Tomorrow We Divorce

POV: Valerie Thorne.

"An ungrateful wolf, that is what he is." Diane sneered openly at Uncle Victor’s words. She crossed her arms, her sharp gaze flicking toward the empty stone path leading back down to the estate. "Dad treated him well over the past two years for nothing. The old man is finally at rest, and the precious golden boy cannot even be bothered to show his face to pay his respects."

Victor silenced his wife with a stern, reprimanding glance. He sighed, the lines on his forehead deepening.

"Enough, Diane. Keep your voice down." Victor turned his attention back to me, the harshness fading from his expression to be replaced by a look of weary sympathy. "It is getting late, Val. The wind is picking up, and the service is officially over. Head home and get some rest. You look exhausted."

"Thank you, Uncle Victor. Have a safe trip back." I forced a weak, fragile smile to my lips.

Diane and Victor turned together, their footsteps echoing down the long, winding stone path of the ancestral hillside. I watched their retreating backs until they disappeared around the bend, leaving me stranded in the creeping chill of the afternoon.

I remained standing alone before Grandpa Arthur’s fresh marble gravestone. The windswept hillside felt desolate, stripped of all warmth. Overhead, the gray clouds hung low in a suffocating canopy, threatening rain at any second. The mountain breeze whipped against my black mourning jacket, biting through the thin fabric and freezing the damp sweat clinging to my skin. I stared down at the intricately carved epitaph. The reality of his passing sank into my bones like lead. The old man who had shielded me for two years, the only person in the Vance household who had treated me with any semblance of familial warmth, was now resting beneath six feet of cold earth.

With his death, the thin, fragile tether holding my agonizing marriage together had finally snapped. Tristan only tolerated my presence because of Arthur’s unyielding demands. Now, there was no one left to protect me, and no reason for Tristan to endure our union for another day. I reached into my deep pocket, my frigid fingers grazing the smooth edges of the mysterious sandalwood box Mrs. Hobbs had handed me. I still did not know what secret it held, nor did I have the energy to uncover it now.

I bent at the waist, bowing three times with profound reverence toward the cold marble surface.

"Grandpa... please rest peacefully." I whispered the words into the biting mountain breeze. "Thank you for everything you did for me."

Closing my eyes, I took a deep, shaky breath, letting the scent of wet earth and pine needles fill my lungs. I gathered the last fragments of my composure, squared my shoulders, and turned on my heel to walk back to the estate.

My breath seized in my chest.

Standing barely ten paces away on the damp, matted grass was Tristan. I had no idea how long he had been standing there. He was dressed in an immaculate, obsidian black suit that seemed to absorb the meager daylight. His tall, imposing figure was silhouetted against the somber, stormy sky. The wind ruffled his dark hair, but the rest of him remained as stiff and unyielding as a statue. His handsome features were set in a thunderous scowl as he stared right past me, his gaze locked onto his grandfather’s fresh gravestone. His dark eyes swirled with a tempest of complex, unreadable emotions. There was grief, anger, profound resentment, and a chilling emptiness.

My heart thumped against my ribs. Had he been listening to my private farewell? Had he snuck up here just to avoid the rest of the funeral guests?

"Let's go." He issued the command flatly, his deep voice devoid of any warmth.

Before I could process his sudden arrival, he turned swiftly to leave, clearly intent on marching right back down the hillside without shedding a single tear. A sudden flare of indignation sparked in my chest. Grandpa had adored him. Grandpa had given him everything, even using his dying breaths to ensure Tristan's future.

I stepped forward, stepping directly into his line of sight and blocking his path down the stone walkway.

"Tristan, Grandpa has passed away. Whatever happened in the past, you should let it go. After all, he sacrificed so much for you over the years. You cannot just walk away without a single word to him."

At my words, his expression darkened menacingly. An aura of lethal fury rolled off his broad shoulders, crashing into me like a physical wave. The temperature between us seemed to plummet. His jaw clenched tighter, the muscles ticking beneath his flawless skin. His eyes narrowed, transforming from pools of dark ice into shards of shattered glass. I braced myself for an explosion. I closed my mouth tight, cutting off the rest of my plea, terrified that my hidden pregnancy might somehow be exposed if I provoked him into a physical altercation right here on the steep hillside.

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his hand. He merely cast me a venomous, disgusted look, curling his lip in silent condemnation. He brushed past my shoulder with deliberate force, knocking me slightly off balance, and strode down the carved stone stairs toward the parking lot below.

I stumbled, catching my footing on the wet grass. Panic fluttered in my stomach. I looked down the path. The private driver who had brought me to the cemetery earlier was already gone. Uncle Victor and Diane had taken their own vehicles. There was no one left on the hillside except the groundskeeper miles away. If I stayed, I would be walking down the mountain in the impending storm.

Left with no other choice, I grasped the edges of my jacket and hurried down the steps to follow him. I reached the paved lot just as Tristan unlocked his sleek, dark luxury car. Ignoring the heavy glare he shot in my direction, I opened the passenger door and climbed into the plush leather seat.

He started the engine without a single word. The powerful motor roared to life, and the vehicle peeled out of the cemetery gates.

The drive back toward the city limits was swallowed by a heavy, suffocating silence. The dark sky finally opened up above us. Rain began to pelt the windshield in a rapid, relentless rhythm. The rhythmic swish of the wiper blades was the only sound inside the cabin, slicing through the thick, tense atmosphere. Outside the tinted glass, the world blurred into a dreary wash of gray and black. Inside, the sheer magnitude of Tristan's silent wrath threatened to crush the air out of my lungs.

I sat frozen, my back rigid against the seat. My fingers dug painfully into the fabric over my knees. The sandalwood box in my pocket felt incredibly heavy, anchoring me to the nightmare of the present. My mind flashed back to the horrifying memories from a few hours prior. I saw the grand staircase. I saw Chloe’s twisted face. I saw her tumbling backward, crashing against the marble floor. I saw the pooling crimson blood staining her pristine dress.

I knew I hadn't pushed her. She had slipped from my grasp, falling by her own design or sheer accident. But the image of her bleeding on the foyer floor haunted me relentlessly. The heavy silence in the car stretched to its absolute breaking point, tearing at my nerves until I could no longer suppress the burning question.

"How... how is Ms. Mercer doing?" I asked in a quiet murmur, my voice trembling over the sound of the rain.

The moment the words left my mouth, Tristan jerked the steering wheel hard and slammed his foot onto the brake pedal.

The tires shrieked in agony against the slick asphalt. The heavy vehicle fishtailed drastically, throwing me forward as the seatbelt locked tight against my chest. The car ground to an ear-splitting halt by the side of the deserted, rain-soaked road. My shoulders slammed back against the upholstery, my breath knocked clean out of my lungs.

Before I could even recover my bearings, the sharp click of a seatbelt buckle pierced the confined space. Tristan lunged across the wide center console. He grabbed my shoulders, his heavy hands digging into the fabric of my jacket, and pinned me flat against the leather seat.

His towering, muscular frame caged me in perfectly. I was trapped between the unyielding car door and his broad chest. His obsidian eyes burned with a terrifying, arctic rage, hovering mere inches from my face. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin and smell the sharp, masculine scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of pure fury.

"How do you want her to be?" he mocked, his voice a low, bitter hiss against my cheek. "Valerie, do you honestly believe that just because Grandpa handed you that little box today, I won’t divorce you?"

My heart stopped beating.

The breath froze in my throat. My eyes flew wide open, staring up at his handsome, ferocious features wrapped in shadows. It had only been a few hours since Mrs. Hobbs had discreetly handed me the sandalwood box in the memorial hall. I had slipped it into my pocket when no one was looking, yet he already knew. Someone had told him. He had eyes everywhere.

Looking up into his ferocious, disdainful eyes, feeling the brutal grip he had on my shoulders, something inside me finally shattered. For two years, I had loved him in silence. For two years, I had endured his coldness, his late nights, his public prioritization of Chloe. I had swallowed every insult and every lonely dinner, clinging to the pathetic hope that one day he might see my devotion.

But hanging over me now, looking at me as if I were a venomous snake he wanted to crush under his heel, the last glimmering embers of my unrequited love turned into cold, lifeless ash. There was no salvation here. There was no future.

I forced back the hot tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. I refused to cry in front of him. I commanded my muscles to relax, letting my head rest against the headrest, and met his icy glare head-on.

"I did not push Chloe down those stairs, Tristan." I spoke softly, my voice drained of all emotion. "And as for that box, I have no idea what is inside it. I never opened it. I never intended to use it to threaten you into keeping me as your wife."

His grip on my jacket tightened, pulling me half an inch off the seat. His gaze searched my face, scouring my features for any hint of deception, but he found nothing but a hollow, exhausted void.

I drew a deep, ragged breath, looking him straight in his beautiful, hateful eyes.

"Since you want a divorce so desperately... fine. Let's go and sign the papers tomorrow morning."

The words hung in the space between us, heavier than the storm raging outside. The rain drummed mercilessly against the metal roof of the car, pounding out a chaotic beat that mirrored the frantic racing of my pulse.

Tristan froze.

His pupils dilated in genuine, unmistakable shock. For a fraction of a second, the mask of arctic rage slipped, revealing raw bewilderment. His hands remained clamped on my shoulders, but the painful pressure lessened. He had expected me to deny everything. He had expected me to beg for forgiveness, to use Arthur's dying gift as leverage, to burst into tears and cling to his sleeve just like I always did whenever he threatened to leave. He had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that I would surrender so readily.

A tense, suffocating pause stretched out. The hum of the engine idling was the only sound mingling with the storm.

Slowly, the surprise in his eyes vanished, replaced by an ugly, contemptuous sneer that twisted his perfect lips. His shock curdled into something much darker and far more cruel. He let go of my shoulders, pushing himself away from me with a scoff of disgust.

"Chloe is lying in a hospital bed, having just lost our child." He spat the words like venom, his voice dripping with malice. "And you think you can simply sign a piece of paper tomorrow and walk away completely unscathed?"

The accusation struck me like a physical blow to the stomach. *Lost our child.* My hands instinctively hovered over my own flat stomach, my mind reeling in horror. Chloe had been pregnant. The blood on the floor—it had been a miscarriage. While my own secret child grew inside me, his other child had perished on the marble tiles of the Vance estate.

"Then what do you want me to do?" I asked, my voice trembling with bone-deep exhaustion. I lacked the strength to fight him anymore.

Tristan straightened his back, sliding effortlessly behind the steering wheel. He adjusted his collar, brushing off invisible dust from his sleeve. His long, elegant fingers tapped lazily against the leather wrapped wheel. The wild, explosive rage from moments ago had vanished, replaced by a chilling, calculating indifference that frightened me far more. He stared straight ahead at the rain-slicked highway.

"Starting tomorrow, you will personally take care of her at the hospital until she recovers."