Katherine's POV

The car rolled to a stop at the airport, and my stomach twisted with dread. My so-called honeymoon—something I knew absolutely nothing about—was waiting just beyond these tinted windows.

It had been half an hour since Ashton casually mentioned it. Half. An. Hour.

Yeah, he really values my input on important decisions.

"So," I asked as I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking against the pavement. The air smelled faintly of jet fuel and I felt the urge to throw up, "Where are we going?"

"London."

"London?" I blinked. "Why London? And why didn't you bother to tell me before now?"

"I have some work to do over there," he answered, sounding like he might keel over from boredom. "To keep things believable, I told them we were going on our honeymoon."

His voice held the same smooth, detached, and utterly unbothered tone.

He flicked a glance my way and added, "Two birds with one stone."

I glared at him.

The man had turned my life into a business strategy.

Before I could conjure a biting response, he took my hand, his grip firm as he steered me toward a different entrance. Not the standard check-in area where normal, human people go.

Nope. We were going his way.

My stomach sank.

Of course. Of course, we were flying on his private jet.

"How long are we staying?" I asked, hurrying to keep up, my heels clicking in relentless protest. He didn't even give me time to change into something sensible.

"I don't know," he replied with a shrug, his tone clipped, "Depends on work."

"Fantastic," I muttered, my irritation bubbling over. "You know, I didn't pack anything. You could've told me we were leaving."

"Your suitcase is already on the plane," he said.

My eye twitched. God help me, I wanted to punch him.

"Why do you always tell me these things at the last possible second?"

He didn't bother with a response. Just kept striding forward like I was some buzzing fly he could outwalk.

I sighed.

This man. This stupid, infuriating man.

"Are we staying in a hotel?" I asked, more to spite him than out of genuine curiosity.

"God, can you just stop asking questions?" His patience cracked, his voice edged with exasperation.

I clamped my mouth shut, biting down on the retort burning the back of my tongue.

Jerk.

No. He used to like it when I'd call him that.

Asshole.

Yes. That's better. A big, stupid, ugly asshole.

I crossed my arms as a security guard ushered us through a private gate. The sleek jet gleamed under the sky, every inch of it a reminder of his power.

We boarded, and a tall, insanely gorgeous flight attendant greeted us with a smile that was far too wide.

I slipped into one of the ridiculously plush chairs, sinking into the softness as my fingers gripped the leather armrest. Comforting, luxurious—everything in his world always was—but it didn't dull the irritation simmering beneath my skin.

Ashton, being Ashton, took the chair directly across from me. Not anywhere else in the spacious cabin. No. Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

He was taking the whole making me miserable to a whole new level.

I folded my arms and glared at him as he scrolled on his phone, oblivious—or more likely, indifferent—to my annoyance.

Great. I get to spend hours staring at his stupid, perfectly chiseled, infuriatingly symmetrical face. Lucky me.

The flight attendant, all long legs and a smile too wide to be natural, glided over. She bent gracefully to check my seatbelt, her manicured fingers barely grazing the strap before she straightened. Her gaze flicked to Ashton, lingering just a second too long by his side. I couldn't care less.

"The captain will be departing in five minutes," she announced with a very smooth voice.

When she sauntered away, I leaned back, exhaling. The plane hummed quietly beneath us, but my thoughts raced.

"Is it...safe for me to be on a plane?" I asked suddenly. The idea hadn't occurred to me until just now. "I mean...I'm two months pregnant."

His eyes stayed glued to his phone. "I already asked the doctor. It's perfectly fine."

Of course, he had. Always so meticulous. So maddeningly prepared.

"You should turn that off," I mumbled. "It's dangerous to leave it on during takeoff."

That got his attention. He glanced up, eyes sharp as they stared at mine. "Zoe's texting me," he said dryly. He typed one last message to his sister before locking the screen.

"Oh," I swallowed my irritation. "No one in your family knows I'm pregnant, do they?"

"No."

"When are we telling them?"

"When we come back."

I frowned. "When's that exactly?"

His jaw clenched. A muscle twitched just beneath his cheekbone, and he lifted his eyes slowly to mine. The stormy blue was cold. Too cold.

Right. I already asked that.

I sighed, wondering why I couldn't keep my mouth shut, and pushed forward anyway. "Why can't I just stay here while you handle work?"

His gaze darkened. "Why?" He leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees. "So you can go and meet up with your boyfriend behind my back?"

His tone was calm. Too calm. But the words slammed into me like a punch I wasn't ready for. A punch I didn't deserve.

I straightened in my seat, my irritation shooting past annoyance, crashing straight into fury. My blood boiled, heat crawling up my neck to my cheeks.

He leaned back, glancing out the small oval window as though he hadn't just dropped that knife between my ribs.

"Caleb is not my boyfriend!" I grated out through clenched teeth.

He didn't react. Not even a twitch. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark world beyond the window, utterly detached, as if the conversation held no significance.

As if I held no significance.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. He wanted to play this game? Fine. I could play it better.

"And let's not forget your own words," I added, hoping to annoy and hurt him as much as he is annoying and hurting me, "I'm free to do as I please, right? You don't care," I repeated his words, "You won't care."

That got him. His jaw tensed.

A small victory.

"So I can meet up with Caleb whenever I want, isn't that right?" I pressed, my pulse racing with the reckless taunt. Truth be told, I never wanted to see Caleb again—not after what happened—but this wasn't about him. This was about survival. About standing my ground before Ashton crushed me with his ruthless will. I had to push back. If I didn't fight his fire with my own, he would burn me to ashes.

His eyes snapped to mine, and I felt the heat of his fury like a physical blow. His pupils darkened, the faintest red creeping up the pale skin of his neck, and his jaw twitched violently as if he were biting back a thousand words. His hand, resting on his thigh, curled into a slow, dangerous fist.

He didn't speak.

But his silence roared.

His lips pressed into a thin, merciless line that trembled with barely leashed control. He looked as though he was one breath away from driving his fist into the glass window.

But beneath all that anger, I knew there was pain—a scar I had carved, a hurt I had caused. And that alone made my heart quiver.

He looked away, refusing to indulge me further in this.

The jet began its slow roll toward the runway, and my nerves climbed with every inch. My grip tightened on the armrest. I shut my eyes. Breathed. Tried not to imagine plummeting into the ocean. My irrational fear of flying took over and triggered my anxiousness.

Ashton couldn't seem the slightly affected, absolutely calm. Fearless. Steady. While I panicked at the mere sound of the plane's engine. The last time we'd been on a plane together, he'd reached for my hand. The warmth of his palm had melted my fear like a flame to frost.

The memory clawed at me, reminding me of everything I lost. I opened my eyes and found him staring right back at me.

He watched me with a gaze so steady, so intense, it pinned me where I sat.

If he hated me so much, why did he look at me like that?

I shifted, squirming under the weight of his gaze. His eyes followed every movement I made. My chest tightened with the kind of discomfort that made my pulse thrum too hard, too fast.

I wrenched my gaze away, my throat tight with unspoken words, and adjusted my seat. When we were safely in the air, I reclined, curling my legs beneath me like a child. I rested my hand beneath my head, willing sleep to come.

Don't think about him. Don't think about him.

But his gaze stayed with me, I could feel him watching me as sleep and exhaustion slowly pulled me under.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was three a.m. when my eyes finally fluttered open, my body feeling like it had been through a grinder. Sleepy. Exhausted. Irritated. My bones ached from the long flight, and my mind was a foggy mess. I kept waking up and falling asleep all through the flight.

I blinked again, groggy and disoriented, my hand brushing over soft fabric.

Wait—fabric?

I shifted, my fingers curling around the edge of a blanket, and my eyes finally focused on the bed beneath me. A bed. A real, proper bed with a pillow tucked beneath my head and a thick, warm cover draped over my body.

How?

Last I checked, I was curled up in one of those ridiculously comfortable leather chairs.

That. Asshole.

I pushed myself up, running a hand over my face as my mind dragged me through the memory of earlier when I was awake—Ashton had fallen asleep across from me. His face, for once, unguarded. His sharp edges softened by sleep. His lashes were dark against his cheekbones. And me? I had stared at him. Like an idiot. For far too long.

Of course, he caught me.

Of course.

Embarrassment had burned through me like wildfire. I didn't look at him again for the rest of the flight.

I sighed, shoving the blanket aside with more force than necessary before swinging my legs off the bed. The floor was cool beneath my feet as I padded back toward the main cabin, my steps whispering over the jet's floor, and my shoes nowhere in sight.

Ashton was still in his seat. The overhead light bathed him in a soft glow. His suit jacket was gone, slung somewhere out of sight. His shirt, crisp white linen, was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the hint of skin at his throat, a faint pulse beating steadily there. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, baring strong forearms, the lines of muscle flexing subtly as his fingers moved every now and then across the keys of his laptop.

His brows drew together in focus, a lock of dark hair falling rebelliously over his forehead.

I hated that hair.

And the way his lips, pressed into a thin line, quirked at the corner, deep in thoughts, as if planning the end of the world.

And the sharpness of his profile—the clean cut of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw, the way his entire presence commanded the space with an ease that was maddeningly effortless.

I hated all of it.

My breath caught, a traitorous hitch that I swallowed down as I sank into my seat across from him. I shifted, tucking my legs beneath me. He didn't look up. Didn't even spare me a glance. He kept his focus on his laptop's screen and I decided to ignore him too.

I pulled out my phone, staring blankly at the screen. I wasn't actually doing anything, just tapping and scrolling mindlessly to keep my eyes from wandering. But in my peripheral vision, I caught the slight movement of his hand. He reached to the side of the seat and pressed a button.

Moments later, the gorgeous flight attendant appeared. She flashed me a smile and adjusted the tray table before me. She set down a silver tray laden with various delicate, artfully arranged foods—sliced fruit, a small bowl of yogurt, warm croissants with a pat of butter, and a cup of hot steamed tea.

I blinked.

"Ah, I didn't—" I wanted to say that I didn't ask for this but quickly realized that he was the one to order it on my behalf.

I glanced at her, forcing a polite smile. "Thanks," I mumbled.

I wasn't hungry. My stomach felt tied in knots, but the vitamins and supplements waiting in my bag weren't going to take themselves. I reached for a croissant, its golden surface still warm to the touch.

"Subtle," I murmured under my breath, tearing a small piece off and popping it into my mouth.

His eyes never left the screen.

"You're welcome," he said.

I stiffened. He was listening.

I chewed slowly, feeling the buttery flakiness of the pastry melt on my tongue as heat crawled up my neck.

Almost an hour later, the jet began its descent, the cabin shuddering upon approach.

When we landed, a sleek black car awaited us just outside the private hangar. I clutched my jacket tighter and followed Ashton down the steps, the chilly air nipping at my cheeks. His suit jacket hung over his arm now, his shirt still partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He didn't so much as shiver.

The door opened, and I quickly slipped into the car's warmth. The driver settled in after shutting our doors, and the engine hummed, sending us gliding into the road.

I leaned against the window, staring at the world outside. London stretched out before me like a living painting—its streets nearly empty, the faint glow of golden streetlights glistening against damp pavement. Raindrops clung to the windows, blurring the world beyond into soft, shimmering streaks.

Even now, with exhaustion gnawing at me, I couldn't help but take it all in.

The car slowed, pulling me from my reverie. I blinked, drawing myself upright. We stopped in front of a house—or rather, a mansion. Tall, stately, and dressed in stone elegance.

Ashton opened the door and stepped out. No glance my way. No offer of a hand. Typical. Ever the gentleman.

I followed, clutching my jacket as I trailed behind him, my eyes drinking in every inch of the estate. Columns. Ivy winding through wrought iron. Windows that gleamed like polished mirrors.

The front door opened as if it had been waiting just for him.

An older woman greeted us, her warm smile radiating through the night. "Welcome, Mr. Ryder."

He nodded in return, a polite smile flashing like a switch he could turn on and off at will, "Skyla," He said with an acknowledging nod.

Then her eyes landed on me, her smile widening, her gaze so warm, "Welcome, Mrs. Ryder."

My feet froze.

Mrs. Ryder.

Mrs. Ryder?!

My jaw ticked. I hated it. Loathed it. The name settled over my shoulders like a burden.

"Just Katherine," I blurted, forcing a strained smile. "Please. Just call me Katherine."

We stepped inside, and I froze for a moment as my eyes swept over the interior. The house was impossibly elegant, every detail meticulously crafted to impress.

The polished concrete floors gleamed under the warm glow of the chandelier above, the walls a pristine white that made the space feel even larger. The furniture was sleek, modern, and luxurious—like it belonged in the pages of a design magazine. But it was the paintings on the walls that held me captive.

The entire place exuded a refined, British charm—classy and cold all at once. It felt like stepping into another world; one that didn't feel like it belonged to me.

I wandered further, taking it all in, my fingers trailing along the back of a velvet couch before tossing my purse onto it. My heels clicked softly against the floor as I turned slowly, scanning for anything—anything—that might hint at a personal touch.

Nothing.

Not a single misplaced book or worn piece of furniture. No cozy corner that suggested this house had ever been truly lived in. It was beautiful, yes. But it felt...hollow.

"Is this your place?" I mumbled, turning around to look at him.

He was leaning casually against the doorframe, hands buried in his pockets, his gaze fixed on me only as I curiously roamed the place. There was something about the way he looked at me now. It was almost...soft.

For a fleeting second, I swore I saw the corner of his mouth curve upward. Just a tiny bit. But then his face shifted, his expression locking back into place as if the moment had never happened. He straightened, his usual cold demeanor sliding into place.

"No," he said curtly, pulling out his phone and looking at it, a distraction from me maybe.

"Your father's?" I asked, my voice lower than intended. I didn't know much, but I knew that his father wasn't at the wedding. He didn't approve of me, I supposed. I knew he was the one who helped Ashton get back on his feet after what I had done. I didn't have the full story, but I didn't need it to imagine how much it must have cost Ashton to seek help from a man he openly despised.

He didn't reply. That's his way, I guess. Always silent when my words struck a nerve or veered too close to something he didn't want to discuss.

"Your suitcase is in your room," he said after a beat, his tone flat as he gestured toward the staircase. "Second door on the right."

And you? I wanted to ask.

"Mine is the first door on the left, in case you need anything." He didn't look up, his focus still glued to his phone as he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance.

With a sigh, I climbed the stairs to my room.

I pushed open the door and my gaze flickered around. The bedroom was just as grand as the rest of the house. Soft, ambient lighting gave a warm glow over the sprawling bed with its crisp white linens. The window stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of the city lights twinkling in the distance.

I headed straight for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the fatigue of the flight. Wrapped in a plush towel, I opened the suitcase sitting neatly on the bed, ready to pull out something comfortable.

Except...nothing in there was mine.

Every single item of clothing was new—designer tags, soft fabrics, the kind of wardrobe that screamed money. His money.

I sighed, shaking my head, planning to burn them all and bring my own clothes once we got back to the US. Having no other choice at the moment, I pulled out a simple pair of grey lounge pants and a shirt.

Sliding into bed, I curled up beneath the soft duvet, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion weighed heavily on my limbs. Yet, sleep refused to come.

The silence was loud. The bed was too perfect. The faint hum of the city outside too unfamiliar.

And somewhere in the house, I knew he was awake.

Hours passed with me restless, unable to fall asleep. I decided to abandon the bed altogether. Maybe a glass of water—or some fresh air in the backyard—would help settle my restless mind and aching body.

I slipped out of my room, the door creaking softly as I peeked into the dimly lit hallway. The house was silent, the air thick with an eerie stillness. Finding no one, I padded down the stairs, clutching the railing for balance.

But as I reached the ground floor, I hesitated. Where's the kitchen?

I wandered toward the first room, cracking the door open, only to find an elegant sitting room that looked like it belonged in a museum. Frustrated, I ventured toward the room opposite, but before I reached it, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over me.

The walls tilted, the air turning too thick to breathe.

I gripped the nearest wall, my palm pressing against the cool surface as I fought to stay upright. Then came the sharp contraction in my belly—a twist of pain that stole the air from my lungs. A small, involuntary whimper escaped my lips.

My vision blurred, my legs wobbled, and I felt myself slipping, gravity pulling me down—

But strong, warm arms caught me before my knees hit the ground.

"Katherine!" His voice tore through my haze, tinged with absolute panic.

I blinked, struggling to focus as I was pulled against his solid chest. My breath came in shallow gasps, and when I finally managed to open my eyes, the first thing I saw was his face—his stormy blue eyes, wide and filled with worry.

"What happened? Are you okay?" Ashton's voice softened as he steadied me, his hands gripping me tightly, almost like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

I tried to answer, nodding weakly, but my limbs still trembled, and my head swam.

This wasn't the first time this had happened.

"You're not fine," Ashton answered on my behalf when I stayed silent, his gaze scanning my face, his eyebrows knitting together. "I'm calling a doctor. Or we're going to the hospital. Now."

"No," I said, swallowing hard and I rubbed a hand over my face, "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine to me." His tone hardened, but his hands stayed gentle, holding me as if I were made of glass. Holding me like he did before. Like he cared...

He doesn't care about you, Katherine. He cares about the baby. I'd be wise to remember that.

The bitterness tightened my throat. I pulled away from him, freeing myself, and took a shaky step back, "I said I'm fine," I repeated, colder now, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.

His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, halting me mid-step.

"You're not," he said, his voice lowering. "And I'm not taking chances."

The genuine concern in his tone—his grip firm but careful—made my chest tighten in a way I didn't want to name.

"Don't act like you care," I whispered, the words spilling out before I could stop them.

For a moment, the air froze.

His expression shifted, as though I'd struck him. The worry drained from his face, replaced by something colder, harder. He let go of my wrist as though it burned him, as though he finally remembered who I was, all that I did to him, and how much he hated me.

"You're right," he said after a beat, his voice emotionless now. "I don't care about you."

"I just care about my child," he added.

My chest constricted but I wasn't surprised.

"Yeah...sure you do," I muttered, my voice hollow as I turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last.

I made it back to my room, closing the door softly behind me. The bed felt too big, too cold, as I sank into it. I pressed my hands over my face, desperate to keep the tears at bay.

But no matter how hard I tried, the ache wouldn't go away.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The next day passed in a haze of nothingness. I woke to an empty house—no sign of Ashton. Not surprising. He was probably working, doing whatever it was he did to keep himself busy and far from me.

Skyla, the older woman who had greeted us last night, had prepared breakfast for me. She'd insisted I call her name if I needed anything, adding with a warm smile, "It's the boss's order."

Yeah. Boss my ass.

The food was delicious, but my appetite was absent. I spent most of the morning flipping through TV channels, the noise a desperate attempt to fill the suffocating silence of the massive house.

A knock at the door broke through the monotony, echoing in the wide space.

"I'll get it," I called, not wanting to interrupt Skyla's work.

I opened the door to find a young man standing there, dressed in a crisp uniform with a stack of envelopes in his hands. His face lit up with a polite smile, and the unmistakable lilt of a thick British accent followed.

"Good afternoon, Miss," He said, "Is this..." He tilted the clipboard and read the name printed, "...Ashton Ryder's house?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yes."

"Is he here?" He asked, scanning through the envelopes to find the right one.

"No, he isn't."

"Are you related to him?"

I swallowed hard, the words heavy as I nodded, "Yes. I'm his wife."

He edged closer handing me a large brown envelope, "This is for him. I just need you to sign here...and here."

I scrawled my name on the dotted lines and handed the clipboard back.

"Have a nice day," he said, tipping his cap before walking away.

I closed the door behind me, staring at the envelope in my hands. I was about to toss it onto the counter when something stopped me.

My name.

Written in bold letters across the front.

Wait a second. How is this for Ashton if my name is on it?

Curiosity prickled at my skin, a mix of nerves and unease. Without thinking, I tore the seal and pulled out a thick stack of papers. My eyes skimmed the first page, and the bold title hit me like a punch to the gut.

Postnuptial Contract.

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

I kept reading, each word cutting deeper than the last. My hands trembled as I flipped through the pages, trying to make sense of the legal jargon, but the implications were all too clear.

By the time I reached the final page, nausea churned in my stomach. There it was. His signature scrawled neatly in black ink. And beneath it, an empty space where my name was supposed to go.

I felt like the air had been knocked out of me.

He didn't trust me.

He thinks I'm a gold-digger.

The realization burned, hotter than I thought possible. He wanted to protect his precious money, to ensure I wouldn't use the baby as leverage to take what he deemed rightfully his.

I clutched the papers, my grip tightening until the edges crinkled.

How could he think so little of me?

I replayed every interaction, every moment, trying to pinpoint where I had gone so wrong in his eyes. Yes, I had lied to him. My sins weren't to be taken lightly, I know that. But all that I did, was not for this. He knows that. Not for money. Never for money.

The anger bubbling inside me threatened to boil over, scorching every bit of restraint I had left. Hurt twisted into fury as I grabbed the papers and a pen. With shaky hands, I scrawled my name across the signature line, pressing so hard the pen almost tore through the paper.

Each word on those pages, each cruel assumption he had made about me, cut deeper than I cared to admit. Every day he found new ways to prove how much he hated me, how little he trusted me. And now, this? This felt like the final blow. He crossed a line.

I placed the signed papers beside me and sat stiffly on the couch, waiting. My hands clenched into fists as I stared at the clock, the seconds dragging by like an eternity.

It was close to midnight when I finally heard the front door open. My heart thudded painfully in my chest, anger and anticipation warring within me.

I grabbed the papers and stood, my fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and frustration. When Ashton entered, his brows lifted slightly in surprise at the sight of me.

"You're still awake," he remarked, his tone neutral.

He started walking further inside, dismissing me like I wasn't even there. Typical.

But I wasn't about to let this go.

I stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

He stopped short, his eyes narrowing as a single brow arched. "What are you doing?"

"Look at me and keep this one thing in your mind," I began, my voice trembling with barely restrained emotion, "Don't you ever think you can treat me like garbage because of what I did to you. I made a big mistake, I know that. You want to punish me? I get it. But whatever you have in your head, get one thing straight—I was never after your money."

I shoved the papers against his chest, forcing him to take them. "Here. Take your stupid papers. They're signed, by the way."

He frowned, his confusion evident as he glanced at the papers, "What are you talking about?"

I shook my head, "I didn't think you could stoop this low, but congratulations—you've outdone yourself," My heart was thrumming so loud, "Screw you and your money, Ashton."

My blood boiled, every ounce of hurt and betrayal bubbling to the surface. "I never wanted this marriage. You're the one who forced me into it, remember? Believe me, if I could walk away from you right now, I would. Without a second thought."

His jaw tightened, but I didn't care. The words kept pouring out, each one sharper than the last.

"And don't you dare think I'd use my baby to get money from you. If you've forgotten, let me remind you—I didn't tell you I was pregnant because I didn't want you to know. And honestly? I wish you didn't. My baby would be better off without you."

His face hardened, his usual mask of cold indifference slipping into something darker. But I didn't give him a chance to speak.

"Just stay away from me," I spat, my voice breaking on the last word. "For the child's sake, at least."

I turned on my heel and stormed away before the angry hurtful tears threatening to spill could betray me. If I stayed a second longer, I knew I'd say something I couldn't take back.

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Ashton's POV

What the hell just happened?

I stood frozen, staring after her retreating form, her words ricocheting in my mind like a barrage of bullets. Rage. Hurt. Accusations. They played on a loop as I struggled to understand.

For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, trying to process the storm that had just torn through the room.

My gaze dropped to the papers she had shoved at me. They now lay scattered across the floor, the edges crumpled where her hands had clenched them. I knelt down, gathering them, flipping through the pages as confusion swirled in my chest.

Her anger had been palpable, every word laced with venom and pain. So much pain. And now, holding these papers, I understood why.

Postnuptial Contract.

I stared at the bold title, the words searing into my brain. I scanned the contents, my brows furrowing deeper with every line. This was a legal document—detailing how my assets would be protected, ensuring Katherine wouldn't see a penny beyond what was necessary, even if this marriage ended.

My stomach churned.

Who in the hell sent these to her?

The thought of Katherine seeing this—thinking I would ever stoop so low—made my chest tighten painfully.

And then, my eyes landed on it.

My signature.

At the bottom of the last page was my name.

My head snapped back, disbelief gripping me. I hadn't signed these. I'd never even seen these papers before.

My mind raced, trying to piece it together.

True we have our differences but I trusted Katherine in the ways that mattered. I'd trust her with everything I had. Hell, I'd already planned to put it all—every last cent, the business, the assets—under her name and the baby's if anything ever happened to me.

I know all too well what had driven her before. Her previous lies and actions still hurt so bad, a wound so deep I don't know if I'll ever recover from, and I knew that I deserved all of that.

But now this? This wasn't just insulting. It was a calculated move. A dagger aimed directly at the fragile bond we were barely holding together.

And then it hit me.

The realization slammed into me, stealing the breath from my lungs. My jaw clenched so tightly I thought it might crack, and my hands tightened on the papers, crumpling them in my fists.

Of course, he'd do this.

He was against this marriage since the second I informed him about it. I should've seen it sooner.

My blood boiled, my vision narrowing as rage consumed every rational thought left in me.

Without a second thought, I grabbed my phone, dialing the one number I never wanted to call.

He picked up on the second ring, his voice so calm, "To what do I owe this call, son?"

My teeth ground together, the word son igniting every ounce of hatred I'd tried to bury.

"We need to talk," I bit out, my voice low, vibrating with suppressed rage.

There was a pause, he understood it, "I'm always available for you. Let me know when and where."