Chapter 7
It was already past midnight when Sloane returned to the estate.
On the coffee table sat a birthday cake with its candles blown out. Declan was on the couch with Vivienne, opening presents together.
The moment he saw Sloane soaked to the bone, Declan froze mid–motion. “Sloane… I sent a car for you, didn’t I?”
His brows furrowed as he jumped up, grabbing a towel, ready to dry her hair.
But her icy, unwavering gaze stayed fixed on him. Without a hint of hesitation, she raised her hand
And slapped down hard. At that very moment, a figure suddenly rushed forward, shielding Declan.
Smack!
Vivienne cried out, clutching her face.
“Ah!” A red handprint spread quickly across her cheek as she collapsed weakly into Declan’s arms, tears brimming in her eyes, looking utterly fragile.
“Vivienne! Are you okay?”
Declan held her tightly, his fingers trembling as they brushed her face.
His fingertips grazed her swelling cheek–and his restraint snapped. He ripped the towel from his
hand.
“Sloane, have you lost your damn mind?!”
The towel, whipped like a lash, struck her forehead. Her damp curls scattered. She nearly lost her
balance.
“I was wrong about you, Declan.” she whispered through gritted teeth, holding back tears. Her
voice was almost a bitter laugh.
“All that—for a damn ring? You sold me off like I was nothing. You disgust me.”
Declan flinched. For a second, something like guilt crossed his face.
But Vivienne reached out and blocked him, her voice choked with sobs. “Don’t blame Declan. If
Chapter 7
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you’re mad, if you need someone to lash out on–then let it be me.”
What a touching little performance.
That last shred of guilt in Declan’s eyes shattered. He swept Vivienne into his arms. “It’s okay,
baby. Let me handle this.”
Then he turned to Sloane, gaze frigid. “Those photos–they’ll be auctioned in six months. No
matter the cost, I’ll buy every single one. One billion or ten billion–I don’t care. But Sloane, you
never should’ve raised a hand to Vivienne.”
Six months?
She wouldn’t even be alive by then.
Sloane let out a hollow, joyless laugh. As he started up the stairs, she heard his final command.
“If you don’t want to be detained for assault tonight, get out to the courtyard and get on your
knees.”
The rain had picked up again, heavier now.
One after another, the estate’s private doctors arrived in their cars.
The headlights flared through the darkness, casting long shadows across the rain–soaked yard.
Sloane knelt there, her back straight, motionless–flanked by silent bodyguards.
Two hours later, two overlapping figures appeared on the balcony of the master bedroom, gazing
down at her.
“Oh no… poor Sloane.”
Vivienne cooed, her syrupy voice dripping with mock sympathy and smug delight. “Since I’ve got
this nasty mark on my face, we’ll have to postpone the birthday party a few days. Maybe Sloane can
join us next time–she hasn’t even seen that yacht you bought me yet.”
Declan’s voice came low and steady from the shadows. “Yeah. Whatever you want, love. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.”
That syrupy exchange pierced whatever was left of Sloane’s broken heart.
The Declan who once cared for her… he had died long ago.
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She clenched her fists.
The yacht, huh?
Perfect. That would be the place where she ended this–for good.
The rain that night left her knees bruised and purple.
Two days later, she still walked with a limp. But she went to City Hall anyway and walked out with two copies of the divorce decree.
When she got back to the estate, a black SUV waited at the curb.
“Ma’am, Mr. Hawthorne asked me to escort you to Miss Vivienne’s birthday party.”
She left one copy of the divorce papers on the bed in the master suite. Then she dug out her long–forgotten wedding ring–and followed the guard to the car.
The yacht’s deck was glittering with fairy lights. Gifts were stacked into a mountain. A champagne tower sparkled beneath the spotlights. Waitstaff in tuxedos drifted among the crowd.
“Seriously, Declan, you’re too much. Vivienne’s your girl, but she can’t even sip a glass of wine. without you breathing down her neck!”
A group of trust fund kids were playing a bottle–spinning game at the long dining table.
Just as Sloane stepped onto the deck, the spinning bottle slowed… then pointed directly at her.
Someone let out a soft chuckle.
“Well, well. Would you look at that? The bottle’s spoken–time for a little punishment.”
Chapter 7
