Dying, I Left His Ruthless Bed

Kade POV

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours of silence.

I sat behind the massive mahogany desk in my study, a glass of amber whiskey untouched near my hand. The house was quiet—too quiet. Usually, there was the faint sound of Isabelle moving through the halls, the soft click of her heels, or the distant hum of her presence that I had taken for granted. Now, the silence was a physical weight, pressing against my temples.

On the leather sofa across from me, that damn white cat, Fluffy, stared at me with unblinking green eyes. It hadn't moved in hours. It looked at me with the same silent accusation I had seen in Isabelle's eyes before she walked out.

"Stop looking at me," I muttered, running a hand through my hair.

The cat yawned, unimpressed, and curled back into a ball.

Isabelle was playing a game. That was the only logical explanation. She had left the divorce papers—unsigned by me, of course—and the ring on the nightstand like a dramatic teenager. She thought this stunt would force my hand? She thought disappearing to her friend's little apartment would make me chase her?

She was wrong. I was the Underboss of the Cameron family. I didn't chase. I waited. And when she realized how cold the world was without my protection, she would come back.

My phone buzzed on the desk. Mother.

I swiped to answer, putting it on speaker. "What is it?"

"Have you retrieved your wife yet, Kade?" Audie Cameron's voice was sharp, cutting through the stale air of the office. "People are starting to ask questions. It looks... messy."

"She needs time to cool off," I said, leaning back in my chair. "She's at the Greene girl's apartment."

"Yes, I know," my mother sighed, her tone dripping with disdain. "I had one of my men check. She's been locked in there all week, crying her eyes out, apparently sick with grief. Pathetic, really."

I felt a knot of tension loosen in my chest. Crying. Sick. Good. That meant she was suffering. That meant she regretted it.

"Let her cry," I said coldly. "She needs to learn that tantrums have consequences. When she's ready to apologize, she can come home."

"Just make sure she doesn't run to your grandfather," Audie warned. "We don't need the Elder involved in your marital squabbles. Tonight is the St. Regis Charity Gala. You need to be there. Alone. Show them the Cameron family is unbothered."

"I'll be there," I promised.

I hung up, a grim satisfaction settling over me. Isabelle was breaking. It was only a matter of time before she returned to her place.

The St. Regis Grand Ballroom was a cesspool of fake smiles and expensive lies. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars hung from the ceiling, casting a glittering light over the city's elite—politicians, businessmen, and the monsters like me who pulled their strings.

I stood in the private box on the second floor, gripping the velvet-covered railing. From here, I could see everything, but no one could touch me. The air smelled of champagne and desperation.

"Signor Cameron," Marco said from behind me. He was my most trusted soldier, a man of few words.

"Report," I said, not taking my eyes off the crowd below. I was scanning for threats, for rival families, for anything out of place.

"The perimeter is secure. The Shaws are here, near the bar. And..." Marco hesitated. That was unlike him.

I turned, frowning. "And what?"

Marco cleared his throat, stepping closer to the railing. He pointed a gloved hand toward the center of the room, near the massive marble fountain that served as the focal point of the dance floor.

"A thousand pardons, Boss... but the woman in the red dress, by the fountain... is that not the Signora?"

My blood ran cold.

Isabelle? Here? Impossible. My mother said she was sick. She was supposed to be curled up in a ball, mourning the loss of me.

I followed Marco's finger.

At first, I didn't recognize her. The woman standing by the fountain was wearing a gown of blood-red silk that clung to every curve of her body—curves I thought I knew, but which looked dangerously foreign in that dress. The back was open, exposing a expanse of pale, creamy skin that I had claimed a thousand times.

She wasn't crying. She wasn't sick.

She was laughing.

Her head was thrown back, her neck exposed, as she smiled at a man standing next to her. A man I didn't know.

The glass in my hand shattered.

Whiskey and blood dripped onto the expensive carpet, but I didn't feel the cut. All I could feel was the inferno igniting in my chest. The lie my mother told me dissolved, replaced by a truth that was far more jagged and violent.

She wasn't hiding. She was parading herself.

"Stay here," I growled, my voice sounding like grinding stones.

I didn't wait for Marco's reply. I turned toward the stairs, my vision tunneling. The world narrowed down to that splash of red in a sea of black and white.

She wanted to be seen? Fine.

I would make sure the whole world saw who she belonged to.