Kennedy POV:

They finally took me into surgery six hours later. Six hours of lying on a gurney in a hallway, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of Corbin's frantic concern for Annis.

When I woke up, the first thing the nurse told me was, "The surgery went well, but there was significant tissue damage from the delay. I'm afraid you're going to have a permanent scar on your leg."

She said it with pity, the way you deliver bad news. She suggested a top plastic surgeon, rattling off names and procedures.

I just stared at the ceiling. A scar. It seemed fitting. A permanent, visible reminder of this final, devastating betrayal.

"It doesn't matter," I said, my voice flat. "I won't be wearing short skirts anymore."

The nurse gave me a confused look. "But you're Mrs. Franco. You have to attend so many functions-"

"Not for much longer," I said, meeting her gaze. "I'm getting a divorce."

As if summoned by the word itself, Corbin appeared in the doorway. He must have heard me again. His timing was impeccable.

The nurse, sensing the sudden drop in temperature, quickly excused herself.

Corbin walked to my bedside. For the first time, he actually looked at my leg, at the fresh bandages and the tubes snaking out from under the sheets. His expression was unreadable.

"I heard your surgery was delayed," he said, his voice softer than I expected. "I was with Annis. I thought you were safe, that the nurses were taking care of you."

He thought. He assumed. He never checked.

"I was," I said quietly. "For six hours. In the hallway."

He had the grace to flinch. "Kennedy, I-"

"Don't," I said, cutting him off. "It's fine. You've been absent for every important moment of my life for six years. Why should a near-death experience be any different?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. He knew it was true. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a checkbook. A gesture so quintessentially Corbin it was almost funny. Trying to pay his way out of guilt.

"I'll cover all the medical expenses," he said. "And for your pain and suffering… name a price."

I looked at him, at his handsome, clueless face. And an idea, cold and sharp, formed in my mind. He wanted to pay? Fine. I would make him pay.

"One hundred million dollars," I said without blinking.

He froze, his hand hovering over the checkbook. "What?"

"You heard me," I said, my voice like steel. "One hundred million. Consider it an early alimony settlement. A severance package for six years of my life."

He stared at me, his eyes wide with a shock that, for the first time, seemed genuine. He was finally seeing that the doormat he'd married had grown teeth.

"Is the Pitts family in some kind of financial trouble?" he asked, his mind immediately going to the most logical, transactional explanation.

"No," I said. "This is personal."

He studied me for a long moment, then, to my surprise, he clicked his pen and began to write. The scratching sound filled the silent room. He tore out the check and placed it on my bedside table.

Then his phone buzzed. Annis, no doubt.

"I have to go," he said, already turning away. "We'll talk later."

I picked up the check. The numbers were staggering. It was a fortune. But to me, it wasn't money. It was freedom. It was the first installment of my divorce settlement.

"Corbin," I called out as he reached the door.

He paused, his hand on the knob.

"When we finalize the divorce," I said, my voice clear and steady, "you and I will be completely, irrevocably finished. No ties. No obligations. Nothing."

He didn't answer. He just walked out, leaving me alone with the check and the scent of another woman's perfume.

When I was finally discharged, I returned to our vast, empty penthouse. The first thing I did was go to Corbin's side of the closet. That "gift closet" he'd created.

I opened it. Everything I had ever given him was there. The cashmere sweaters, still in their original boxes. The expensive watches, their protective plastic still on the faces. The first-edition books, their spines uncracked. Nothing had ever been touched. Six years of my love, catalogued and stored away like evidence in a cold case.

I called my assistant. "Have everything in this closet donated to charity," I said. "And pack up the rest of Mr. Franco's belongings. Put them in storage."

That evening, Corbin came home to a half-empty apartment.

"Kennedy, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, gesturing to the empty spaces on the walls where his sterile, abstract art used to hang. "Where are my things?"

"I had them put away," I said calmly, sipping my tea. "The apartment felt cluttered."

He stared at me, a deep frown creasing his brow. He looked around, as if noticing for the first time that I had changed, that the very air in the room was different. He couldn't place it, but the shift unnerved him.

Then his eyes widened in panic. He rushed to his study, me following slowly behind. He tore the room apart, pulling books off shelves, opening drawers.

"Where is it?" he growled, his voice tight with desperation. "Where is the music box?"

I feigned ignorance. "What music box?"

He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture. It was a simple, antique-looking wooden box, intricately carved. "This. Annis gave it to me for our first anniversary in college. It's the most important thing I own. Where is it?"

The most important thing he owned. A gift from her. Not our wedding album. Not the portrait of us that used to hang in the hall. A trinket from a past love.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "It must have gotten packed up with the rest of your things."

"Find it," he hissed, his eyes blazing with a terrifying intensity. "Find it, Kennedy, or I swear to God, you will regret it."

For the next two hours, we searched. Even Corbin, the man who wouldn't touch a doorknob without gloves, was on his hands and knees, tearing through the boxes the movers had left, his perfect suit covered in dust.

I watched him, a strange detachment settling over me. I saw the panic in his eyes, the beads of sweat on his forehead. I saw how much this object, this piece of Annis, meant to him. He was more frantic looking for this box than he had been when I was bleeding on the pavement.

And in that moment, any lingering trace of love I might have had for him died a final, quiet death.

Kennedy POV:

The search for the music box stretched into the early hours of the morning. The penthouse, once a monument to sterile order, was now a disaster zone of open boxes and discarded packing material. Corbin' s desperation had stripped away his polished veneer, leaving behind a raw, frantic stranger.

He was a man possessed. And I, the ghost of his marriage, watched him with the cold curiosity of a scientist observing a specimen.

Finally, his frantic search brought him to my dressing room. His eyes, wild and accusatory, scanned the shelves. They landed on a small, velvet-lined display case on my vanity.

Inside sat my grandmother' s watch. It was a priceless, one-of-a-kind Patek Philippe from the 1920s, a family heirloom passed down through generations of Pitts women. It was the only thing I had of her. It was my most treasured possession.

Corbin' s gaze locked onto it. His breathing was ragged. "If I can't have what's most precious to me," he snarled, his voice a low growl, "then neither can you."

Before I could react, he ripped the case open. His hand, the same hand that had refused to touch me for six years, closed around my grandmother' s watch.

And he smashed it.

He brought it down against the marble edge of the vanity with savage force. Once. Twice. The delicate crystal face spiderwebbed, then shattered. The gold casing crumpled. Tiny gears and springs, the intricate heart of the timepiece, flew across the room like shrapnel.

I stared at the mangled heap of gold and glass on the floor. My grandmother' s watch. My history. My last connection to her. Destroyed.

A soundless scream built in my chest, but nothing came out. The air was stolen from my lungs. The room went silent, except for the sound of my own blood roaring in my ears.

"Why?" The word was a shattered whisper. "Corbin, why?"

He looked at the destruction he had caused, then at me, his eyes devoid of any remorse. "You should have found the music box," he said, as if that were a reasonable explanation.

A laugh, high and hysterical, finally broke free from my throat. It was the sound of utter madness. The sound of a soul breaking its leash. "A music box," I choked out, tears finally streaming down my face. "You did this… for a music box?"

I stared at him, this man I had loved, this monster who had just pulverized my heart and my history in one brutal, senseless act.

"You know, for years, I believed you were incapable of deep feeling," I said, my voice shaking with a terrible, newfound clarity. "I thought you were cold to everyone. I thought your heart was frozen. But I was wrong."

He stared at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"Your heart isn't frozen, Corbin," I continued, each word a shard of glass. "It's just not mine. It never was. It belongs to her. It has always belonged to her."

He looked as though I'd slapped him. He opened his mouth to argue, to deny, but just then, his phone rang.

The screen lit up with her name. Annis.

He answered, his voice instantly softening, the monster receding. "Annis? What's wrong?"

There was a pause. His face flooded with relief. "You found it? Where was it?… In your old jewelry box? You took it with you when you moved and forgot?… No, no, it's fine. I'm just glad it's safe."

He hung up. The silence in the room was deafening. He had it. She' d had it all along. He had destroyed my most precious possession for nothing.

He couldn't meet my eyes. He cleared his throat. "Kennedy… about the watch. I'm sorry. I'll have it replaced. I'll buy you a new one, a better one."

Replace it. He thought he could replace it. Like he thought a hundred-million-dollar check could replace his presence, his love, his basic human decency.

I didn't say a word. I just walked over to the wreckage on the floor, knelt down, and began to pick up the broken pieces of my grandmother's watch. My love for Corbin was just like it now-a mangled, unrecognizable ruin that could never be put back together.

He thought I would cry, scream, and eventually, forgive him. He was used to my forgiveness. It was the foundation our entire marriage was built on. He would be cruel, I would be hurt, and then I would find a way to excuse it, to absorb it, to move on.

But as I gathered the fragments of my past, I felt a shift inside me. The pain was still there, a white-hot agony, but something else was being forged in that fire: resolve. Hard, cold, and unbreakable.

He had made a fatal miscalculation. He assumed my love was unconditional. He never imagined it had a breaking point.

He was about to find out just how wrong he was.

Corbin left the apartment after that, mumbling something about needing to go see Annis, to see the music box for himself. He was gone for three days.

I didn't care. I spent that time methodically. I packed my bags. I called my lawyer and instructed him to file the divorce papers the moment the mandatory thirty-day cooling-off period was over.

On the third day, I got a message from an unknown number. 'It's Annis Holder. Can we meet? There's something you need to know.'

Against my better judgment, I agreed. We met at a quiet coffee shop. She looked pale and fragile, as always, but her eyes held a spark of something I hadn't seen before: triumph.

"I'm so sorry about your watch," she began, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Corbin told me what happened. He was just so worried about the music box I gave him. It means the world to him."

She then launched into a detailed, saccharine monologue about her and Corbin's epic college romance. She painted a picture of a passionate, all-consuming love, of a Corbin I had never known. A Corbin who would abandon a competition for her, a Corbin who wrote her poetry, a Corbin who had promised her forever.

"He never stopped loving me, you know," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He only married you because your family had the connections he needed to advance his career. He told me so himself. He said it was just a contract."

A contract.

The word hung in the air, sucking all the oxygen from the room.

"He's not a cold person, Kennedy," Annis continued, twisting the knife. "He's the most passionate, loving man I've ever known. He just wasn't passionate or loving with you."

I stared at her, at her smug, victorious face. She was here to gloat. To rub my face in the fact that she had won. She had always been the one. I was just the placeholder. The convenient, wealthy, and utterly disposable Mrs. Franco.

The pain was so immense, so overwhelming, it looped back on itself and became a strange, chilling calm.

She was right. Corbin wasn't cold. He was a supernova of passion and devotion. I had just been standing in the wrong galaxy, shivering in the dark, wondering why I couldn't feel the heat.

"Are you finished?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion.

Annis looked taken aback. She had expected tears, hysterics. She didn't expect this… emptiness.

"I just thought you deserved to know the truth," she said, recovering quickly.

"Oh, I do," I said, rising from my chair. "And I'm grateful. You've given me the one thing Corbin never could. Closure."

I walked out of the coffee shop and didn't look back, leaving her sitting there with her victory and her stolen memories. Because they were stolen. She had stolen six years of my life.

And I was done letting her have any more of it.