Chapter 6

I pulled the SIM card from my phone, my fingers steady despite the internal storm. Without hesitation, I tossed it into the airport trash can and boarded the plane, without looking back.

On the other side of the world, Atlas stood atop a secluded mountain estate, watching the sunset. Beside him, Ivy smiled, delicately adjusting a loose strand of hair. Just as Atlas reached out to touch it, his phone rang. Annoyed, he answered, his brows furrowing at the unfamiliar number. “Mr. Whitmore, your wife… she’s gone.”

His hand froze. The sunset’s warmth couldn't dispel the sudden chill that gripped him. “Gone?” His voice was sharp, controlled. “What do you mean?”

The caller hesitated, then spoke with apprehension. “The nurses said she left in the middle of the night. She left a document behind… You should see it.”

Atlas’s grip tightened. “What document?”

A pause. “A divorce agreement.”

The words struck him like a blow. His chest constricted, his heartbeat a forceful thud. He must have misheard. This had to be a joke. Celeste wouldn't do this. Even in anger, she wouldn't go this far.

Beside him, Ivy’s expression flickered with something unreadable—something sharp and dangerous—then vanished. She touched his sleeve, her voice soft with concern. “Celeste… did something happen to her?” she asked, feigning innocence. “Let me come with you, Atlas. Maybe I can help.”

Atlas barely acknowledged her, nodding once before turning and striding down the mountain path, a deep scowl settling on his face. Ivy hurried after him, her fingers brushing his chest. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “I’m sure Celeste is fine.”

Her touch ignited irritation in Atlas. His patience was frayed, and her touch only fueled his frustration.

The car ride to the hospital was silent. Ivy stared at him, apprehensive. He had never rejected her touch before. She quietly slipped her phone from her pocket, sending a quick text. The reply came instantly: “Don’t worry. It’s been handled.”

Inside the VIP hospital suite, the tension was suffocating. The hospital director sat rigidly, his forehead damp with nervous sweat. Losing a patient—especially Mr. Whitmore's wife—was unprecedented.

The moment the door opened, the temperature seemed to drop. Atlas entered, his presence heavy in the room. The director stood, wringing his hands. “Mr. Whitmore—”

“Where is she?” Atlas’s voice was dangerously quiet, a stark contrast to his simmering fury.

The director hesitated, then shakily handed him a stack of papers. Atlas’s gaze fell to the words staring back: Divorce Agreement.

The crisp paper cut into his fingers as he flipped to the last page. Celeste’s signature was there. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He crumpled the papers, a dark storm gathering in his expression. His voice, when he spoke, was lethal. “Where is she?”

The hospital director swallowed hard. “We… we don’t know. She left in the middle of the night. The nurses tried to stop her, but—”

“You lost her?” Atlas’s patience snapped, his voice a low growl.

A broken sob cut through the silence. In the corner, a young nurse wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks. “I–It’s my fault, Mr. Whitmore,” she stammered. “I should have stopped her. She’s still so weak after the miscarriage—”

The air left the room. Atlas stiffened. His grip tightened on the divorce papers, nearly crumpling them. “What did you just say?”

The nurse hiccuped, still crying. “S–She lost the baby…”