The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut, and the sound seemed to drain the last ounce of strength from Amber's body. Her legs felt unsteady, her entire frame trembling with a mixture of shock and a deep, chilling cold that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.
She stared at the closed door, at the finality of it. Then, she walked numbly to the sink.
She turned on the cold tap, the water splashing into the stainless-steel basin with a hollow sound. She held her bleeding hand under the icy stream, the sting grounding her, pulling her back from the edge of hysteria. The water ran pink, then red, as it washed over the gash.
Pulling a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, she pressed them firmly against the wound, the cheap paper quickly becoming saturated.
Her eyes fell back to the marble island. The divorce papers lay there, a stark white testament to her failure. A single, perfect drop of her blood had landed near the signature line, a macabre seal on a deal she hadn't yet made.
But she had no choice. She knew Donavan. If she didn't sign, he would make a single phone call, and the funding for Clarke's care at the private hospital would be severed. He wouldn't hesitate. It was business, and to him, she was just a bad investment he was finally cutting loose.
With her uninjured right hand, she picked up the heavy Montblanc pen he had left on the counter. The metal was cold against her skin. Her fingers, slick with a mixture of water and blood, trembled as she uncapped it.
There was no more room for hesitation.
With a steady, deliberate motion, she signed her name on the last page. Amber Hayes. The ink was black and final.
Just as she finished, the study door swung open. Donavan emerged, holding a leather briefcase. He was leaving.
Amber picked up the signed agreement, the damp paper towels still clutched in her other hand, and walked to the entryway, blocking his path. She held the papers out to him.
Her voice was flat, devoid of any inflection. "It's done."
He glanced down, his eyes scanning the signature. A muscle in his jaw twitched, a flicker of something she couldn't decipher. He didn't take the papers from her.
"My lawyer will contact you tomorrow to handle the stock transfer," he said, his tone clipped and professional. It was his Wall Street voice, the one he used to dismantle companies.
He moved to step around her, pushing open the heavy front door to the apartment and striding into the private elevator lobby.
"Donavan, wait." Amber followed him into the corridor, her bare feet cold on the polished marble floor. "I need to know the timeframe. The transfer-"
The elevator doors slid open with a soft whoosh, revealing a man already inside. He was young, dressed in a flashy, brand-name suit, with an air of arrogant entitlement.
Delma's brother, Wyatt York, stepped out, a smug grin spreading across his face as he took in the scene.
His eyes darted from Donavan's cold expression to Amber's pale face, finally landing on the bloody paper towels she was clutching. A low, malicious chuckle rumbled in his chest.
"Well, well," Wyatt drawled, his gaze raking over Amber's simple dress with open contempt. "Looks like the charity case is finally getting the boot. About time, wouldn't you say, Donavan?"
Amber's spine stiffened. She met his insolent stare with a look of pure, undiluted ice, the kind of dismissive glare she had perfected at Yale, reserved for people who mistook money for class.
Her look of disdain clearly pricked his fragile ego. Wyatt's grin vanished, replaced by an ugly sneer. He took a step forward, his hand raising as if to shove her shoulder. "What are you looking at, you broke—"
Suddenly, an arm shot out, blocking Wyatt's wrist with a grip of iron. It was Donavan.
"That's enough." Donavan's voice was low, but it carried an unmistakable threat. His eyes, fixed on Wyatt, were flat and deadly. "Until the legal proceedings are finalized, she is still Mrs. Carlisle. You will show her the respect that name commands."
The raw power in Donavan's voice made Wyatt flinch. He snatched his hand back, his bravado deflating like a cheap balloon. "Sorry, man," he mumbled, looking at the floor. "Just... you know."
Donavan didn't spare Amber another glance. He stepped into the elevator, his back rigid, and stood beside Wyatt. The polished steel doors slid shut, sealing her off, leaving her alone in the silent, empty hallway.
The cold of the marble floor seemed to seep into her bones. She stood there for a long moment, the echo of his defense ringing strangely in her ears. It wasn't for her. It was for his name. For Carlisle.
She turned and walked back into the vast, empty apartment. As she closed the door, her phone buzzed violently in the pocket of her dress.
She pulled it out. The screen displayed a notification from her banking app: a payment reminder for the hospital bill. A bill she couldn't pay.
She dismissed it with a swipe of her thumb, her stomach twisting. A second later, the screen lit up again with a text from an unknown number.
I'm Delma. The Plaza Hotel. 3 PM.
Amber's hand tightened around the phone until her knuckles were white. She took a deep, shaky breath and immediately dialed the only person she could trust.
"Chloe? It's me. Can you come to pick me up after it's over?"
