Reborn to love you

Chapter 9: Earsed

Kyra’s POV

“Yes, with the amount of evidence you’ve gathered—and given the concerns surrounding your safety—we can expedite the divorce process,” Gavin Harrison said calmly, his tone measured but assured, as though the outcome had already been decided long before I walked into his office. “A judge will likely approve it without requiring the other party’s consent.”

I nodded in response, keeping my posture straight and my expression composed, even as my fingers betrayed me with a faint, rhythmic tapping against the armrest, the movement subtle enough to go unnoticed by most, but impossible for me to ignore, because it carried the tension I refused to show anywhere else.

“What if,” I asked after a brief pause, my voice deliberately even, almost curious, “someone signs something they trust without fully understanding what they’ve agreed to?”

Gavin’s gaze sharpened slightly, his attention shifting in a way that told me he understood there was more behind the question than I was saying aloud.

“As long as the signature is valid and the documents are properly executed,” he replied carefully, “it is legally binding, and the responsibility ultimately falls on the signer.”

A faint smile touched my lips, controlled and fleeting, as I absorbed the answer.

“Of course it does.”

We stood, exchanged a firm handshake, and I walked out of the office with Janet following closely behind, the quiet click of the door sealing something in place that could no longer be undone.

Inside the elevator, silence pressed in almost immediately, and I found myself staring at my reflection in the polished steel doors, taking in the image of someone who looked composed, polished, entirely in control, and yet felt completely unfamiliar, as though I were looking at a version of myself that had been constructed rather than lived.

My marriage was not broken in the way I had once believed it might be.

It was a lie.

Not something that had cracked under pressure or slowly fallen apart over time, but something that had never been real to begin with, something I had given meaning to because I needed it to exist.

I had believed there was something genuine beneath Tyler’s easy charm, something deeper than the carefully crafted warmth he showed the world, but standing there, watching my own reflection, I realized that maybe I had built that meaning myself, and he had simply allowed me to.

I had helped him plan his proposal, choosing details he claimed mattered, organizing moments he later took credit for, shaping an image that made everything appear seamless, and after that, I had managed everything else—his schedule, his public presence, the quiet, invisible work that no one noticed but everyone relied on.

And he had used it.

Used me.

To make everything else easier.

My throat tightened, the sensation rising before I could suppress it, but I held it in place, forcing it back down as Janet glanced at me from the side, hesitation flickering briefly across her expression before she chose not to speak.

When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out immediately, not giving the feeling inside me time to rise any further, because I knew that if I let it, it would not stop.

By the time we reached the car, everything was back where it belonged.

Not gone.

Just buried.

Back at Fairchild Corp, I stood behind my desk with both hands braced firmly against the surface, grounding myself in something solid as I spoke with deliberate clarity.

“I don’t want anything overlooked,” I said evenly, my gaze fixed ahead. “Every file, every timestamp, every inconsistency—send everything to Mr. Harrison.”

Janet nodded, though her eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary, as if she were searching for something beneath the surface that I had no intention of letting her see.

“Prepare the documents quietly,” I continued, my tone steady. “I want everything airtight before anyone realizes there’s even a draft.”

“Yes, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Pass your remaining tasks to Sarah, but monitor everything she does.”

A slight pause followed before she responded, her professionalism never slipping.

“Of course.”

“And Janet,” I added, my voice tightening just slightly, “have IT trace any unknown numbers that contacted me today, and do it quietly.”

Her brows drew together in subtle confusion.

“Unknown numbers?”

“Possibly more evidence.”

She studied me for a brief moment before nodding again.

“I’ll handle it.”

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, though the movement came just a fraction too late, and Janet noticed, her gaze flicking briefly to my hand, where faint marks had begun to show, before returning to my face.

I straightened slightly.

“Make it a priority.”

She hesitated, her voice softer this time.

“Ms. Fairchild… are you—”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, the words sharper than intended, and I softened them almost immediately. “Just make sure it gets done.”

“…Understood.”

Later that afternoon, a knock broke the stillness in the office, and when the courier stepped in with a slim, hand-delivered package addressed to me, something about it felt too deliberate to ignore.

I signed for it without comment, the weight of it light in my hands but heavy in implication, and as my phone buzzed, the message that appeared confirmed exactly what I had already begun to suspect.

*Got you a present. Photos and video. Should’ve arrived by now. Hope it helps your case. —JH*

My fingers stilled around the phone as the initials settled into place.

JH.

Jaxx.

The name stirred something I could not quite define, not comfort and not trust, but something sharper, something that felt like awareness rather than familiarity.

I opened the box.

Inside were photographs, clear and undeniable, each one capturing a moment that left no room for interpretation—Tyler and Cassie together, close in ways that no explanation could justify, their expressions unguarded, their connection unmistakable.

Each image landed harder than the last, not because I had not expected it, but because of how easily I had allowed myself to believe otherwise.

At first, it hurt.

Then the feeling dulled, flattening into something quieter.

And beneath that quiet, something colder took its place.

Clarity.

When my phone buzzed again, I looked down to see another unknown number, no message this time, only a video file waiting to be opened, and after a brief hesitation, I pressed play.

Static flickered across the screen before the image steadied, revealing something I did not immediately understand, my mind refusing to process it at first, until the shape became clear, unmistakable.

An ultrasound.

My breath stopped as the reality settled in slowly, heavily, each detail becoming sharper as my mind caught up with what I was seeing, until my gaze landed on the corner of the screen where the date and due date were clearly marked.

My hand shot out to steady myself against the desk.

Cassie was pregnant.

The realization did not crash over me the way I expected it to.

It sank.

Slow.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

This was not just betrayal.

This was replacement.

A future he had already begun building with her while I was still standing beside him, unaware, unnecessary, already being written out of something I had thought belonged to me.

And just like that, mine was gone.

Not broken.

Erased.

The room remained the same, unchanged in every visible way, and yet something within it had shifted, the sound dulling as though I had been submerged beneath water, the ticking of the clock stretching thin and distant, my surroundings familiar but no longer mine.

Something inside me gave way then, not loudly or visibly, but completely, like a structure collapsing inward without warning, leaving nothing standing in its place.

“So that’s what I was to you…” I murmured under my breath, the words quieter than I intended but carrying more weight than anything I had said all day.

A placeholder.

Stability.

Someone to hold everything together while he built something else somewhere else.

My chest tightened as the realization settled deeper, sharper, because I had made his life easier, cleaner, stronger, and he had trusted that I would never look closely enough to see what he was doing behind it.

How long had he believed I would stay blind?

The answer came too easily.

Long enough.

No—worse.

I had mistaken convenience for depth, and he had mistaken my loyalty for blindness.

I did not hate him for leaving.

I hated him for staying long enough to make me believe he had not.

He was never complicated.

I had simply given him more depth than he ever had.

My grip tightened around my phone without me realizing it, the sharp sting of pain grounding me only when it became impossible to ignore, and when I looked down, I saw the thin line of blood where my nails had broken the skin, the red stark against my palm.

I stared at it for a moment, detached.

Good.

At least something had.

I set the phone down carefully, more carefully than necessary, as if control over that small action could extend to everything else unraveling inside me, but the image of the ultrasound remained fixed in my mind, that date, that future, that life that no longer had a place for me.

When I picked up the USB and plugged it into my computer, I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before opening the files, each label clear and deliberate—restaurant, proposal, hotel, private—as though someone had taken the time to organize every piece of evidence I would need.

The first video showed Tyler pulling out a chair for her, the same small gesture he had once used with me, the same practiced warmth that now felt less like kindness and more like habit.

The second showed something else entirely.

The proposal.

He laughed softly in the video, that familiar, easy sound that had once made everything feel simple, and I paused the screen, the realization settling in with quiet precision.

I had mistaken ease for sincerity.

When I reached for my phone again, his name stared back at me from the screen, so normal, so familiar, so completely false, and for a moment, I wanted to throw it, to watch it shatter, to see something break the way everything inside me already had.

My arm tensed, my grip tightening as the impulse surged, but I stopped myself before it could take form, not because I was calm, but because I refused to give him that.

Slowly, deliberately, I lowered my hand.

Then I typed.

*Hey, I’ll be staying out late tonight. Work is busy—need to close a few projects. Don’t wait up.*

A normal message.

A normal lie.

I stared at it for a moment before sending, the irony settling in quietly as I wondered how many times he had done the same.

Then I turned my phone face down.

And moved forward.