Chapter 113

"No problem, just be there during office hours, alright? Let's not drag today's business into tomorrow."

Isabella's voice was icy as she strode toward the entrance, leaving Alexander behind.

Memories flooded back—three years ago, when they'd agreed to register their marriage. An emergency meeting at Aetheria had forced him to stay behind.

By the time he finished entertaining important clients, he realized he'd forgotten to tell her to reschedule.

The recollection was sharp, painful.

That day, the town hall had been nearly empty. Only Isabella remained, head bowed, her slender frame looking heartbreakingly alone.

He never imagined she'd wait all day.

He never thought such unwavering devotion existed.

Back then, Alexander wanted to apologize. But Mr. Dubois' demands, his own resistance to the arranged marriage, and Evelyn's departure at the time had stolen the words from his lips.

"Alexander, you're finally here!"

Even now, he could still see her radiant smile—bright as sunlight.

Back then, he didn’t understand what it would take for this woman to give up on him.

Now he knew. Abandonment. Cold, ruthless abandonment.

Guilt twisted inside him. Jaw tight, he followed Isabella through the doors.

"Are they here to get married? They look perfect together!"

"But neither seems happy."

"Probably fighting. Did you see how late he was? Deserves it!"

"That guy looks broke compared to her. Took a cab but acts like royalty. So many freeloaders these days."

Alexander's glare silenced the gossiping man instantly.

The divorce section.

They sat side by side before the clerk, handing over their documents.

The clerk hesitated. "Are you sure? Three years isn’t nothing."

"I don’t lack money, and neither does he. The maid cooks, his secretary handles his schedule. No complications." Isabella’s tone was frosty.

Alexander stayed silent.

The clerk processed the paperwork.

Isabella checked her watch. "Hurry up. I have places to be."

"No shared assets or children?" the clerk asked.

"None," Isabella replied.

Alexander clenched his jaw. He’d considered offering compensation, but now—with her as the Ashbourne heiress—it would only insult her.

"Sign here."

Isabella scrawled her name swiftly, then glanced at Alexander.

His hand trembled.

The pen clattered to the floor.

Isabella frowned, studying him properly for the first time.

His face was haggard, hair disheveled, coat dusty, collar torn.

What had he been doing?

She picked up the pen and shoved it toward him.

Finally, both signed. The clerk stamped the papers. It was done.

"Best of luck to you both."

Outside, Isabella stared at the divorce papers, emotions tangled.

The pain of his forced signature had faded. Now, relief settled in.

16:48

She’d given everything for love and paid the price. Now, back at Ashbourne Group, she’d focus on her career.

Men? Not worth her time.

"Alexander, I’ve got things to do. Take care."

She turned to leave.

"Isabella, wait—"

A thud.

She spun around, gasping.

Alexander had collapsed down the steps, face contorted in pain.

Though it was only a few steps, the fall looked brutal.

"Alexander!"

She rushed to help him up, but his arm shook violently.

"What’s wrong with you?"

"Nothing." Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.

"Tell me the truth. Now." Her voice brooked no argument.

Despite the pain, warmth flickered in his chest at her concern.

"Do you still care?"

Her lips twisted into a smirk. "I’d stop for a stray dog too. You’re a living being—no reason not to care."

His face paled further. He pushed her away.

"I don’t need your pity."

"Sudden loss of balance could mean cerebellar issues. Get checked."

"Is this revenge? Taking shots at me whenever you can?" His voice was cold.

"Don’t flatter yourself. I’m neither that petty nor that bored." She forced a laugh. "Frankly, I’m thrilled. Since you’re fine, I won’t waste another second on you. Goodbye."

Rage burned in Alexander’s bloodshot eyes.

The moment she released him, he staggered, collapsing against her.

Their bodies pressed together.

Her chest brushed his, making his breath hitch.

His trembling hand slid to her waist, gripping the curve of her red dress.

Mind or body—one was always out of control.

"Remove your hand." Her voice was steel. "Or I’ll chop it off and feed it to my pet crocodile."