My Terminal Diagnosis, His Cruel Divorce

At nine in the morning, harsh sunlight pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. Gerard sat up, pressing the heels of his hands against his pounding temples. His head felt like it was splitting open.

He looked around. His brain was completely blank. Then he saw the tangled sheets. He saw the torn strips of black velvet on the floor. The fragmented memories of the night before rushed into his mind like a speeding train. The suffocating heat. The desperate need. The soft skin beneath his hands.

He threw off the heavy duvet. He looked around the massive suite. It was empty. The only thing left behind was a faint, lingering scent of cedar in the air.

Gerard's face turned dark. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and dialed a secure number. "Cecil. Get a security team to my suite at The Obsidian. Now. You have five minutes."

While he waited, Gerard walked into the bathroom. He checked the sink, the shower, the trash can. Nothing. The woman had cleaned up perfectly. She did not leave a single hair behind.

His business instincts kicked in. A woman looking for a payout would have stayed in the bed, waiting for him to wake up. She would have taken pictures. This woman ran away and erased her tracks. The mystery of her sudden disappearance ignited a fierce, burning curiosity in his chest.

Cecil Dillon, his head of security, arrived with three men. They began a sweep of the room, looking for fingerprints or DNA.

Gerard stood by the window, looking out at the city. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. The drug had blinded him, but his hands remembered. He remembered the curve of her spine. He remembered the raised ink on her lower back.

A butterfly.

He turned to Cecil. "Lock down the hotel. Get the security footage from the lobby, the garage, and the elevators from last night to this morning."

Cecil looked nervous. "Sir, the security footage from the VIP floors and the private garage is practically useless," he reported, swallowing hard. "The woman was wearing a dark coat and kept her head down the entire time. She perfectly navigated the blind spots of the high-definition cameras in the hallways, moving with the precision of a ghost. By the time she reached the garage, the heavy fog and the angle of her car's visor completely obscured her face. It is almost as if she knew exactly where every lens was pointing."

Gerard slammed his fist into the wall. The drywall cracked under the impact. "I do not care what it takes! Find the woman with the butterfly tattoo on her lower back. Turn the city upside down if you have to."

Meanwhile, back at the Manhattan penthouse, Adaline was standing in her closet. She pulled a thick, high-necked wool sweater over her head, making sure the fabric completely covered the dark bruises on her neck.

The front door unlocked with a loud beep. Gerard walked in. The cold, ruthless energy radiating from him filled the apartment instantly. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room like a hawk looking for prey.

Adaline's stomach tightened. She sat down on the sofa and picked up a business magazine, pretending to read.

Gerard walked over and stood right in front of her. He looked down. His eyes locked onto the high collar of her sweater. He frowned slightly, but the thought passed.

Adaline closed the magazine. She looked up at him with cold eyes. "Where were you all night? Did you enjoy your time with your precious Kena?"

Gerard looked annoyed. He did not answer her. Instead, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a new folder. He threw it onto the coffee table.

"Sign it. Now. My lawyers are waiting downstairs. We are finishing this today."

Adaline stared at the fresh divorce papers. The memory of his hands on her body just a few hours ago clashed violently with the cold reality of his demand. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. She reached out and picked up the Montblanc pen from the table. She pulled off the cap.

Gerard watched her hand move. A sudden, irrational wave of irritation hit him. He did not want her to sign it so easily. His hand twitched, instinctively wanting to reach out and snatch the pen away.

Before the pen could touch the paper, a deafening roar shook the apartment.

The massive floor-to-ceiling windows rattled. A heavy, rhythmic thumping sound filled the air. Gerard and Adaline both turned their heads toward the terrace.

A sleek black helicopter, painted with the gold crest of the Crosby family, was slowly descending onto the wide outdoor landing pad. The wind from the rotors whipped the patio furniture around.

Gerard's face went completely pale. It was his grandfather's private chopper. Guthrie Fisher.

Gerard lunged forward to grab the divorce papers off the table, but it was too late.

The terrace doors opened. Bruno, the head butler, stepped inside first. His sharp eyes immediately locked onto the legal documents sitting on the table.

Guthrie Fisher walked in behind him. The old man had silver hair, but his posture was straight and intimidating. He slammed his black-and-gold cane against the marble floor. The sharp crack echoed over the dying sound of the helicopter engine.

"Do you think I am dead?" Guthrie roared, his voice shaking the walls. "Do you think you can divorce your wife behind my back, you ungrateful fool?"

Adaline dropped the pen. It hit the floor, spilling dark ink across the white rug. The divorce was officially stopped.