Kenton Parker woke up with a crick in his neck and the taste of stale coffee in his mouth. The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed with an annoying, high-pitched frequency. He blinked, disoriented, until his eyes landed on the hospital bed.
Blanca was asleep. Her face was pale, devoid of the stage makeup she usually wore. Her leg was elevated. A "stress fracture," the doctor had said. Inell, her manager, had called him in a panic right before the gala, screaming that Blanca had collapsed.
He checked his watch. 6:00 AM.
Guilt pricked at him. Not for Blanca, but for the empty slot in his schedule last night. Dinner. He had missed dinner. He felt a familiar, dull ache of obligation toward Blanca, a debt he could never seem to finish repaying. But the sharp annoyance was for the disruption. The anniversary dinner was a necessary part of the contract, and he hated loose ends.
He stood up, stretching his stiff back. Blanca stirred, her eyelashes fluttering open. "Ken?" she whispered. Her voice was raspy. "Did you stay?"
"I fell asleep in the chair," Kenton said, brushing his suit jacket off. He felt grimy. He hated feeling grimy. "I have to go. I have a board meeting at nine."
"Stay for breakfast?" She reached a hand out. Her fingers were delicate, like porcelain.
Kenton took a step back, out of reach. "I can't. Rest, Blanca. I'll have Benjamin send flowers."
He walked out before she could protest.
Hopkins was waiting at the curb with the Maybach. The car was warm, smelling of leather and cedar. Kenton sank into the back seat, closing his eyes.
"Home, sir?" Hopkins asked. His eyes met Kenton's in the rearview mirror. There was a strange look in them. Judgment?
"Yes. Quickly."
The penthouse on the Upper East Side was silent when he keyed in the code. Usually, at this hour, the smell of freshly brewed Colombian roast filled the hallway. Carleigh took pride in making his coffee herself, a domestic ritual he found unnecessary but tolerated.
Today, the air was stale.
"Carleigh?"
His voice echoed off the marble floors. No answer.
He frowned. She never slept in. She was always up, dressed, and waiting to hand him his briefcase like the perfect, overpaid assistant she was.
He walked into the kitchen. Empty. The espresso machine was cold.
He went to the master bedroom. The bed was made, the duvet pulled tight. It looked like a display bed in a showroom. It hadn't been slept in.
Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in his gut. Had she been kidnapped? An accident?
He strode into the walk-in closet. Her side was... thinner. Her everyday clothes-the sensible slacks, the cashmere sweaters she wore around the house-were gone. But the gowns, the furs, the jewelry he had bought her for appearances, they were all still there.
"Dramatic," he muttered. She was pulling a stunt. Probably staying at a hotel to punish him for missing the anniversary.
He walked into his study to check his emails before showering.
That was when he saw it.
The velvet box of the engagement ring sat in the center of his mahogany desk. Next to it was a stack of papers.
Kenton froze. He walked over slowly, as if the objects were a bomb. He opened the box. The diamond winked at him, mocking.
He snatched up the papers. Divorce Agreement.
He let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. She was divorcing him? Carleigh? The woman who had practically begged for this marriage to save her father from loan sharks? The woman who had nodded meekly when he outlined the pre-nup?
He flipped through the pages, his anger rising with every paragraph. She wanted nothing. Waiver of Spousal Support. Waiver of Asset Division. She was walking away with nothing but her clothes.
Then his eyes hit the bottom of page two.
Reason for Dissolution.
Kenton stopped breathing. He read the sentence three times. Irreversible erectile dysfunction.
The blood rushed to his face so fast it made him dizzy. He slammed the papers down onto the desk. The sound was like a gunshot. A crystal paperweight toppled over and rolled onto the floor.
"That lying little..."
He grabbed his phone. His fingers shook with rage as he dialed her number.
It rang once. Twice. Five times.
"Hello?"
Her voice was thick with sleep. Or indifference.
"Where the hell are you?" Kenton roared.
"Good morning to you too, Kenton," she drawled. He could hear the rustle of sheets. "I'm surprised you're calling. I thought you'd be busy spoon-feeding broth to your ballerina."
"Shut up. I'm at the apartment. What is this garbage on my desk?"
"It's legal documentation. I assume you can read."
"Erectile dysfunction?" He hissed the words, looking around the empty room as if someone might overhear. "Are you insane? You know that's a lie."
"Is it?" Carleigh asked. Her tone was light, airy. "Aside from one horrific night three years ago, you haven't touched me since. In the eyes of the court-and the public-that's a medical condition. Or do you want to tell the judge you just prefer your mistress?"
"She is not my mistress!"
"Then you have a problem. Sign the papers, Kenton. It's the kindest excuse I could give you. It makes you a victim of biology, not just an asshole."
Kenton gripped the edge of the desk so hard the wood bit into his palm. "You get back here. Now. You don't get to leave until I say so."
"I think you'll find I do. Oh, and thanks for the stay at The Plaza. The pillows are divine. Consider the bill my severance package."
The line went dead.
Kenton stared at the phone. He felt a vein in his temple throbbing. She wasn't just leaving. She was laughing at him.
