Chapter 6
Charlotte POV
I hadn't made it far that night.
The gates were locked. The guards were posted.
Aiden's idea of "protection" was a cage, and I didn't have the key.
So I retreated. I waited.
The next morning, I sent the shattered music box to a restorer in the city via a courier. It was a small act of hope. A foolish one, perhaps, but necessary.
When I returned to the East Wing, the sound of ripping tape greeted me.
It was a violent sound. Like skin being peeled from muscle.
I stood in the doorway of my art studio, frozen.
Three of Aiden's enforcers-men who usually guarded shipments of cocaine-were packing my life into cardboard boxes.
My easels were collapsed. My jars of turpentine were sealed.
And Haven was standing in the center of it all, pointing a manicured finger like a conductor.
"Clear it all out," she ordered. "Every scrap. This room has the best light for the nursery."
She turned slowly and saw me.
She didn't flinch. She smiled.
"Oh, good. You're here to help."
I walked over to my drying rack.
Four years of work.
Landscapes that didn't look like prison walls. Portraits of people who didn't have blood on their hands.
"Stop," I said to the soldier holding a canvas.
He hesitated, his eyes darting to Haven.
"I said clear it," Haven snapped.
She walked over to my workstation.
There was a painting on the easel. It was unfinished. A storm over a grey ocean. It was the only thing I had painted in months that felt real.
Haven picked up a can of black primer meant for the walls.
She didn't look at me. She just tipped the can.
Thick, black sludge poured over the ocean. It swallowed the waves. It swallowed the light.
It dripped onto the floorboards with a heavy plop, plop, plop.
I didn't scream.
I didn't lunge at her.
I felt a strange, cold numbness spread through my chest.
It was the death of the last part of me that cared.
"Oops," Haven said, her voice flat. "Clumsy me."
She reached into her purse and pulled out a thick envelope.
She tossed it onto the ruined painting. It stuck to the wet tar.
"Aiden signed it this morning," she said. "He thought it was the acquisition contract for the port warehouse. He didn't even read it."
I looked down at the document.
Dissolution of Marriage.
His signature was bold. Aggressive.
He had signed away our seven years together without blinking, because he trusted her more than he respected me.
"He's at the hospital with Leo," Haven said, checking her watch dismissively. "Complications. You know how he worries about his blood."
"You're going to regret this," I said. It wasn't a threat. It was a fact.
"Regret winning?" Haven laughed. "I don't think so. Now, pack a bag. A small one. And get out before he comes back and changes his mind."
I turned around.
I walked to the bedroom.
I took one suitcase.
I didn't take the jewels. I didn't take the clothes he bought me to make me look like a Mafia wife.
I took my passport. My hidden stash of cash. And the clothes on my back.
I walked down the grand staircase.
The house was silent.
I reached for the heavy oak door.
Suddenly, it burst open.
Aiden rushed in. He was sweating. His tie was undone.
Haven was right behind him, looking frantic.
"Where is he?" Aiden roared.
He grabbed my shoulders. His fingers dug into my flesh brutally.
"Where is who?" I asked.
"Leo!" Haven screamed, pushing past him. "What did you do with him? Where is my son?"
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