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Chapter 12
Time ticked by, second after second, as Declan clenched the divorce decree in his hand, nearly crumpling it beyond recognition. Just then, his assistant called.
“Mr. Hawthorne, we’ve confirmed it. The divorce papers you sent over–they’re valid.”
“That’s impossible!” Declan‘ voice trembled in disbelief. “You need both parties to sign for a
divorce to be valid! The signature on that agreement–it’s forged. It can’t hold up in court. I never
even…”
He trailed off. A memory slammed into his brain like a brick.
That morning, right before the court hearing–Sloane had knelt before him, for what felt like the
hundredth time. “Declan, if you walk out that door today to defend Vivienne, then sign this
agreement. We’re done. We’re getting divorced.”
He’d been in such a rush to leave that day. Didn’t even stop to think. Honestly, she’d brought up
“divorce” so many times in the last six months, he’d tuned it out completely.
He never even looked at the agreement, but just scrawled his name across the page and shoved it at
her. “Is that enough for you, Sloane? Stop pushing me!”
A stabbing ache shot through his skull as he squeezed his eyes shut.
She meant it. The divorce was real.
And now,
after leaving behind that decree… she was gone. Truly gone.
That thought made his chest seize, like someone had reached inside and crushed his heart with bare hands. He forced the wave of pain down and barked into the phone, “Check everything–every
possible mode of transport. If she booked anything in her name, if there’s even a trace of where she
went or when–find it. I want it all!”
That night, Declan didn’t sleep a wink.
By morning, cigarette butts had piled up like ash–covered hills beside the bed. A rough layer of stubble shadowed his jaw, and he looked wrecked–utterly and completely drained.
Just after dawn, he heard the front door open downstairs.
He jolted upright and raced for the stairs. “Sloane? Sloane, is that you?”
Chapter 12
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But the answer came in the click of heels against hardwood–and Vivienne’s sweet, syrupy voice, “It’s me, Declan. I made you some warm oatmeal. I thought you’d like some.”
“I don’t want it. Take it and go,” he said sharply, turning his back on her. “And take all of your things from the bedroom. Every last piece. I don’t want a single thing left behind. And Vivienne- don’t ever come here again.”
Her voice broke immediately. “Why? I heard… I heard she left you. I heard Sloane was the one who
asked for the divorce. She’s gone, Declan–vanished. So why are you still-”
“Shut up!” he growled, gripping his temples. “Get out! Stop bugging me already!”
The next week passed in a haze of desperate searching. He pulled every string, burned every
connection, and spent countless hours chasing leads. But got nothing, not a single trace.
It was as if Sloane had vanished into thin air that night… or maybe–just maybe–she’d never even
left the city.
Ten days after her disappearance, a record–breaking rainstorm hit Riverstone.
At 10:00 AM, a scheduled post appeared on an online forum. It tore through the internet like wildfire, far more vicious than the rain outside.
Th
Declan had just picked up a razor, standing in front of the bathroom mirror for the first time in days. He’d finally arranged to meet with a high–profile private investigator. Cleaned himself up,
trying to feel something close to presentable.
Then his assistant’s message buzzed in.
[Mr. Hawthorne, whatever you do, please stay calm.]
No context. Just that one line. He frowned and tapped open the link. The moment the page loaded, his pupils contracted sharply and hand slipped, leaving the razor slashed deep across his chin.
Blood dripped onto the phone screen. Right there, in black and white:
[By the time you’re reading this letter, I’ll probably be gone. My only regret is that I never got to see
justice served–for my mother…]
