Chapter 50

Audrey's POV

Blake’s words froze me mid-motion. That low, precise tone was a warning—a signal that he was no longer playing games.

"Is that your only move?" Ethan’s voice crackled with the righteous indignation of youth. "Threatening people just because you can't control the situation?" He shifted, stepping slightly in front of me, his posture defiant despite the overwhelming presence of the man before us.

Blake didn't flinch. Instead, he pulled out his phone with a slow, deliberate grace that was more terrifying than any shout.

"Ethan Davies," Blake said, his voice carrying a casual, lethal menace. "A promising senior at NYU. Excellent grades, a bright future in sports science. Even a few prestigious grad school applications pending."

The streetlight caught the predatory gleam in Blake's eyes as he scrolled. "And then there’s your family. A hardworking sister, isn't she? Currently excelling in her SAT prep. It would be a tragedy if such a promising trajectory were... interrupted."

I watched the color drain from Ethan's face. The young man who had been so boldly protective just moments ago now looked like prey realizing the trap had already sprung.

"Stop it!" Ethan’s voice shook. "How do you even know about her?"

"My assistant pulled your file during the drive over," Blake said, checking his watch with chilling indifference. "It took less than ten minutes. Imagine what I could do with an hour."

A tremor ran through Ethan’s shoulders. He was brave, yes, but he was no match for the ruthless machinery of the Parker Group.

"Here is the truth, boy," Blake said, his presence filling the street. "I don't care about your life or your family. But if you think you can interfere in my private affairs without consequence, you are deeply mistaken. I can dismantle your future without even breaking a sweat."

He lit a fresh cigar, the smoke curling between us like a physical barrier. His gaze finally settled on me. "Audrey Sinclair. Last chance. Tell me what this really is."

Seeing his "fangs" exposed so clearly—not just as a businessman, but as the man I had lived with for three years—made my stomach churn. I stepped away from Ethan, knowing I had to end this before Blake did something irreparable.

"There is nothing between us," I said, my voice sounding like ash. "Everything he said was a lie. He’s just someone I hired to help me search for my cat."

Blake took a long drag of his cigar, his lips curling into a cold, triumphant smile. "Come here."

I walked to his side, each step heavy with the guilt of reducing Ethan’s genuine kindness to a transactional lie. Blake draped an arm across my shoulders—a theatrical display of possession.

"You're punching way above your weight class, kid," Blake said to Ethan. "She’s still my wife."

I saw the light go out in Ethan’s eyes. The boy who had made me laugh during the darkest night of my life now stood deflated.

"If you're done," I whispered, looking up at Blake, "take me home."

The drive back was silent, the air in the car heavy with unspoken accusations. When the engine finally died outside my building, the driver stepped out, leaving us in a stifling, confined silence.

I reached for the door handle, but the locks were engaged. Before I could protest, Blake shifted, his broad frame blocking my path. He didn't use force, but his sheer presence felt like a cage. He caught my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"I’ve never seen you defend anyone like that," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "What makes a college kid so special to you?"

"I didn't want him to pay for our mistakes," I said, trying to maintain my composure. "Blake, it doesn't matter. We are getting divorced anyway."

"Are we? You set the date and then vanished. Is that what you call wanting a divorce?"

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my skin. His gaze was intense, scanning my face as if searching for a lie. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the line of my neck in a way that brought back a flood of memories—three years of a marriage that had been a desert of emotion, punctuated by moments of intense, confusing proximity.

He moved to pull back the collar of my hoodie, perhaps to see me more clearly, perhaps out of a habit of dominance. But the moment his hand moved the fabric aside, his entire body went rigid.

The air in the car turned from heated to arctic in a heartbeat. Whatever he saw—the stark prominence of my collarbones or the surgical tape from my recent procedure—made him recoil as if burned.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, stripped of all its earlier arrogance.

"Get out."