Chapter 2

Isaac raised his hand, but instead of touching the papers, his long fingers hovered near my ear. His cool fingertips gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

The gesture was so intimate, so gentle, that my body instinctively tensed up.

"Ella, we never hurt each other," Isaac said, his voice low and almost hypnotic.

For a moment, it felt like he was once again that perfect husband, the one who would rent out an entire rose garden just for our anniversary.

"What truly hurts is losing control," he added.

His fingers traced down my cheek and paused at my chin, gently tilting it up, so I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"I'm well aware of those little pets you've been keeping around," Isaac said.

My eyes widened in shock.

Isaac's eyes glinted with a mocking look, tinged with pity. "The personal trainer? He was trying to sell you his classes. The guitarist? He wanted to keep his gig at the bar for a couple more months.

"And tonight's guy? Let me guess. He's trying to pay off his debts, right?"

It felt like all the blood in my body was flowing backward.

So he knew. He had always known.

I was nothing but a clown, putting on a whole circus right under his nose for a year. I thought I was getting back at him, thought I was humiliating him, and thought I was stabbing at his pride.

But in reality, he was sitting back and watching the farce. Maybe he was even lurking in the shadows, coldly watching those men make fools of themselves.

"See?" Isaac let go of my chin and pulled a pristine handkerchief from his pocket, slowly wiping the fingers that had just touched my cheek, as if they'd been contaminated. "Throw them money, and they'll listen to you.

"But if one of them betrays you, toss it out at once."

He tossed the handkerchief into the trash can beside him, the white fabric flopping limply over a pile of crumpled papers.

His tone wasn't about those men; it was about me, too.

"Put the papers away," Isaac said, his voice cold and commanding. He didn't even look at me. "Don't make me say it again.

"If you feel suffocated at home, I can buy you a yacht or send you abroad for a runway show. Don't bring your trashy little amusements back home again."

With that, he reached for the doorknob.

In that moment, I felt a kind of despair I'd never known before. It wasn't anger. It was the crushing sense of helplessness, like I was trapped behind an impenetrable wall.

I gripped the edge of the divorce papers so tightly that they crumpled in my hands, the sound sharp and grating.

"What if I refuse?" I glared at him from the side, jaw clenched so tight that every word felt like it was squeezed out between my teeth. "Isaac, I'm done with your games. And I'm not your pet."

Isaac's hand froze on the doorknob as he was caught off guard for a moment.

The night air swept in, damp and cold, instantly clearing out the dead silence that had filled the room.

He turned his head, and behind his glasses, his gaze finally went icy, not the usual careless mockery, but something menacing, as I'd stepped way out of bounds.

"Have you really thought this through?" Isaac asked. "If you walk out that door, you'll never be Mrs. Stewart again."

The wind gusted in, making my silk nightgown cling to my legs.

Isaac didn't wait for my answer.

To him, he never meant it as a question. It was a fact.

He let go of the doorknob, and the echo of his footsteps on the marble floor faded away, followed by the elevator doors chiming as they opened and closed.

He left without any hesitation and never looked back.

Downstairs, the engine of his Cullinan growled to life, a deep, powerful rumble, like a beast crushing the pavement, before vanishing into the darkness.

The living room was swallowed by dead silence once more.

I stood frozen in place, the divorce papers crushed into a worthless wad in my hand.

After a few minutes, I moved.

I didn't cry. My eyes weren't even red. I turned and walked into the walk-in closet, opening the glass door that covered an entire wall.

The closet was filled with this season's latest couture, each piece worth a fortune, every single one handpicked by Isaa, even though he never bothered to join me for a single fitting.

This would be proper for his wife. This one was for accompanying me to a dinner party. It was all about his taste, his rules, and his reputation.

I pushed aside all those pricey fabrics and pulled a twenty-inch suitcase out from the corner.

I left behind the diamond-studded gowns, the Hermès Birkin bags, and even the skincare products on the vanity that cost tens of thousands.

Instead, I stuffed a few plain cotton T-shirts and jeans, worn-out pieces from my college years, buried at the bottom of the closet because I could never bring myself to throw them away.

My gaze finally settled on my ring finger.

The five-carat pink diamond glinted under the ceiling lights, its shine almost mocking. Back when Isaac slipped it onto my finger, he said it was meant to be something irreplaceable, one of a kind.

Now, staring at it, I realized it really was unique, unique in the way only a shackle could be.

I slowly twisted the ring, my knuckles going pale from the force.

A crisp metallic clang rang out.

The ring struck the rim of the trash can, then dropped onto a pile of crumpled tissues and the handkerchief Isaac had discarded earlier.

Was I really not worthy?

*****

Muse House, on the east side of the city, was a members-only club, a lavish den where Isaac was a regular.

It was already one in the morning, but the parking lot was still packed with luxury cars. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and the cloying sweetness of high-end perfumes.

An attendant stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

I had on a faded denim jacket, bare-faced, my hair thrown up in a messy ponytail with a cheap hair tie, lugging a suitcase with scuffed corners behind me.

Surrounded by women in glamorous backless gowns and perfect makeup, I was the odd one out.

"Ma'am, this is a private club. May I see your membership card?" The attendant's smile was all business, but his eyes lingered on my battered suitcase, making it clear I wasn't welcome here.

"I'm looking for Isaac." The moment I mentioned his name, the attendant's brows shot up.

"Mr. Stewart?" The attendant's attitude eased up a little, though he still looked doubtful. "Mr. Stewart is in Private Room 8, but do you have an appointment?"

I didn't bother answering. Instead, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number for Isaac's chief assistant.

The call connected after two rings.

"Mrs. Stewart?" The voice on the other end was startled, with a trace of nervousness slipping through. "It's so late. Do you need something?"

I stared the attendant down as I spoke into the phone, my tone sharp and unyielding. "Tell his people to come get me.

"Or I'll walk right in myself, and let's see if tomorrow's headlines read [Mrs. Stewart Causes a Scene at the Club Entrance]."

There was a brief silence on the other end.

"Please wait a moment," the assistant said.