Black Wedding

Chapter 2

Silas had followed me up the stairs.

He demanded, "You are actually serious about leaving?"

Then he added, his voice dripping with disdain, "Iris, I do not have the patience to play this hard-to-get game with you."

I let go of the wrist he had clamped a moment ago and looked at him calmly.

I said, "I am not playing games. This is for real."

I continued, "I've already signed the divorce papers and sent them to your office."

Silas froze solid.

He muttered, "Divorce?"

His voice rose sharply as he asked, "What makes you think you get to divorce me?"

He jabbed a finger at my clothes and spat, "Everything you are wearing and everything you own—did I not buy it all for you?"

He jabbed a finger at the suitcase sitting on the floor, his voice ice-cold.

He declared, "If you want to leave, fine. But you leave with nothing. You leave every single thing that belongs to the Brooks family right here."

I nodded, unzipped the suitcase, and pulled out a handful of worn old sweaters to tuck against my chest.

I replied calmly, "Okay. All I am taking is this folder."

Silas's gaze snapped to the folder, and his eyes turned even colder.

He demanded, "What is it?"

I answered, "It is a memento my grandmother left me."

He barked a harsh laugh and snatched the folder right out of my hand.

He sneered, "A memento? If I remember correctly, the sketchbook and pencils you used for this were bought with my money, were they not? If so, that makes it mine."

My blood ran cold as I stared at him.

I warned, "Silas, that is the wedding dress design my grandmother left me. Do not push this too far."

He flipped the folder open and glanced at the gorgeous sketch inside.

He said mockingly, "I'm pushing this too far? This tacky thing is only precious to you. Funny enough, Clara needs an extra design example for her fashion design class today. This fits perfectly."

He tossed the folder casually to his assistant waiting in the hallway.

He ordered, "Take it to Miss Davis. Tell her it is a gift from me."

The assistant caught it, bowed his head in acknowledgment, and turned to walk down the stairs.

I did not scream. I did not lunge at him to grab it back.

I just stood there, staring at Silas—staring at the man I had loved for three whole years.

I remembered the first year of our marriage, when he was hospitalized with a stomach ulcer.

I stayed up three nights straight sewing him a good luck token, using the most traditional stitching technique.

But later, I found it tossed in the trash can of his office. He said it was too cheap and ugly.

Yet he had locked the flimsy origami stars Clara had folded on a whim into his safe like they were priceless treasure.

I should have known the truth back then.

He never loved me.

He just enjoyed my endless giving and blind obedience.

Silas looked at my blank, calm face and frowned slightly.

He asked, confused, "Why are you not saying anything?"

My reaction had clearly caught him off guard.

Then he pressed, "Are you not supposed to cry and throw a fit like you always do, begging me to give it back to you?"

I shook my head.

I replied, "I am not begging anymore. If you want, you can give it to her."

I clutched my old sweaters tighter, stepped past him, and headed for the door.

Silas grabbed my wrist roughly.

He snarled, "Iris, what new trick are you pulling now? You think putting on this 'I do not care' act will make me go soft on you?"

I stared at his furious, twisted face, and a bone-deep exhaustion washed over me.

I said quietly, "Silas, I am not acting. I really do not care anymore."

A split second of unmistakable panic flickered deep in his eyes.

He said, his voice shaking slightly, "Fine. Just fine. You want to leave that badly, don't you?"

He wrenched his hand away from me, fished out his phone, and dialed a number.

He barked into the phone, "Send out an order immediately. Freeze all secondary credit cards under Iris Taylor's name. Also, get word to every airline and high-speed train station. Put her on their ticket purchase blacklist."

He hung up and fixed me with an icy glare.

He warned, "Let us see how far you can get when you do not have a single cent to your name. You cannot even get out of Ashvale."

I brushed off his threat completely.

Clutching my old sweaters to my chest, I walked down the stairs one slow step at a time.

The moment I stepped out of the villa, the biting late autumn wind cut straight through my thin clothes, chilling me to the bone.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I had not called in three whole years.

The call connected after just one ring.

A deep, lazy male voice came through the earpiece, edged with unquestioning obedience.

He asked, "What can I do for you, Ms. Sinclair?"

I stared up at the pitch-black night sky and spoke softly.

I said, "Landon, come pick me up."