Divorce papers

Desmond guided Olive through the doors of the mansion, his hand firm on the small of her back. Olive moved slowly, still pale from her episode at the hospital, one hand occasionally brushing her stomach as if to steady herself and the life growing inside.

He led her upstairs in silence, each step echoing. When they reached the room, the room he had once shared with Genevieve, Olive hesitated. The king-sized bed was still made with the crisp ivory linens Genevieve favored. Her favorite throw blanket lay folded at the foot. A faint trace of her perfume lingered in the air, delicate and floral.

“I… I don’t like this place,” she said quietly, her voice uncertain.

Desmond exhaled slowly, already tired. “You’re not here to like it. You’re here to rest.”

He helped her sit, then gently lowered her onto the bed.

As he stood to leave, her fingers tightened around his sleeve.

“You left me at the hospital,” she said, voice breaking slightly. “One moment you were there, and then you were gone. Everyone was looking at me like I was… like I was completely alone.”

His jaw flexed.

“Olive,” he said lowly, controlled, “not now.”

But she didn’t let go.

“Was it her?” she asked, fear creeping into her voice now. “The divorce announcement… is that why you left me there? Is that why you can’t even look at me properly?”

That made him stop.

For a fraction of a second, something sharp flickered in his expression—irritation, distraction, something deeper he refused to name, but he buried it quickly.

“This conversation is over,” he said, colder now. “You fainted. The doctor was clear—you must avoid stress. Think about yourself… and the baby.”

Her hand slowly slipped away. Hurt crossed her face, but she said nothing more.

Desmond turned and left the room.

Down in the parlor, Desmond poured himself a stiff drink, the amber liquid sloshing against crystal. The house felt too quiet, too vast without Genevieve’s presence. He paced the length of the room, phone in hand, dialing her number for the fifth time. Straight to voicemail again.

It unsettled him more than silence ever could.

“Genevieve,” he muttered, ending the call. “Call me back.”

A pause.

“We need to talk.”

But even as he said it, he didn’t sound sure what “talk” meant anymore.

He didn’t understand how her absence could feel this loud.

Olive had fallen asleep in the room he placed later that night, but Desmond did not sleep. She clung to him in the dark, seeking warmth, seeking assurance, but his mind was elsewhere.

Every time he closed his eyes, memories flooded in.

He remembered the night Genevieve had come home drunk after she had heard about Olive's discussion with his brother. She had stumbled into his arms, her cheeks flushed.

“I loved you so much, Desmond,” she had slurred, pouting in that adorable way that made her eyes sparkle. “I really did...”

She had looked beautiful and innocent then, her hair tousled, lips curved as she tugged at his tie.

Why had she changed? This cold, decisive woman who publicly discarded their marriage wasn’t the Genevieve he knew. The one who had endured family pressure with quiet grace. Why didn’t she want him anymore?

Olive stirred beside him, murmuring his name in her sleep, her hand resting possessively over her belly. Desmond stared at the ceiling, chest tight with a confusion he refused to name.

The next morning at Vaughn Enterprises, Desmond’s focus was shattered. He sat at the head of the conference table, staring at spreadsheets without seeing them. Executives droned on about quarterly projections, but his mind kept drifting to empty voicemails and unanswered texts.

His phone buzzed. He snatched it up, hoping. It was Marcus, the private investigator he’d hired. He stood up leaving the meeting back to the elevator back to his office.

“Mr. Vaughn,” the man said briskly. “Still no trace of her. She’s gone off-grid. No credit card activity, no hotel bookings under her name. I’ll keep digging.”

Desmond’s grip tightened on the phone until his knuckles whitened. “Find my wife,” he growled. “Double whatever I’m paying you. I don’t care what it takes.” He ended the call, punching the wall of the elevator, frustration boiling into a sense of losing control.

Moments later, his assistant knocked hesitantly and entered, holding a thick envelope. “Sir, this just arrived by courier.”

" That can wait later. leave my office” Desmond said without looking up.

“Sir… it’s from Mrs. Vaughn’s legal firm.”

That made him look up, staring at the papers as if they were venomous. He snatched them, flipping through the pages with disbelief.

Signatures. Dates. Clear, irrevocable language. She had really done it.

Divorce Papers.

“Anger surged through him, hot and blinding. “This is ridiculous,” he spat, tossing the documents aside. “She thinks she can just walk away like this?”

Before he could spiral further, his phone rang. Private number.

He answered immediately.

“Mr. Vaughn,” the voice began, calm and professional. “I represent Mrs. Genevieve Vaughn. I trust you’ve received the filing.”

Desmond’s voice was ice-cold, laced with fury. “You’re moving very fast for someone who doesn’t understand what she’s doing.”

“On the contrary, sir. My client was very clear. She wishes to proceed immediately.”

“And you expect me to just sign it?” Desmond rose from his chair, pacing behind his desk like a caged animal.

“We expect cooperation. However, the process will continue regardless.”

The line clicked dead. Desmond hurled his phone across the room. It cracked against the wall but didn’t shatter his rage. “Damn it, Genevieve!”

He grabbed his second phone from his drawer, dialing her number with aggressive jabs. It rang. Once. Twice. His pacing intensified, footsteps heavy on the carpet.

“Pick up your damn phone,” he snarled under his breath as it continued ringing. “Pick up, pick up—”

The call connected.