Divorced by the Devil Rider

The papers smacked my chest. Hard. It was a heavy, stapled pile of garbage that made my ribs ache. One of the guys in the back—Vane or Jax, who cares—let out a wet, jagged laugh that made my skin crawl. “Sign it,” Kade said. He looked like hell. No scary boss energy, no polished suit. Just a man who hadn't showered, grease smeared on his jaw, and a tie so crooked it looked like it was trying to strangle him. Seeing him look this human made me want to gag. It was disgusting. I stared at the word DIVORCE at the top. It looked like a typo. It didn't feel real. “Kade,” I said. My voice was thin, like a scratch on a window. I hated it. I cleared my throat, and the sound was too loud, too desperate. “What is this? Is this some kind of joke?” He didn’t answer. He just stood there, shifting his weight. His boots looked too tight. He kept looking at a spot on the wall behind me, refusing to even acknowledge my face. “This isn’t funny,” I snapped. My voice went way too high. “You don’t do this here. In front of everyone. Our marriage is private!” I sounded like a defensive kid. “I mean, at least wait until we’re home!” I added. Why the hell did I say that? We didn't have a 'home' anymore. I regretted it the second it hit the air. Kade’s eyes flicked to mine. No fire, no drama. Just a twitchy, irritated look. Like I was wasting his time. He looked like he’d rather be in a gutter than standing here with me. “It ends here, Lucia,” he muttered. Behind him, the Hellhounds moved. Stale coffee breath and the smell of cheap cigarettes hit me in waves. A light in the ceiling kept flickering—click-buzz, click-buzz—drilling a headache into my skull. A camera flash popped, leaving a purple blob in my eyes. “Are you serious?” I asked. I sounded like I was begging. Pathetic. Kade looked at the floor, then back at me. He looked awkward, like he’d forgotten his script. “Yes,” he said. Just a blunt, ugly ‘yes’ that sat between us like a dead animal. I felt the heat crawling up my neck, splotchy and hot. My hands were shaking—a jagged, ugly vibration I couldn't stop. I tried to laugh to show I didn't care, but it turned into a weird, wet cough that made my throat burn. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” I said. I knew I was the one losing. He had the club, the papers, and the power. I was just a girl in a lobby with a ruined life, but my ego wouldn't shut up. One of the bikers snorted. Kade’s face went blank. He shoved the pen at me. His grip was too tight, his knuckles white and bony. “Sign it.” It felt like he was pleading with me to just go away and die. “You could’ve told me first,” I whispered. My voice broke on the last word—a sharp crack that ruined my last shred of dignity. He didn't say anything. He just looked at the grease on his thumb. He looked like he was waiting for a bus to take him away from me. “Jesus, just do it already!” someone in the crowd yelled. More flashes. More phones. I was a goddamn circus act. “I’m not signing this here,” I said, trying to find a backbone I didn't have. Kade stepped forward. He didn't glide; he stumbled on a loose floor tile, his shoulder slamming into mine. For a second, I smelled him—gasoline, old leather, and that peppermint gum he chews when his nerves are shot. It was so familiar it made me want to vomit. “You are,” he said. He was too close. I could see the tiny, red broken veins in his eyes. He looked like he’d been awake for three days. “I said—” “Lucia. Just… please.” It wasn’t soft. It was just tired. My fingers felt like lead. I looked at my name on the paper. Lucia Moretti. Soon to be nobody. He held the pen out. I grabbed for it, but my palm was so sweaty it slipped. The pen clattered onto the marble floor. I had to bend down, my face burning, and scramble for it like a dog while the cameras clicked. It was the most humiliating second of my life. I stood up and pressed the pen down so hard I tore the corner of the page. My hand jerked. The ink smeared in a big, ugly blue streak across the word 'Moretti.' It looked like s**t. I shoved the pen back at him, hitting his chest. He fumbled it, the pen falling into his jacket pocket. Everything was messy. Everything was broken. I turned and walked. Not a stride—I just moved my legs, trying not to trip over my own feet. The doors were so far away. I was almost there when a hand grabbed my wrist. Hard. I flinched, an ugly gasp hitting my throat. It was Miller. That blond prick who always looked at me like I was a piece of meat. He wasn't being possessive; he was just being an asshole. He twisted my arm, pulling my sleeve up. The bruises were right there. Yellow-green marks from when I’d hit the workbench in the garage last week. “What’s this?” Miller shouted so everyone could hear. “Kade been hitting the goods?” The lobby went dead. That ringing silence that hurts your ears. I couldn't move. The air in the room got heavy. Kade was there in a second. He didn't move like a pro; he lunged like a gutter fighter. He grabbed Miller’s wrist. For a split second, Kade’s face didn't look like a President's. It looked like a monster’s. “Relax, boss,” Miller laughed, tightening his grip on me. “Just looking.” Kade’s jaw twisted. “Let go.” Miller didn't move fast enough. He wanted to show off. Kade didn't do a cool move. He just threw his whole weight forward, off-balance and messy, and let out a snarl. A raw, high-pitched sound of a man losing his mind. He grabbed Miller’s thumb and yanked it back. Crunch. The wet, sickening sound of breaking bone. Kade stumbled back, gasping for air, his hair hanging over his eyes. He looked unhinged. He looked at me, and I saw absolute wreckage in his eyes. He looked like he was going to puke. He reached for my wrist, his fingers twitching, but he stopped an inch away. He looked at the yellow bruises, then at his own hands. They were shaking worse than mine. I yanked my arm back. “I’m fine!” I yelled. It was the wrong time to yell. I just sounded shrill and desperate. Kade didn't move. He stood over a groaning Miller, looking like he’d just realized he’d burned down the wrong house. I turned and bolted. The cold air outside hit me like a punch. I didn't look back. I just ran for the parking lot. My phone buzzed. Again. And again. A frantic vibration in my pocket. I pulled it out, my fingers fumbling with the screen. It wasn't a text. It was a news alert. A video. The headline made my blood turn to ice: "LEAKED: HELLHOUNDS PREZ DUMPS PREGNANT WIFE IN PUBLIC." I froze. I hadn't told a soul. How did— I scrolled. Below the video was a photo of my medical records. My lab results. Someone had hacked the clinic. This wasn't a coincidence. This was a hit. Behind me, the courthouse doors hissed open. I didn't turn around. I knew those boots. Heavy, uneven, dragging on the concrete. He was on his phone. He sounded terrified. “Find whoever posted that,” Kade growled. “Now. They didn't just leak the divorce. They gave the cartel our kid's location.” I turned around then. Kade was ten feet away. His face was gray. He wasn't looking at me like a woman he’d loved or even a woman he’d just dumped. He was looking at me like a high-value asset that was about to be stolen. He wasn’t looking at his wife. He was looking at the situation. “Lucia,” he said, his voice cracking. “Get in the car. Now. They're already coming.”