Prepare the divorce and ruin your husband by Mark Twain 8
Chapter 8
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I did not even finish reading the first page.
I grabbed the divorce papers and ripped them clean in half. Then again. And again. White scraps fell to the floor like trash.
I looked at the lawyer and said flat, “Bring Isabella to me. Put her right in front of my eyes. I will not sign anything unless she shows up herself.”
He opened his mouth, probably to argue.
My phone rang.
I answered without looking away. “Talk.”
“Boss,” my man said, voice tight, excited. “We found Mrs Vanderbilt. And the kid. Ryle
is with her.”
My blood rushed.
“Good,” I said. “Bring them to my office. Now.”
I stood up already. “She’s been hiding for days. Let her explain herself. I’ll deal with her personally.”
The lawyer shifted uncomfortably. “Mr Vanderbilt, maybe there is something you
should hear first-”
I turned slowly.
“Get out,” I said. “Or I will cut you in half and let you crawl out!”
He did not test me. He grabbed his briefcase and left so fast he almost tripped.
I walked straight to my office. Every step was sharp. Controlled. Anger sitting clean in my chest.
I had already planned what I would say. What punishment fit running away with my son. What fear would make her stop pulling these stunts.
The doors opened.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Two black body bags were laid on the floor.
Side by side.
Small one.
Bigger one.
I stopped then I laughed.
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I looked at my men. “What is this? Another act?”
No one laughed with me.
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I walked closer, shoes echoing. “Isabella!” I said loudly. “You were kidnapped for a whole year because I staged it. I never thought you’d become this dramatic.”
I nudged one of the bags with my shoe. “Playing dead now? What is this. A punishment reversal?”
Still nothing.
I frowned slightly. Annoyed.
“Enough,” I said. “Get up.”
No movement.
I crouched and yanked the zipper down on the smaller bag.
Ryle.
His face was white. Lips blue. Hair stiff with dried salt. His eyelashes clumped together. He looked like he was sleeping badly.
Fuck!
Something slammed into my chest.
Hard.
I grabbed his shoulder. “Ryle,” I barked. “Stop it.”
His body rolled limply.
My breath hitched.
“Fucking no,” I said, quieter now. “This isn’t funny!”
My hand shook as I reached for his neck.
Nothing.
The room tilted.
I ripped open the second bag.
Isabella.
Her face was calm. Too calm. Bruises dark along her collarbone. Her hands were raw, fingers swollen and cracked. There were marks on her wrists. Old ones. New ones. Her lips were pale, slightly parted, like she had something left to say but ran out of
time.
I stared.
Long. Then I laughed again. Louder. Wrong.
“This is fake,” I said. “She’s good. I admit that. This is impressive.”
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No one spoke. I reached out and slapped her cheek.
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Hard. Her head rolled to the side. She did not react and something in my head cracked.
“Wake her up,” I snapped. “Now!”
My men did not move.
I grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Isabella,” I said sharply. “Open your eyes.”
Her head lolled back.
Cold.
Too cold.
My throat closed.
I pressed my forehead to hers without thinking.
Ice.
My hands came away wet. I looked down. Salt water. Blood. I could not tell which was which anymore.
The room started ringing.
“No,” I whispered. “No. You don’t get to die like this. Isabella!” My voice rose. “You don’t get to leave.”
I pulled her into my arms like she weighed nothing. Like she was still mine.
Somewhere behind me, one of my men spoke,
“Boss… they were in the water too long. The kid went under first. She held him up. She didn’t let go.”
I did not answer. I only held her tighter.
My chest burned like it was being crushed from the inside… This was fucking wrong! This was not how it was supposed to end.
She was supposed to cry. To beg. To fight.
Not this. Not silence. Not my son. Not her. Not both.
ROXANNE’S POV
Today was Isabella’s funeral.
Two coffins. Side by side.
One for my sister. One for her son.
Ryle.
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People kept looking at me like I was some tragic painting. I could feel it. Every stare, every sigh. So I did what I do best. I leaned into David’s chest, shaking, fingers clutching his coat like I would fall apart without him.
Inside, I was laughing.
God, I was laughing so hard.
She was really gone. Buried. Finished. The woman who stood between me and everything I deserved was finally under the ground. Do you know what that feels like? It feels light. It feels like the world finally made room for me.
For years I lived as the second one. The quiet one. The one who waited. Hidden. Protected. Never allowed to stand fully beside him. But now? Now there was no wife. No child. No past blocking my way.
Now there was just me.
The whispers floated around like perfume.
“So tragic. She lost her babies and still forgave her sister.”
“She handled the funeral herself. Such a kind heart.”
“I saw her hugging the coffins. She kept blaming herself.”
“Anyone else would have collapsed by now.”
“She’s too gentle for this world.”
“No wonder David protects her like that.”
“If I were him, I’d never let her go.”
Every word slid right into me. Warm. Sweet.
I cried harder, pressed my face into David’s chest, fingers digging in like I was barely holding on. I made sure my shoulders shook. I made sure my breath broke just enough.
I knelt beside the coffins.
Two of them.
I touched Isabella’s casket first. Lightly. Like I was scared it would burn me.
Then Ryle’s.
Poor little thing. So small. So quiet. Lying there like he was only sleeping.
People sniffled louder when they saw that.
Behind us, my parents were crying too. Loud. Dramatic. My mother nearly collapsed into my father’s arms. Anyone watching would think they were shattered.
I almost laughed again.
Chapter 8
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