“They didn’t drown,” I said more to myself than her. “They swam away. She doesn’t want to face me yet. That’s why there’s no call.”
Isabella had always been intense about family. About me. About our son. She loved too hard. That kind of woman did not vanish easily.
I lifted Roxanne’s chin gently. “Rest,” I told her. “You’ve been through hell.”
....
For the next two days, I stayed by her side. Made sure she ate. Made sure the room stayed warm. Made sure no reporters got close. I handled everything.
But at night, when the lights dimmed and the hallways went quiet, my mind turned on me.
I kept seeing Isabella’s face on the yacht. Not angry. Not desperate.
Resolved.
I told myself she would come back soon. She always did. She was dramatic sometimes. Emotional. She wanted me to chase her, panic a little.
Fine. It worked.
By the third morning, I was sitting outside the operating wing, elbows on my knees, fingers tapping without rhythm. I did not even notice I was doing it until someone stopped in front of me.
A man in a suit. Calm. Professional. Dangerous in a quiet way.
“Mr. Vanderbilt,” he said. “I’m Mrs Vanderbilt’s lawyer.”
I looked up slowly.
He handed me a folder. “These are the divorce papers she prepared. Everything is ready. She just needs your signature.”
My eyes dropped to the folder.
Divorce?
