw until pain shot through me. I gasped, but she only smiled.

“You should be grateful,” she said sweetly. “Some women aren’t given the chance to fade quietly. Some are snuffed out all at once. Isn’t this kinder?”

My blood burned. My hands clenched weakly against the sheets. But she straightened before I could speak again, smoothing her gown, her expression composed.

“Rest,” she said, almost sing-song. “The weaker you become, the faster he’ll forget you.”

And with a swish of silk, she was gone.

When the door shut, I let my head fall back against the pillow. My chest heaved, every breath rattling. My body was broken, bruised, poisoned, yes. But not gone.

Not gone.

The slow toxin wanted me pale, wanted me fading. The stairs wanted me broken. Elizabeth wanted me erased.

But there was a stubborn rhythm inside me still, a beat that refused to die.

I pressed my trembling hand to my heart, the pulse faint but defiant.

Let them write me off. Let them sign their papers. Let them whisper about my end.

I was still here.

And I would not go quietly.

Not yet.