Isabelle POV

The silence that followed my internal declaration was deafening, even amidst the swelling crescendo of the orchestra. Kade's fingers were still digging into my hip, his eyes searching mine for the fear he thrived on. But he wouldn't find it. Fear requires a future to lose, and I had none.

"I've already signed the papers, Kade," I said. My voice was soft, barely a breath, but in the vacuum between us, it hit with the force of a gunshot. "I want a divorce."

The word hung in the air, alien and forbidden. In our world, marriage wasn't a contract; it was a life sentence. You didn't leave a Cameron unless you were in a casket.

Kade's movement arrested instantly. The cruel sneer on his lips froze, replaced by a blank, uncomprehending shock. It was as if his favorite hunting dog had suddenly spoken Latin. He couldn't process the defiance, the sheer audacity of the creature he deemed his property.

"What did you say?" The question was a low rumble, dangerous and unstable.

"Go home and check your study," I whispered, my eyes locking with his pitch-black ones. "You'll find them on your desk."

For a split second, his grip on me slackened—just a fraction, born of pure disbelief. That was all I needed.

I wrenched myself away from him. The sudden movement sent a jolt of agony through my chest, my lungs protesting the exertion, but I didn't stop. I stumbled back, putting precious feet of polished floor between us.

The spell over the ballroom broke. Whispers erupted like wildfire.

Kade's shock morphed into a terrifying, cold fury within a heartbeat. His face twisted, the predator reawakening. "Isabelle!" he roared, taking a step toward me, his hand reaching out to drag me back into his hell.

Before he could close the distance, a figure in shimmering white stepped into his path.

"Kade, stop!" Carla Shaw placed a manicured hand on his chest, her voice pitched perfectly to sound like a concerned peacemaker while her eyes gleamed with calculation. "Not here. Think of the family. Everyone is watching."

Kade halted, his chest heaving against her hand, his gaze burning a hole through her to get to me. "Move, Carla."

While he was momentarily obstructed, a wave of warmth suddenly enveloped my shivering shoulders. The scent of expensive cologne and tobacco—distinctly not Kade's—filled my nose.

I looked up to see Devon Walter, the Underboss of the rival family, draping his tuxedo jacket over me. His expression was tight with concern, completely oblivious to the death warrant he was signing by touching me.

"Let's get you out of here, Isabelle," Devon murmured, his hand hovering protectively near my back without making contact. "You look like you're about to faint."

The sight of another man's jacket on my skin, covering the red dress Kade hated so much, snapped something inside my husband.

"Take your hands off her, Walter," Kade snarled, his voice dropping to a lethal register that made the nearby guests recoil. He shoved Carla aside with zero regard for her delicacy. "She is mine."

"She is a human being, Cameron, not a dog," Devon retorted, his jaw set. He began to guide me toward the exit.

I didn't look back at Devon. I couldn't. I just let him lead me, my legs moving on autopilot. Every step away from Kade felt like tearing stitches from a fresh wound—painful, but necessary for healing.

"Isabelle! You take one more step and I swear to God—" Kade lunged forward, his intent murderous.

CRASH.

The sound was explosive, shattering the tension like a hammer through a mirror. A high-pitched scream pierced the air, followed by the sickening, wet noise of glass cascading onto the floor.

I froze near the heavy mahogany doors and turned back.

Near the edge of the dance floor, the towering champagne tower lay in ruins. And in the center of the wreckage lay Carla. She was sprawled amidst the shards, her white gown rapidly soaking up champagne and bright, arterial red blood.

"Kade!" she shrieked, clutching her arm where a jagged piece of crystal had sliced deep. "Help me!"

Kade stopped dead in his tracks. He looked from me—standing at the exit, wrapped in another man's coat—to Carla, bleeding out on the floor because he had shoved her. The entire room was gasping, phones were out, and the eyes of the New York elite were judging the Cameron Underboss.

He couldn't leave her. Not without destroying the family's reputation completely.

His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles turning white. For a second, I thought he would step over her bleeding body to come for me. The hatred and possessiveness radiating from him were palpable, a physical heat wave across the room.

But then, duty won. It always did.

With a guttural growl of frustration, Kade turned his back on me and knelt beside Carla.

I watched him lift her from the glass, his expensive suit staining with her blood. He was the monster who had broken me, now playing the hero for the woman who helped him do it.

A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled in my throat, but I swallowed it down.

"Come on," Devon urged gently, his hand firm on my arm.

I turned away from the chaos, from the husband who would never love me, and walked into the cool, dark embrace of the night. I had won the battle, but as I stepped onto the pavement, I knew the war had only just begun.

Kade POV

The sound of crystal shattering under the soles of my dress shoes was the only thing grounding me to reality. Around me, the ballroom of the St. Regis had dissolved into a cacophony of gasps and frantic whispers, the scent of expensive perfume now laced with the metallic tang of blood.

But I didn't look down at the woman bleeding into the carpet at my feet.

My gaze was a physical weight, hooked into the back of the woman walking away from me. Isabelle. My wife. My property.

She was moving toward the exit, her spine stiff, her steps uneven. But she wasn't alone. Devon Walter, the Underboss of the rival family, was guiding her, his hand hovering near the small of her back. And then, he did the unthinkable. He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over her shoulders, covering the red silk that belonged to me. Covering the skin that I had marked.

A red haze clouded my vision. My fingers twitched, aching to wrap around the grip of the gun holstered beneath my jacket. Walter had just signed his death warrant. He had touched what was mine.

"Kade... please," Carla whimpered from the floor, her fingers digging into my pant leg, smearing blood on the dark fabric. "It hurts so much."

I ignored her. I took a step forward, the glass crunching violently.

"Isabelle!" My voice wasn't a shout; it was a command that cut through the murmurs of the New York elite like a blade.

She stopped. For a heartbeat, she hesitated near the heavy mahogany doors. She turned, her face pale, her eyes hollow but defiant. Walter turned with her, his jaw set in a protective snarl that made me want to tear his throat out with my bare hands.

I locked eyes with her, ignoring the hundreds of witnesses, ignoring the blood on my shoes.

"Three hours," I said, my voice low, lethal, and carrying across the distance. "Be back at the estate, on your knees, begging. Or I will burn this city to the ground to find you."

Fear flickered in her eyes—good. But then she turned away. She turned her back on her Don, on her husband, and walked out into the night with another man.

"Kade!" Carla shrieked, her voice pitching up in a way that sounded more calculated than pained. She slumped dramatically, ensuring the eyes of every influential family in the room were glued to my reaction.

If I left her here, the Cameron family would look like savages who abandoned their own. Reputation was currency, and right now, mine was plummeting.

With a curse that would have made a priest cross himself, I bent down and scooped Carla into my arms. She buried her face in my chest, sobbing, but I felt the rigid tension in her body. She was holding on too tight.

"Get the car," I snarled at a nearby associate, my eyes still fixed on the empty doorway where my life had just walked out.

The private wing of Lenox Hill Hospital was silent, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside my chest. The air smelled of antiseptic and lilies, a scent that reminded me of funerals.

I stood by the window, staring out at the skyline of Manhattan. Somewhere out there, Isabelle was hiding.

"Kade?" Carla's voice drifted from the hospital bed. She had been stitched up—twelve stitches in her arm. A tragedy for a socialite, a scratch for a soldier. "Are you still mad? It was an accident. I just wanted to stop you from making a scene."

I didn't turn around. I checked the Patek Philippe on my wrist.

Three hours and two minutes.

She wasn't coming.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't heartbreak; it was the cold, hard shock of treason. She had defied a direct order. She had chosen humiliation over obedience.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out instantly.

"Talk," I answered.

"Boss," Marco's voice was heavy, hesitant. That was never a good sign. Marco was my best soldier, a man who could break bones without blinking, but right now, he sounded like he was walking into a firing squad. "We checked the penthouse. We checked her parents' old place. She's not there."

"Where is she, Marco?" My grip on the phone tightened until the metal groaned. "If you tell me you lost her, don't bother coming back."

"We tracked her phone signal, but she ditched it in a trash can on 5th Avenue," Marco said quickly. "But we got a hit on her passport. A private charter filed a flight plan forty minutes ago. Wheels up from Teterboro."

"Destination?"

"Chicago."

The word hung in the silence of the hospital room. Chicago. The Outfit's territory. A neutral ground that was anything but neutral. Why run to a city known for its brutality unless she had help? Unless Walter had arranged it?

The image of Devon Walter's jacket on her shoulders flashed in my mind again, fueling the fire in my veins. She wasn't just leaving me. She was running to an enemy.

"Kade, baby, come sit," Carla whined, patting the mattress.

I turned slowly, looking at her as if she were a stranger. "Stay here," I ordered, my voice devoid of any warmth. "Don't leave this room until I send for you."

"Where are you going?" panic edged into her tone.

"To catch a flight."

I walked out of the room without looking back, dialing Marco as I strode down the corridor, my footsteps echoing like gunshots.

"Get the pilot," I commanded, pushing through the hospital exit into the cool night air. "Prep the G650. We are going to Chicago."

"Sir," Marco paused, the sound of a car door slamming in the background. "If we go into Chicago chasing a runaway wife... the Outfit might take it as an act of aggression."

"Let them," I said, sliding into the back of the waiting SUV. The leather was cold against my back, but it did nothing to cool the inferno inside me. "If they stand in my way, I'll burn them down too."

Isabelle thought she could run. She thought a few hundred miles and a signature on a piece of paper could break the bond between us. She was wrong.

Marriage in our world wasn't a contract. It was a shackle. And I was coming to drag her back to her cell.