Divorcing My Cold And Possessive Tycoon

side her on the king-sized bed was undisturbed, the pillow

ps as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. The heavy down-filled duvet slipped, and she snatched it back up, clutching it around her bare shoulders with whit

s onto the mattress. Lipstick. The broken edge of her compact mirror. And the tiny, tarnished St. Christopher medal her mother had pressed into her palm when she was nine years old, whispering, "To keep you safe, mi

d away, jaw tight. She would not cry. Tears were a luxury she could not afford. Not while her mother lay in a care facility and Rosa's oxygen tanks were held h

e dragged her exhausted, aching body across the plush carpet and into the en-suite bathroom, one ha

e needed. She stood there for twenty minutes, scrubbing her skin with a washcloth until it flushed raw and pink. The bruise on her wrist, a dark purple bracelet of finger marks, throbbed under the hot water. She scrubbed h

knot at her waist. The St. Christopher medal rested against her sternum, a small, cool weight beneath the fabric. She stared at her reflection in the fogged mirror-pale skin, shadowed eyes, a tiny scab already formin

air was cool and smelled faintly of fresh coffee and polished wood. She followed the scent,

uiet service. When his eyes met hers, they softened with a sympathy so genuine and unforced that Claire felt her throat tighten dangerously. He didn't

tle baritone. "Coffee? The roast is a single-origin Colom

the night before. She sank into the chair, grateful for the old man's quiet, un

f perfectly prepared avocado toast before her. He was about to ask if she needed anyth

n walk

hroat. Not a single dark hair was out of place. He looked immaculate, composed, and utterly untouchable-a gla

e her presence. He treated her as if she were a piece of furniture, an inconvenient object he was forced to

head slightly and, with one last fleeting look of sympathy toward Claire, retreated from the room. Th

with the faint shaking of her hands. The porcelain cup rattled against the saucer. She gripped

Her voice cracked on the last word, but her gaze was steady, fixed dire

ide his untouched coffee. When his dark eyes finally met hers, they were mocking, flat, and entirely

eemed to resonate in the space between them. "Given the desperate, pathetic circles your fath

white-hot fire of pure anger. Her grip on the coffee cup tightened until her knuckles ached. For a

se to her feet, planting both palms flat on the polished ma

n't want your name. I didn't want your money. And I certainly didn't want you. Whate

uth. "You're an exceptionally bad liar," he said. "I read the texts your father sent you la

ok her head, her wet hair clinging to the collar of her robe. "You destroyed my phone befo

man who had already made up his mind, he reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit

hed table with a sharp, dis

e wood until it came to a dead stop directly beside Claire's untouched plate of avocado

B One

of the gesture. He wasn't just rejecting her. He was erasing her. He was reducing her to a problem to be solved with

his, they were no longer hot with rage. They were cold. Arctic. The eyes of a woman who had b

clasped his hands together, his dark eyes fixed on her face with the detac

said. It was

idn't look away. The St. Christopher medal beneath her robe pressed aga

a quiet, unshakeable resolve. "But you don't know anything. And one day, Houston Pierc

hardwood, and walked out of the dining room with her head held high. She did not run. She did not

te scar against the dark wood. He didn't call after her. He didn't move. He simply stared at the empty doorw