Isabelle POV

I didn't know how I managed to stand. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the sheer, unadulterated hatred burning through the fog of my pain. I wiped the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, leaving a crimson smear across my pale skin, and dragged myself into the bedroom.

Kade was pacing by the window, his silhouette framed against the sprawling Cameron estate grounds. He turned as I entered, his eyes narrowing not with concern, but with calculation.

"Why did you come back?" I asked, my voice a broken rasp. I leaned against the doorframe, my legs trembling under the weight of my own body. "If I'm such a liar, such a burden... why are you here?"

"Because I know how your mind works, Isabelle," he said, his tone clipped and professional, as if he were addressing a subordinate rather than his wife. "You saw Carla at the clinic. You saw me help her."

"I saw you choose her," I corrected him. "Over your dead child."

He crossed the room in two long strides, stopping just inches from me. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and cold steel—filled my lungs, making me nauseous.

"Don't twist this," he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave. "Carla is a Shaw. If word gets out that the Underboss of the Cameron family was seen intimately assisting a woman from a rival clan, it compromises everything. My position. My authority."

He reached out, gripping my chin and forcing me to look up at him. His fingers were warm, a cruel contrast to the ice in his gray eyes.

"You are not going to run to my grandfather," he commanded. "You will not go to Elder Cameron and spin some sob story to undermine me. Do you understand?"

A dry, humorless laugh bubbled up in my throat, tasting of iron. "You think I care about your politics? You think I care about the Shaw family's honor?"

"You should," he sneered, releasing me with a shove that sent me stumbling back against the dresser. "Because that's the only reason you're in this room. You seem to forget, Isabelle. You weren't a bride chosen for love. You were collateral. A debt payment from your father to mine three years ago. You have no rights here. And you certainly have no right to judge Carla."

Collateral.

The word hung in the air, stripping away the last shred of dignity I had clung to. For three years, I had tried to be a good wife. I had tried to turn this prison into a home. But to him, I was just a receipt for a paid bill.

Something inside me snapped. It wasn't a loud break, but a quiet, final severance.

"You're right," I whispered. The pain in my womb seemed to dull, replaced by a strange, hollow calm. "I have no rights. So let's end this."

Kade scoffed, turning away to adjust his cufflinks in the mirror. "Stop the dramatics. I'm not in the mood for your games."

"It's not a game, Kade."

I opened the top drawer of the nightstand. My hands shook, not from fear, but from weakness, as I pulled out the manila envelope I had hidden there months ago, back when the cancer diagnosis first came in. Back when I thought I might have a choice.

I tossed the document onto the polished mahogany surface. It landed with a soft thud.

"Divorce papers," I said. "I had them drawn up a while ago. I never had the courage to give them to you. Until now."

Kade stared at the papers, then looked at me, a flicker of genuine surprise cracking his mask. Then, his expression hardened into something ugly.

"Is this your play?" he asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "You threaten to leave, hoping I'll beg? Hoping I'll chase after you?" He laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "You're delusional. If you think this will make me forget your betrayal, you're wrong."

"Just sign it," I said, pushing a Montblanc pen toward him. "Sign it, and I disappear. No Elder Cameron. No scandal. Just... gone."

He looked at the pen, then at me. For a second, I thought he might actually do it. I thought he might set me free.

Then, his phone rang.

The shrill ringtone cut through the tension like a knife. Kade pulled it from his pocket, and the moment he saw the screen, the cruelty vanished from his face, replaced by urgent concern.

"Carla?" he answered, turning his back to me.

I couldn't hear her words, but I heard the fear in her voice through the receiver.

"Slow down," Kade said, his voice gentle—the voice he used to use with me. "Where are you? ... Okay. Stay there. Don't move. I'm coming."

He hung up and grabbed his suit jacket from the bed. He didn't even look at the divorce papers. He didn't look at me. He was already halfway to the door.

"Kade," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "The papers. It will take one second."

He paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes were impatient, his mind already miles away with another woman.

"I don't have time for your tantrums, Isabelle," he snapped. "We'll deal with your little rebellion when I get back. Stay here."

And then he was gone.

The silence that followed was deafening. I stood there, staring at the empty doorway, realizing that I didn't even rank high enough to be divorced. I wasn't a wife to him. I was furniture. I was a possession he expected to find exactly where he left it.

"No," I said to the empty room.

I picked up the pen. My hand trembled as I uncapped it. I didn't need his permission to die. And I certainly didn't need his permission to leave.

I signed my name on the line. Isabelle Dawson. Not Cameron. Never again Cameron.

I left the papers on the nightstand, right next to his wedding ring, which I pulled off my finger and dropped with a clatter.

I didn't take much. Just a small duffel bag with a few changes of clothes—the cheap ones I had bought myself, not the designer silk he had draped me in. I walked over to the chaise lounge where Fluffy was sleeping and scooped the white cat into my arms. She meowed softly, nuzzling into my chest.

"We're going, Fluffy," I whispered, burying my face in her fur to hide the first tear that escaped.

With my free hand, I dialed the only number I had left.

"Izzy?" Addisyn's voice was groggy, confused. "It's late. Is everything okay?"

"Addy," I said, staring at the bloodstain on the Persian rug one last time. "Come get me. Please."

Kade POV

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours of silence.

I sat behind the massive mahogany desk in my study, a glass of amber whiskey untouched near my hand. The house was quiet—too quiet. Usually, there was the faint sound of Isabelle moving through the halls, the soft click of her heels, or the distant hum of her presence that I had taken for granted. Now, the silence was a physical weight, pressing against my temples.

On the leather sofa across from me, that damn white cat, Fluffy, stared at me with unblinking green eyes. It hadn't moved in hours. It looked at me with the same silent accusation I had seen in Isabelle's eyes before she walked out.

"Stop looking at me," I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

The cat yawned, unimpressed, and curled back into a ball.

Isabelle was playing a game. That was the only logical explanation. She had left the divorce papers—unsigned by me, of course—and the ring on the nightstand like a dramatic teenager. She thought this stunt would force my hand? She thought disappearing to her friend's little apartment would make me chase her?

She was wrong. I was the Underboss of the Cameron family. I didn't chase. I waited. And when she realized how cold the world was without my protection, she would come back.

My phone buzzed on the desk. Mother.

I swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. "What is it?"

"Have you retrieved your wife yet, Kade?" Audie Cameron's voice was sharp, cutting through the stale air of the office. "People are starting to ask questions. It looks... messy."

"She needs time to cool off," I said, leaning back in my chair. "She's at the Greene girl's apartment."

"Yes, I know," my mother sighed, her tone dripping with disdain. "I had one of my men check. She's been locked in there all week, crying her eyes out, apparently sick with grief. Pathetic, really."

I felt a knot of tension loosen in my chest. Crying. Sick. Good. That meant she was suffering. That meant she regretted it.

"Let her cry," I said coldly. "She needs to learn that tantrums have consequences. When she's ready to apologize, she can come home."

"Just make sure she doesn't run to your grandfather," Audie warned. "We don't need the Elder involved in your marital squabbles. Tonight is the St. Regis Charity Gala. You need to be there. Alone. Show them the Cameron family is unbothered."

"I'll be there," I promised.

I hung up, a grim satisfaction settling over me. Isabelle was breaking. It was only a matter of time before she returned to her place.

The St. Regis Grand Ballroom was a cesspool of fake smiles and expensive lies. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the ceiling, casting a glittering light over the city's elite—politicians, businessmen, and the monsters like me who pulled their strings.

I stood in the private box on the second floor, gripping the velvet-covered railing. From here, I could see everything, but no one could touch me. The air smelled of champagne and desperation.

"Signor Cameron," Marco said from behind me. He was my most trusted soldier, a man of few words.

"Report," I said, not taking my eyes off the crowd below. I was scanning for threats, for rival families, for anything out of place.

"The perimeter is secure. The Shaws are here, near the bar. And..." Marco hesitated. That was unlike him.

I turned, frowning. "And what?"

Marco cleared his throat, stepping closer to the railing. He pointed a gloved hand toward the center of the room, near the massive marble fountain that served as the focal point of the dance floor.

"A thousand pardons, Boss... but the woman in the red dress, by the fountain... is that not the Signora?"

My blood ran cold.

Isabelle? Here? Impossible. My mother said she was sick. She was supposed to be curled up in a ball, mourning the loss of me.

I followed Marco's finger.

At first, I didn't recognize her. The woman standing by the fountain was wearing a gown of blood-red silk that clung to every curve of her body—curves I thought I knew, but which looked dangerously foreign in that dress. The back was open, exposing a expanse of pale, creamy skin that I had claimed a thousand times.

She wasn't crying. She wasn't sick.

She was laughing.

Her head was thrown back, her neck exposed, as she smiled at a man standing next to her. A man I didn't know.

The glass in my hand shattered.

Whiskey and blood dripped onto the expensive carpet, but I didn't feel the cut. All I could feel was the inferno igniting in my chest. The lie my mother told me dissolved, replaced by a truth that was far more jagged and violent.

She wasn't hiding. She was parading herself.

"Stay here," I growled, my voice sounding like grinding stones.

I didn't wait for Marco's reply. I turned toward the stairs, my vision tunneling. The world narrowed down to that splash of red in a sea of black and white.

She wanted to be seen? Fine.

I would make sure the whole world saw who she belonged to.

Kade POV

The glass shards bit into my palm, a sharp, grounding pain that failed to distract me from the carnage unfolding in my chest. Blood mixed with the spilled whiskey, dripping onto the velvet railing, but I didn't look down. I couldn't look away from her.

Isabelle.

My wife, who was supposed to be withering away in a dark room, mourning the withdrawal of my presence. My mother had promised me a broken woman. Instead, I was staring at a queen in blood-red silk, holding court in the center of my territory.

"Stay here," I growled at Marco. My voice was a low rumble, vibrating with a violence that made my seasoned soldier take a step back.

"Boss, if you go down there in this state—"

"I said, stay."

I didn't wait for his acknowledgment. I turned and strode toward the exit of the private box, the heavy door slamming shut behind me. The corridor was empty, the muffled sounds of the orchestra filtering through the walls like a funeral march.

I descended the grand staircase, my hand sliding down the marble banister, leaving a faint smear of crimson in my wake. Every step was a calculation. Every breath was fuel for the inferno. She thought she could play games? She thought she could wear that dress—a dress that clung to her like a second skin, exposing the spine I had traced with my tongue a thousand times—and smile at another man?

She was a Cameron. She was mine. And tonight, I would remind her that freedom was just an illusion I allowed her to keep.

At the bottom of the stairs, a figure stepped into my path, blocking my line of sight to the dance floor.

"You look like you're about to murder someone, Kade."

Carla Shaw stood there, a vision of calculated innocence in a shimmering silver gown. As the daughter of a rival family, she should have been an enemy, but my mother had always favored her. She had the kind of cold, sharp beauty that fit our world—predictable, ambitious, and ruthless.

Unlike the chaos currently spinning in the center of the room.

"Move, Carla," I said, my eyes flicking over her shoulder, searching for that splash of red.

"She's making a fool of you, you know," Carla said softly, stepping closer. Her voice was low, intimate, designed to slide under my defenses. "Everyone is whispering. The Underboss's wife, running around like a single woman, laughing with strangers. It makes you look... weak."

The word struck me like a physical blow. Weak.

I looked down at her, my jaw tightening until my teeth ached. "Careful."

"I'm only looking out for you," she purred, placing a hand on my arm. Her touch was light, but her eyes were predatory. "Don't storm over there and cause a scene. That's what a brute would do. Show them you don't care. Show her she's replaceable."

She extended her hand toward the dance floor. "Dance with me."

I looked past her, locking my gaze on the fountain. Isabelle was there. And she wasn't alone.

A man—tall, with sandy hair and a smile that was too wide, too friendly—was bowing to her. Devon Walter. A nobody from a family that dealt in scraps. I watched as Isabelle hesitated, then placed her hand in his.

The sight of her skin against his suit jacket made my vision blur with red.

"Kade?" Carla pressed, sensing my volatility.

A cruel, cold clarity washed over me. Carla was right. Dragging Isabelle out by her hair would only prove I was affected. But replacing her? Ignoring her while I paraded another woman in front of her face? That was a blade that would cut deeper.

"Fine," I said, my voice devoid of warmth.

I grabbed Carla's hand, my grip tight enough to bruise. A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she smiled, triumphant.

We moved toward the dance floor, cutting through the crowd like a shark through water. The sea of black tuxedos and polite conversation parted for us. I didn't look at the people bowing their heads or murmuring my name. My focus was singular.

As we stepped onto the polished wood, the orchestra swelled into a waltz. I pulled Carla against me, but my eyes were fixed on the couple a few yards away.

Isabelle was moving with a grace I hadn't seen in years. She looked radiant, alive... and completely detached from the misery she should have been feeling. Devon Walter said something, and she laughed again. Then, he did the unthinkable.

He placed his hand on the small of her back. Right on the bare skin exposed by the low cut of her dress.

My steps faltered for a fraction of a second.

"Look at him," Carla whispered in my ear, her voice dripping with poison. "He touches her as if she's free property. As if the Cameron name means nothing."

The beast inside me roared, tearing at its chains. That hand. That filth was touching what belonged to me.

"He's a dead man," I murmured, the promise tasting like iron on my tongue.

"Then let's make sure he enjoys his last dance," Carla replied, tightening her hold on my shoulder.

I spun Carla around, maneuvering us closer, stalking my prey to the rhythm of the music. Isabelle hadn't seen me yet. She was too busy smiling at the corpse walking next to her.

Enjoy it while you can, tesoro (treasure). Because when the music stops, I'm going to burn this whole world down to get you back.