STIGMA

Three whole hours had passed, and Kaelan was still nowhere to be found.

I'd called him over and over—not to nag him about ruining our evening, but because a dull knot of anxiety kept tightening in my chest. This kind of silence wasn't like him. He usually had the courtesy to let me know if he was going to be delayed, even in the middle of the night.

Unable to sit still, I paced the living room relentlessly, the hem of my long dress sweeping the floor with every step. Mirelle, who had been quietly watching my agitation, finally stepped in.

She gently suggested I calm down, warning that I might trip over my own hem if I kept wearing a path into the rug.

I stopped dead and shot her a look, my nerves completely frayed.

"Is that really what you're worried about right now, Mirelle?" I asked, my voice thick.

A sob threatened to break loose, but I swallowed it down and resumed my pacing.

"My husband is three hours late," I insisted, no longer trying to hide my distress. "This isn't normal. He's never done this."

Mirelle tried to reassure me, but her words fell flat. She mumbled something about work, a sudden holdup, something trivial. She added that nothing bad could ever happen to a man like Mr. Southwark.

As if her words had summoned him, the front door suddenly clicked open.

Kaelan stood in the entryway.

He froze when he saw me, as if genuinely surprised to find me still awake in the living room, practically vibrating with nerves.

"Rav..." I murmured, my throat tight.

I rushed over and threw my arms around him without thinking, desperate for the reassurance of his touch.

"What happened? I've been calling you non-stop..."

But he didn't answer. His arms didn't wrap around me in return. They hung motionless at his sides.

That detail alone was enough to send a cold spike of unease through me.

I pulled back just enough to look up at him. His expression was entirely closed off. His gaze was cold, completely detached.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, my stomach dropping.

He slowly untangled himself from my embrace, as if my very touch was a burden.

"We need to talk, Elara," he said, his voice stripped of its usual warmth.

The words made my chest tighten instantly.

"Talk about what?"

"About us."

He paused before adding in a flat, detached tone that he'd prefer to have this conversation in our bedroom.

I glanced around. Even though none of the staff were visible, the open space of the first floor suddenly felt too exposed, too oppressive.

"Let's go upstairs," I finally breathed.

He gave a curt nod without meeting my eyes and walked past me, taking the stairs with heavy, measured steps. I followed him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Once we were in the master bedroom, he waited for me to shut the door before turning to face me.

"Rav... what's going on?"

He put some distance between us, walking over to the window. He stood with his back to me, staring out into the dark as if searching for the right words in the landscape below.

"There's something wrong between us," he finally said.

I just stood there for a moment, completely lost.

"What do you mean? Everything is fine... Just this morning..."

I cut myself off, thrown off balance by the memory of his gentle touch just hours earlier.

He shook his head slightly.

"I told you what you wanted to hear," he replied simply.

His tone was ice, entirely devoid of tenderness.

"I've been pretending for a while, Elara. But I can't do it anymore."

A violent shiver ran through me. A sudden, brutal wave of fear settled deep in my gut.

"What are you trying to tell me...?"

He turned away from the glass, walked over to the bed, and picked up a large manila envelope I hadn't noticed before.

He held it out to me.

"I want you to sign this."

I stared at the envelope, too afraid to reach for it.

"What is it?"

But deep down, I already knew.

"They're divorce papers."

The words struck me like a physical blow.

He added, in that same deadpan tone, that everything was already drawn up. All it needed was my signature. He even made a point to mention that he was leaving me a substantial settlement—more than enough to live on comfortably for the rest of my life.

I stood frozen, my brain refusing to process what he was saying.

"Today..." I whispered. "It's our anniversary. You asked me to get ready for tonight..."

He gave a slight nod.

"I'd planned to give you these at dinner. But I got held up."

His sheer detachment hurt even more than the words themselves.

I took a step toward him, desperately searching his face for a sign, a flicker of hesitation, anything. I reached up to touch his cheek, but he caught my wrist, stopping me instantly.

"You're asking for a divorce today?" I breathed, completely incredulous.

He held my gaze.

"We might as well end it on the exact date it began."

The cruelty of it slashed right through me.

"Don't waste my time, Elara. Sign it. I'm filing the paperwork tomorrow."

Tears spilled over my lashes before I could stop them.

"What did I do?" I choked out. "We can fix this... we can try..."

His expression hardened.

"I don't love you anymore," he stated, his voice devoid of pity. "And it's been a while."

Every word felt like a blade sinking into my chest.

"You should have realized that a long time ago."

"Rav... I'm begging you..."

His patience snapped.

"Sign the papers, Elara!" His voice cracked like a whip, suddenly filled with rage. "Is it that complicated? Do you really want me to take this to court? Because if I have to do that, you'll leave with nothing. Absolutely nothing."

I stood rooted to the spot, entirely paralyzed by the sheer violence of his threat.

He shot me one last withering look, then turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

The door slammed behind him.

The silence he left in his wake was crushing.

I was left entirely alone, standing in the middle of our bedroom, clutching the envelope that had just destroyed everything I thought was real.

My dreams, my marriage—my entire life had just collapsed in a single instant.