Chapter 3

I stood abruptly, my voice steady and cold.

“In that case… let’s get a divorce.”

The words hung in the air like a loaded gun.

Killian’s entire body went rigid. He turned sharply, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“You… what did you just say?”

“I said I’ll grant your wish. Let’s get a divorce,” I repeated flatly.

“No,” he said, almost desperately. “I don’t want a divorce.”

As if that suddenly changed everything. As if he hadn’t shattered what was left of us.

I didn’t even flinch. I just walked out of the hall with a cold, humorless smile.

I’d recovered physically, sure. But emotionally? Being in that house—under the same roof as him, with Grandpa Crestwood, with all the ghosts of betrayal—was suffocating.

I couldn’t even bring myself to hate them.

I should. God knows I should hate Grandpa Crestwood for what he did, for the years I lost. But all I felt was bone-deep exhaustion.

I couldn’t face his tentative kindness or the heavy guilt that weighed down every glance he gave me.

So, I returned to the only place that had ever felt like mine. The house my parents, the Calloway couple, left behind.

It was hollow now, echoing with absence.

I fell asleep wrapped in the silence.

But when I woke, I heard sounds downstairs.

Footsteps. Voices. Laughter.

My pulse spiked. I thought maybe it was a break-in. I reached for my phone, ready to call the police. And then I heard her voice.

Kayla’s sugary tone, light with amusement.

“Killian, this painting is stunning.”

“If you like it, take it,” he said smoothly. “Bring it home.”

My blood ran cold.

There was only one painting downstairs. Just one.

The family portrait my father had painted of the three of us—me and my parents—when I was a child. His masterpiece. His legacy.

I flew down the stairs. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Killian froze, hand mid-reach toward the canvas.

Kayla jumped, startled, and practically dove behind him like the coward she was.

“You… Why are you here?” Killian asked, his tone guilty.

I laughed bitterly. “Why am I here? Are you serious? This is my house. My parents’ house. The real question is—what are you two doing here? Planning to rob me blind?”

He pulled his hand back, his face twisting with irritation.

“She wanted the painting. She’s trying to get into Cassian Holt’s mentorship program. You know how much he loves oil paintings.”

And there it was.

He wasn’t giving her the portrait out of sentiment. He wanted to use my father’s legacy to curry favor with a world-renowned pianist.

My father’s art—the very last piece he painted before his death—was being offered up like a bribe.

And Cassian Holt?

She is a fan of my father’s. A man who would probably weep if he knew what kind of lowlife was trying to trade this for an audition.

I stepped forward, each word laced with venom. “Keep dreaming.”

Before I could say anything else, Kayla suddenly stumbled backward—so dramatically it was almost laughable.

She collapsed to the floor.

Killian’s eyes went wild. He dove to catch her like a deranged knight in shining armor.

“Aven, you bitch!” he roared. “You pushed her!”

“What?” I blinked. “I didn’t even touch her!”

But he was already on me.

He shoved me—hard.

I hit the floor with a sickening thud, the side of my head slamming into the stair railing.

Pain exploded through my skull. Blood spilled down my temple. My vision blurred.

Still, I reached out. Reflex.

“Help… me…”

Instead of help, I got a brutal kick to the stomach.

I cried out, curling in on myself as my entire body convulsed in agony.

Everything blurred into red.

Somewhere through the haze, I heard his frantic voice, soft and full of concern—

“Kayla, please don’t be scared, I’ve got you. It’s okay…”

Then his tone turned razor-sharp.

“You better pray that baby is fine, Aven,” he snarled. “Because if she loses it… I swear, I will destroy you.”