I’m sitting at my desk, sorting the aforementioned documents, when a quiet knock sounds on the doorframe. I glance up to see Isla standing in the doorway, dressed in an elegant, maroon Chanel skirt suit, her ebony hair swept back and up, while she looks at me with a timid, yet expectant expression. She’s holding a thick stack of paper against her chest, and she offers a small nod.
“Mrs. Maisely said you wanted to see me,” she prompts.
“Yes.” I stand and gesture at the desk. “I have a few items for you to sign before you depart.”
She lowers the papers to the level of her waist as she approaches, and I cross around the desk to pull out the chair for her, then slide it back after she sits. Then I sit, and now it’s time for me to divorce the love of my life, solely because I am a gullible, naïve simpleton and a capital dick.
I clear my throat before I begin. “Due to the fact that the primary intention of this marriage was to keep you out of harm’s way…” I adjust the documents and then turn them to slide them toward her. “And given that your father and I have still not located and dealt with those orchestrating that threat, you will retain royal security detail. A team of bodyguards will accompany you back to New York and reside at your family’s estate in Southampton. If you choose to move out of your family’s home at any point, they will go with you, and I’ll make arrangements to have them nearby at all times. They will be assigned to you for the rest of your life.”
My mind suddenly flashes a picture of Isla on the day we wed. A portrait of perfection in white and glittering jewels.
I, Malachi Tierney Sterling, Duke of Corwick,I hear my own voice saying,take thee, Isla Sofía Reyes, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto, I pledge myself to you.
To love and to cherish.
Till death do us part.
If only.
I cough into my fist and continue. “Additionally, the sum of your alimony has been deposited into an account of which you are the sole owner. You are free to use it for whatever you—”
“I don’t want your money, Malachi,” Isla quietly interjects.
I glance up, meeting her gaze, and I don’t miss the slight sheen on her eyes. I also don’t misinterpret it. None of this is pleasant. It’s all terrible. She’s learned of horrifying things that happened to her. She realized that the one person who had always promised to take care of her failed to deliver on that promise when it mattered most. Her emotional state is a reflection of all that, not the fact that she’s having second thoughts about her desire to end our marriage. Not the fact that her feelings about me have changed, because they haven’t.
“It’s your money,” I say gently. “It rightfully and lawfully became yours when you married me, and it will remain yours, just like your title and the security detail assigned to you. Beyond that, it is restitution you deserve after my behavior and treatment of you.” I turn one of the pages to indicate the sum with my index finger. “If for any reason you ever need more, all you have to do is let me know.”
She lowers her gaze to her hands. “Thank you.”
I slide a pen across the desk. “The tabs indicate where you sign.”
She hesitates for alongtime before picking up the pen. It takes less time for her to sweep her signature across the documents, and just like that, our marriage is over.
Isla sets down the pen and keeps her chin turned low. I stack the documents and set them aside, then slide another form in front of her. One that has little to do with the divorce, and everything to do with me grasping at straws to do right by her somehow.
“Additionally,” I begin again, “I spoke to Elle recently. Joaquin and Colin mentioned that she studied psychology at Columbia, and I thought she would be a good resource to find a quality therapist for you. She referred me to one of her professors, who referred me to a woman who is considered to be the top psychologist in New York.”
At that, Isla looks up at me quizzically, but says nothing.
“At risk of sounding insulting,” I go on carefully, “I have reason to believe that your history of… um…forgetfulnessis actually a coping mechanism that results from fear and anxiety. Elle shared my assumption regarding it, as did her professor, as well as the psychologist herself. They all believe that with proper ongoing therapy, you’ll not only be able to avoid future instances of blocking things out, you might even be able to recollect things you previously… um…lost.”
Her lips have parted, her bottom lip trembling slightly, and the sheen increases on her eyes. “Do you really think so?”
I offer a slow nod. “That’s what they told me. And it is, of course, your choice whether or not to attend therapy, but I think it would help you come to terms with a lot of things. And from there, you will be able to…heal.”
My voice catches on the last word, and I have to cough again to diffuse the constricting of my throat. “You deserve to know and remember the totality of your life experiences. I have seen many instances of things slipping from your mind right before my eyes, and it’s…” I pause and brace myself for my confession because shedoesdeserve to know. “The day I…” I shake my head at my own reprehensible behavior. “I struck you. I flew into a rage because you didn’t remember that I’d told you about an event we were supposed to attend. Ididinform you of the event, but I did soafter…” I rub my forehead and meet her gaze. “I frightened you. I intimidated you, and humiliated you, and made you believe I was going to do something violent to you, and then I informed you of the event and told you to be ready by a certain time. When I left your room, you were in a borderline catatonic state, and then later, you forgot the entire altercation. You weren’t ready to leave by the time I had indicated, and that’s why I hit you.”
I sit back in my chair, my shoulders drooping in total defeat while Isla stares at me through wide, red-rimmed eyes. “Iama monster, Isla. I acknowledge that. The best thing I’ve ever done or will ever do for you is ending this marriage and letting you go.”
She blinks, and it sends a tear rolling down her cheek, but she doesn’t otherwise acknowledge my confession. “Thank you for arranging this. I will certainly attend the therapy sessions.”
I nod again. “I hope and believe it will be helpful for you.” I grip the arms of the chair in preparation to stand up for us both to leave soshecan leave. “That was all I had. I gather that you’re ready to—”
“Wait,” Isla cuts in, and I fight the subtle surge of hope in my chest, becausethatis not what she’s about to say. She lifts the stack of papers she carried in and places them on the desk. The top sheet states in black ink,Untitled. Below that, her full name. “I wrote this after we returned from New York. You may not like it, but it was my attempt to process everything. You don’t have to read it. It might offend you, but I thought…” She slowly hitches one shoulder and lets it fall. “If I owe you anything, it’s honesty. And every word on these pages is every ounce of honesty that I would never be able to adequately articulate with speech. It might not even make sense to you, but I wanted you to have it anyway.”
I place my hand on the manuscript and slide it toward me, offering her an earnest smile. “I will read it. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
She nods and drops her gaze again before standing up, and I follow suit. We leave the office and descend the stairs, me following her at a respectable distance as we traverse the cavernous entryway and exit through the front doors. I offer her my hand as we descend the stone steps, and she accepts it. I release her hand when we reach the drive, and she pauses next to the car while I do a last check-in with her head of security.
