Chapter 2

Eilidh's POINT OF VIEW

Ruaridh MacKinnon stepped into the room like he owned the air we breathed.

His presence was suffocating, not because the distance was small, but because he made it feel that way. Every inch of him radiated authority, a silent command that demanded attention. He wasn’t only a man—he was a pressure, towering over me like I turned into not anything greater than a footnote in his tale.

I sat on the couch, my palms curled into fists on my lap, trying to regulate my breath. His words nevertheless echoed in my mind, bloodless and final.

"I don’t need the child."

I had spent years besides this man, sharing the same roof and mattress, but at this moment, it felt as if he had never known me at all. I searched his face, hoping to locate something—something—to indicate he might regret those phrases. There turned into not anything.

Ruaridh’s sharp gaze bore into me, unreadable. He had already moved on in his thoughts, as if I had been a contract set to run out, no longer a lady who had once believed she would become his spouse.

The silence stretched, pressing towards my ribs. Finally, he moved, his long strides bringing him to the chair across from me. He sat down with the benefit of a person absolutely in control. Behind him, Alistair MacLeod stepped forward, setting a stack of crisp papers at the desk between us.

The phrases on the top cut through me like a blade:

Contract expired.

Alistair barely looked at me as he spoke. "Miss MacLeod, we have completed your three-year agreement with Mr. MacKinnon." Kindly sign here to finalise the procedure."

Miss MacLeod.

Not Mrs. MacKinnon.

Eilidh wasn't even present.

A wry smile tugged at my lips, bitter and hollow. So that turned into it? One signature, and I become erased from his existence? Alistair would not have dared to deal with me so officially if Ruaridh hadn’t given the order. The guy sitting across from me—my husband, at least on paper—was making it clear. This was over.

Ruaridh didn’t hesitate. He picked up the pen and signed his call with a pointy stroke, now not even pausing to consider what he was discarding. He set the pen down, his arms brushing the paper as he looked at me.

"You can live right here for a week while you locate a place."

I met his gaze, willing my expression to remain unreadable. His face became calm, untouched by the weight of what we had just shared. There was no change, no flicker of hesitation, no second-guessing.

Nothing.

I swallowed against the ache in my throat.

How had I ever loved a man like this?

Eilidh, you’re a fool.

I clenched my jaw, forcing the edge of tears lower back. This was the man who had shared my bed for three years, but at this second, he felt like a stranger. He was a strikingly attractive stranger who had instantly broken my heart.

But I wouldn’t break in the front of him.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the pen. The ink of his signature was nonetheless clean, formidable, and unshaken. Mine, by using evaluation, changed into something unsteady; the traces fragmented like my heart.

I set the pen down and exhaled.

"I respect the provider, Mr. MacKinnon," I stated evenly, preserving my voice consistently. "But I don’t see any motive to linger where I’m now not wanted. I’ll leave at once."

Isla sucked in a pointy breath besides me; however, I didn’t examine her.

Instead, I turned to her and said, "Isla, could you assist me?"

She hesitated, her eyes searching mine. She could see it—the attempt it took to keep my ache locked inside. But there was no changing this. There was no way to reverse the recent events.

I stood and walked out without any other word.

As I climbed the steps, I could feel Ruaridh’s gaze on my lower back. Watching. Silent.

But he didn’t prevent me.

He, by no means, might.

I hesitated at the edge of the bedroom.

Three years.

Three years of my life spent within these partitions, believing—hoping—that perhaps, just perhaps, this marriage could be something more than a transaction.

I blinked unexpectedly and pressured my foot to move.

There wasn’t an awful lot to take. Ruaridh helped me sell everything in this room, and I refused to take anything that bore his name. I grabbed my bag and crammed inside the few belongings I had brought with me, all the ones from years in the past. I packed clothes, some books, and a small box of letters that I had never had the courage to ship.

My hands faltered as I zipped up the bag. My chest tightened.

It wasn’t supposed to quit like this.

I had constantly recognized these days would come; however, I had never predicted it would harm this much.

Isla stood by the door, silent.

"You don’t need to fear approximately me," I instructed her, my voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll be excellent. I just… wasn’t what he desired."

She gave the impression that she desired to argue, but she only nodded.

With one closing look around, I squared my shoulders and walked out.

Downstairs, Ruaridh turned into nevertheless seated, his posture comfortable, unaffected.

I refused to have a look at him as I stepped closer to the door.

"Where are you going?"

His voice sliced through the quietand was low and unyielding.

I froze.

Slowly, I grew to face him.

His expression becomes unreadable, but there has been something exceptional in his eyes. There seemed to be a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. But it isn’t counted now.

I lifted my chin.

"My whereabouts are none of your problem, Mr. MacKinnon. We are not husbands and spouses. You should be focusing on your future spouse, no longer your ex-wife."

A sharp, cutting silence was observed.

His expression briefly changed, but it quickly faded away.

I didn't watch for a response.

I turned and reached for the door.

But simply as my hands brushed the handle, his voice came again, low and bloodless.

"Stop."

I stilled.

His tone sent a shiver down my spine.

For the first time since this communique began, there was something in his voice that sounded almost... dangerous.

I swallowed.

Slowly, I found my way back.