Chapter 8

Fredrick's pupils contracted sharply. He stared at her in disbelief, his blood running cold. "Roxanne! You wouldn't dare."

Her eyes flashed with malice. She stepped forward, and before Fredrick could react, she raised her hand and struck the side of his neck with the edge of her palm. "Watch me."

Pain shot through him as darkness engulfed his vision. Before he could even cry out, his body went limp, and he collapsed unconscious.

…

When Fredrick regained consciousness, he found himself lying in the middle of a street.

Cold concrete pressed against his body. People hurried past him on every side, and the surrounding noise assaulted his ears.

He braced his arms against the ground and struggled to sit up, but his entire body felt drained of strength, and his head throbbed painfully.

Then he noticed the photographs scattered across the pavement.

White sheets of paper littered the street, and every gust of wind carried them farther. Curious passersby stopped to pick them up, pointing and whispering among themselves. Some even sneered in open contempt.

Fredrick stiffly turned his head toward the photograph nearest him.

The man in the photograph was him, completely naked.

The memory came rushing back. Long ago, Roxanne had insisted on taking those photographs. She had claimed she wanted something to remember him by and promised that no one but her would ever see them.

He had believed her. Now those same photographs were scattered throughout the city.

"God, who is this?"

"He's actually pretty good-looking. Why would he let someone take pictures like that?"

"Look at the one next to it. That pose is even more..."

"If someone recognized him from these, how could he ever show his face in public again?"

Every whispered remark pierced his ears like a needle.

Fredrick trembled uncontrollably. He forced himself to his feet and frantically began gathering the photographs, but just as he reached for one, a stranger snatched it up.

The man examined the photograph before looking at Fredrick, his gaze traveling over him with undisguised amusement. "Hey, isn't this the guy in the picture?"

Fredrick felt as though something had exploded inside his skull.

Humiliation, shame, fury, and despair overwhelmed him all at once.

He spun around and stumbled away, desperate to find somewhere less crowded, somewhere he could escape the stares and the photographs.

But no matter where he went, he couldn't escape them.

Beside filthy trash cans, beneath crowded bus shelters, outside brightly lit storefronts, across the pavement, plastered on walls, and even stuck to the windshields of parked cars, those white sheets bore the images of his most intimate moments.

They were everywhere.

He desperately tried to collect them, using every last ounce of strength he possessed. The sharp edges of the paper cut into his fingers, and tiny beads of blood welled from the wounds, but he barely noticed the pain.

Yet every time he managed to gather a handful, another gust of wind would carry more photographs down the street and scatter them across the pavement.

Despair washed over him, cold and suffocating.

With trembling hands, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.

After several rings, Roxanne answered. "Hello?"

Fredrick opened his mouth, but no words came.

"Fredrick?" She must have recognized his breathing. "Did you see the photos?"

He remained silent, his teeth digging into his lower lip until he tasted blood.

"That's what happens when you hurt Jax." Her voice turned icy, and every word carried an unmistakable warning. "Remember this lesson. Don't you ever lay a hand on him again."

"Roxanne." Fredrick finally managed to speak. His voice was hoarse and broken, thick with tears and despair. "I hate you. I hate you."

Silence settled over the other end of the line.

A moment later, Roxanne spoke again, her voice colder than before, with an unmistakable edge of irritation and impatience. "Fine. Hate me all you want. Just know your place from now on."

She hung up.

Fredrick clutched his phone and sank helplessly to the pavement, too exhausted to move. The cold concrete pressed against him, but he no longer cared.

All around him, people continued to point and whisper. Photographs of his naked body lay scattered across the ground, exposed to the eyes of countless strangers.

Every stare, every sneer, and every whispered remark felt like another cut, slowly stripping away what little dignity he had left.

Just as despair threatened to consume him completely, his phone rang again.

This time, it was his lawyer.

"Hello, Mr. Tatham. The divorce proceedings are complete. Both divorce certificates have been sent to your residence by courier, as you requested. Please check for them when you have a chance."

For several seconds, Fredrick struggled to comprehend what he had heard.

Then, like a drowning man who had finally found something to cling to, he felt a sudden glimmer of hope.

He forced himself off the ground.

Ignoring the pain that wracked his body and the curious stares of the people around him, he staggered forward, then broke into a desperate run toward home.

He ran so recklessly that his wounds tore open, and blood seeped through his clothes. Yet he felt none of the pain.

Only one thought kept him going, a beacon of hope amid the darkness.

The divorce certificates had arrived. He could finally leave.

Fredrick rushed into the cold, empty villa and headed straight for the living room.

There, on the coffee table, sat a courier envelope, exactly as his lawyer had promised.

His hands trembled as he tore it open. Inside were two documents. The words "Divorce Certificate" stood out starkly at the top of each page.

Fredrick stared at those words for a long time, his eyes gradually stinging with tears.

Then, without warning, tears streamed down his cheeks and fell onto the certificates, leaving dark, spreading stains on their surfaces.

With trembling hands, he picked up one of the copies and carefully tucked it into his bag, as though it were something priceless.

He handed the other to Mary Cooper, the housekeeper, who had hurried over at the sound of the commotion. Confusion filled her face.

"Mary, give everyone on the household staff the rest of the day off, effective immediately." His voice was quiet but firm, leaving no room for argument. "And give this to Roxanne when she gets home."

Mary accepted the envelope in a daze. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but Fredrick had already turned toward the stairs.

He went upstairs to the bedroom, opened the closet, and retrieved a suitcase from the very bottom.

It was already packed. Everything was ready.

He carried the suitcase downstairs, then paused in the living room to take one last look around.

This was the house Roxanne had once designed especially for him. 'Our marital home…'

She had personally selected every detail, from the furniture to the smallest decorations. She had promised to give him the warmest home imaginable, a place where they would spend their lives together and create a lifetime of memories.

Now, all that remained were cold furnishings and the wreckage of their past.

After dismissing the household staff, Fredrick went to the kitchen and retrieved a lighter. He then entered the storage room and took out an unopened bottle of liquor.

He unscrewed the cap and poured its contents over the sofa, the carpet, and the curtains. Then he retreated toward the doorway and flicked the lighter.

A flame sprang to life.

Fredrick stood at the threshold, his face deathly pale, as the fire spread through the room and climbed toward the ceiling. Waves of heat washed over him.

He watched for a moment longer. Then he turned, picked up his suitcase, and walked away without a backward glance.

He was leaving this house. He was leaving Roxanne's world.

Behind him, the flames climbed higher, and thick smoke billowed into the sky.

With the glow of the fire at his back, Fredrick raised his hand and hailed a passing taxi.

"The airport, please."