Chapter 9

The industry whispers, the transparent flattery, put Celine on top of the world.

But Damon couldn't shake the feeling that the kind of excess that used to crackle in his bloodstream had gone flat.

In the middle of loud rooms and clinking glass, his attention kept drifting. He'd find himself thinking, once upon a time, if he'd been this brazen, Magpie would have driven a car straight through the venue or hurled a bottle at his head.

Not this. Not radio silence.

"Damon. What are you spacing out for?" One of the old crowd elbowed him, grinning.

"Afraid the Mrs. is going to show up? Relax, man, we've got the door this time."

Damon pulled a corner of his mouth up and drained his drink. "She wouldn't dare."

"Right? She finally learned. Some lessons take a while." The friend kept going.

"Honestly, about time. You can't spoil a woman. Look at you now. Wife at home, girl in the field, Celine sweet as a peach. Best of both worlds."

Damon didn't answer. His eyes were on Celine, laughing somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, but his mind was pulling up another face.

A face that used to light up over one compliment from him. A face that had been blotchy and wrecked from sobbing over one of his betrayals.

He suddenly had the distinct feeling that Celine's sweetness, her eager compliance, was missing something.

Something vivid. Something alive.

He shook the thought off, annoyed with himself. He'd just gotten used to having a wild cat around the place. Now it was quiet. Of course it felt off.

That's all it was. He'd gotten used to it.

When he was done playing, he'd have her crawling back, just like always.

He was dead sure Magpie couldn't live without him. Like fish couldn't live without water.

Whatever she was doing was a tactic. A louder scream for attention.

He pulled out his phone and opened the dormant chat window again.

He typed, half-knowing it was petty:

"When you're done, come home. Don't make me come get you."

Magpie didn't respond. But his phone rang. Eleanor.

"Mom. What is it. Kind of busy."

"Busy." Eleanor's voice was unreadable. "Busy parading some piece of trash around town? Get to the estate. Now."

She hung up.

Damon stood listening to the dead line. His mother rarely took that tone with him. Especially since he'd gotten married. She always softened her voice, out of respect for Magpie.

The unease moved through him again. He shook it off.

What could it be? She'd probably caught wind of a rumor and wanted to lay into him.

He told the old crowd he was out, ignored Celine's look from across the room, and drove to the estate.

The study was fully lit, but the air in it was tight and cold.

Eleanor sat in the high chair at the head of the room. No smile. She watched him walk in.

"Mom. What's the crisis?"

He loosened his tie and dropped into the sofa opposite her, legs crossed, still loose in his posture, a little dismissive.

Eleanor didn't answer the question. Her eyes drilled into him.

"Damon. Tell me something. Do you actually know where Magpie and Wren are right now?"

He snorted. "Her? She's got the kid hiding out somewhere to punish me. She's not going to Mars. When the tantrum runs out, she'll come slinking back."

"Tantrum."

Eleanor repeated the word back to him, voice climbing, sharp with contempt.

She stood. She took the document she'd been keeping under her hand and slammed it down on the coffee table.

The impact cracked through the room.

"Damon Sterling. You still think she's throwing a tantrum? Wake up. She's not throwing a tantrum. She's done. She's gone. You're still asleep."

Damon jerked, caught off guard by his mother's sudden fury. He looked down, on instinct, at what she'd slammed on the table.

The cover was white. The title was set in bold, black, heavy type.

Dissolution of Marriage Agreement.

On the signature line below, Magpie Ashford, in clean, precise ink. Long dry.

Cold, unannounced, traveled straight up from his feet and froze everything.

Damon stared at the document like he could burn it to ash with his eyes.

Dead silence. A few seconds. Then his head snapped up and he forced a laugh.

"Divorce. Fine. Does Magpie actually think she can strong-arm me with this?"

Anger rolled in to cover the blank moment of terror underneath.

He grabbed the agreement. He wanted to see what number she'd put on her exit. How much she wanted to pull from him to sell the "walk away clean" act.

But as he turned the pages, his anger calcified into something deeper. Bewilderment.

The terms were obscenely clear.

Magpie had given up basically everything. Her shares in Sterling Industries. Every property acquired during the marriage. The fund portfolio in her name.

She'd asked for exactly two things. Full custody of their daughter. And the personal assets she'd brought into the marriage.

She was walking away with nothing but herself and Wren.

"This isn't possible…" His fingers tightened. The paper wrinkled.

This was not the playbook he knew.

She was supposed to use this moment to demand a fortune, wasn't she?

She was supposed to play hard to get, wasn't she?

How dare she. How dare she want nothing.