Chapter 6
April POV:
Hamilton stood in the doorway, a shadow of the man I once knew. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his usually immaculate suit was wrinkled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He held the peonies out to me, a peace offering.
I ignored them. I was busy putting my few belongings into a small bag, my movements slow and deliberate.
He stepped into the room, the scent of the flowers and his expensive cologne filling the sterile air. "April," he began, his voice raspy. "I…"
"Did you file the appeal?" I asked, not looking at him. My voice was flat, devoid of the fire and fury he was used to. It was the voice of a woman who had nothing left to lose.
He faltered. "What?"
"Dudley' s appeal," I said, finally turning to face him. I met his gaze, and for the first time, I felt nothing. No love, no hate, no pain. Just a vast, empty expanse. "That' s the only reason you' re here, isn' t it? To use my brother as a leash to drag me back home. So, did you file it?"
He stared at me, a flicker of something-was it hurt?-in his eyes. He had expected tears, recriminations, a dramatic scene. He didn't know how to handle this cold, hollow version of me.
"I came because I was worried about you," he said, his voice softer now.
"Don' t lie, Hamilton," I said, a bitter smile touching my lips. "You' re not good at it. You just hate losing control. You love Brittany, I accept that. I don' t care anymore. Just get my brother out, and we can go our separate ways."
He looked genuinely stunned, as if the idea that I could truly be done with him was an impossibility he had never considered. "April, it' s not like that."
"Isn' t it?" I finished packing my bag and zipped it shut. I walked towards the door, my steps steady. "If you haven' t filed the appeal, then we have nothing more to talk about."
As I passed him, his hand shot out and grabbed my arm. "I will," he said, his voice urgent. "I' ll take the case. I' ll get him out. I promise. Just… come home."
I looked down at his hand on my arm, then back up at his face. I didn' t flinch. I just gently removed his hand as if I were brushing away a piece of lint. "Fine," I said. "Then I' ll see you in court."
His face fell, his grip slackening. He had lost his power over me, and the realization was dawning on him, slow and terrifying. He looked lost.
The week leading up to Dudley' s second appeal hearing was a strange, silent truce. I stayed at the penthouse, he stayed with Brittany. He claimed her "depression" had worsened and she couldn't be left alone. He called every night, his voice a strained performance of a concerned husband, and every night I would let it go to voicemail.
The night before the hearing, I forced the issue. I sent him a single text: "If you are not in this apartment in one hour, the deal is off."
He came. But he wasn' t really there. He spent the entire time in the study on a video call with Brittany, his voice a low, soothing murmur as he coaxed her to eat, to take her medication, to try and sleep. I sat in the living room, listening to the ghost of the man who used to do that for me. He used to be the one to sit with me for hours when the grief was too much, patiently holding a spoon to my lips until I took a bite. Now, that tenderness was reserved for her. It wasn' t unique. It wasn't special. It was just who he was, and he could give it to anyone.
Around midnight, I heard him getting ready to leave. I stood in the doorway of the study, blocking his path.
"Stay," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Please. Just for tonight." I was desperate. I needed to know that my brother' s life meant more to him than her feigned fragility. "If you stay, I' ll… I' ll withdraw the divorce application. We can try again."
He hesitated. For a split second, I saw a war in his eyes. He looked at me, really looked at me, and I saw a flicker of the man I loved.
Then his phone buzzed. A text from Brittany. The flicker died.
He gently pushed me aside. "I' m not going to divorce you, April," he said, his voice strained. "But I can' t leave her alone right now. She needs me."
He wouldn't even look at me as he said it. He just walked out, leaving me alone in the vast, empty penthouse. The hope that had foolishly sparked within me guttered and died, leaving behind only the cold ash of certainty.
The next morning, I called him. "The hearing is at ten," I said, my voice mechanical.
"I' m on my way to the courthouse now," he said. "I' ll meet you there."
I allowed myself a small, fragile sliver of relief. He was coming. He was going to keep his promise.
I arrived at the courthouse at nine-thirty. Ten o' clock came and went. No Hamilton. Ten-thirty. My calls went straight to voicemail. His assistant hadn' t seen him, couldn' t reach him. Panic began to claw at my throat, hot and sharp. I stood in the hallway, my eyes fixed on the entrance, praying, bargaining with a god I no longer believed in.
At eleven, the judge, tired of waiting, dismissed the case. Lawyer fails to appear. Appeal denied.
I felt the floor drop out from under me. I sank to my knees, a strangled sob tearing from my chest. "I' m sorry, Dudley," I whispered to the cold, polished floor. "I' m so sorry. I failed you."
Through the window in the courtroom door, I saw my brother. He wasn' t looking at me with disappointment or anger. His face was filled with a profound, heartbreaking pity. He said something to the guard, who shook his head. He was trying to come to me.
"April," he mouthed through the glass, his voice inaudible but his meaning clear. "Live. Live well."
Then they led him away.
I don' t know how long I knelt there, lost in a fog of failure and grief. Hamilton' s assistant found me, babbling apologies and excuses. "Mr. Jones got held up, something came up with Miss Mccray…"
I didn' t hear the rest. I pushed myself to my feet and walked out of the courthouse like a zombie, my heart a dead, heavy stone in my chest.
As I stood on the courthouse steps, blinking in the harsh sunlight, my phone buzzed. It was an alert from a social media app I rarely used. A photo, posted by one of Brittany' s sycophantic friends.
It was a picture of Hamilton and Brittany. They were in Central Park, sitting on a picnic blanket. Hamilton was smiling, a genuine, happy smile I hadn' t seen in months. In his lap was a small, fluffy puppy with a ridiculous birthday hat on its head. Brittany was leaning against him, her head on his shoulder, the picture of contentment.
The caption read: "Happy 1st Birthday to little Prince! Best dog dad ever! Ham dropped everything to be here for his big day! "
He hadn't been held up. He hadn't been in a meeting or an emergency.
He had missed my brother' s life-altering court hearing… for a dog' s birthday party.
The phone slipped from my numb fingers and clattered onto the steps. A sound, a terrible, wounded animal sound, ripped from my throat. I crumpled to the ground, the carefully constructed walls I had built around my heart turning to dust.
My brother' s freedom, my family' s honor, my last shred of hope… none of it was worth as much as a puppy' s birthday.
It was over. Everything was truly, finally, irrevocably over. I knelt on the cold stone steps of the courthouse and wept, not for my lost love, but for the fool I had been for ever believing in it. If I could, I would rip every memory of him from my mind until there was nothing left.
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