Part 2The Wife He Burned Alive

"Donny!"

Before I could even open my mouth, Megan threw herself into his arms.

"This woman has been waiting for you forever! Is she a client?"

"Yeah." Donovan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. His arms wrapped instinctively around her waist. "Just a client."

He gently pivoted her toward the exit. "Let's get you to lunch. I can starve, but my girls need to eat."

"But she's been waiting so long," Megan protested softly, looking over her shoulder at me. "Talk to her first. I don't mind."

Donovan’s jaw tightened. He gently guided Megan back to the sofa. "Give me five minutes. I'll be right out."

Only then did he look at me. The warmth in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a cold, panicked calculation. "My private office. Now."

I followed him into his inner sanctum. I hadn’t been here in two years. The last time I visited, the room was a masterclass in aggressive minimalism—black leather, steel, and dark walnut. Now, the space was littered with soft blushes, a pastel throw blanket over the couch, a ridiculous plush bunny on his desk.

It was the aesthetic of a college girl playing house.

"Why didn't you call me to say you were flying in?"

He dropped onto the sofa, pulled a cigarette from a silver case, lit it, took one drag, and immediately crushed it out in the ashtray.

"Megan’s pregnant," he muttered, staring at the crushed tobacco. "I'm trying to quit."

Donovan was a chain-smoker. During high-stakes mergers, he could kill a pack a day.

He was quitting. For her.

"Donovan," I choked out, the word scraping against my throat. "Do you have absolutely nothing to say to me?"

I didn't want to cry. I swore to myself I wouldn't. But the tears spilled over, hot and humiliating.

Seeing me cry, Donovan dragged a hand down his face and exhaled a heavy sigh.

"She was an intern at the clinic. I collapsed from a stress ulcer a few years ago, and she took care of me. She's... she's not like you, Camille. You’re brilliant. You’re independent. If I walked out that door today, you would survive. You would thrive. But Megan? Megan can't even make toast without burning it if I'm not there."

He paused, looking up at me with an infuriating sense of martyrdom. "The distance was killing me. If I didn't have her keeping me sane, the stress of this firm would have put me in the ground."

I stood there, letting the tears fall, absorbing the sheer audacity of his defense. Without a word, I closed the distance between us, raised my hand, and slapped him across the face as hard as I physically could.

The sound cracked through the quiet office like a gunshot.

"I want a divorce, Donovan. You can have her."

He didn't flinch. He reached out, wrapping his large hand around my trembling wrist, and pressed his lips to my palm.

"I told you on our wedding day. The only way you leave me is in a body bag," he said, his voice dropping into a dark, calm register. "You are the love of my life, Camille. Nothing changes that. Look, I know my mother has been down your throat for years about you not wanting kids. Once Megan has the baby, I’ll have the legal documents drawn up. We’ll adopt it. We'll raise it as ours. I'm doing this to take the pressure off you. You need to look at the bigger picture here."

I stared down at the man kneeling in front of me. I realized, with a sickening drop in my stomach, that I had never actually known him at all.

He entirely missed the horror in my eyes. "She’s due soon. I’m going to throw her a wedding. Just a ceremony to make her happy, to make things right for her before the birth. Since you're already in town, stay at the penthouse for a few days. I'll have the driver take you there now. Once I drop Megan off, I'll come home to you."

The penthouse. The home we had bought together. Because his mother—a terrifying, old-money matriarch who thought a surgeon was essentially blue-collar labor—refused to let me stay at the family estate.

"Be a good girl, Camille. Megan is heavily pregnant. Her blood pressure is fragile. If you’re going to stay in my city, you need to understand what is and isn't acceptable behavior."

With that, he stood up, straightened his custom suit, and walked out of the room.

I lunged toward the door, desperate to scream, to tear the room apart, but two massive security guards materialized in the doorway, blocking my path.

"Apologies, Mrs. Donovan," one of them said, his face a stone wall. "Mr. Donovan requested that you remain here until he and Miss Gwendolyn have left the premises."

I watched Donovan's broad back disappear down the hallway. My hands shook so violently I could barely pull my phone from my purse. I dialed Evelyn, my mother-in-law.

"Evelyn," I breathed, my voice hollow. "You've spent five years praying I'd leave your son. You win. I want a divorce."

There was a pause on the line. The clinking of a porcelain teacup. "You finally woke up. What's your price? Name the figure."

"Nothing. I don't want a single dime of his money. Just make him sign the papers. Fast."

"Consider it done."

The guards eventually escorted me to a black SUV, which dropped me at the penthouse.

I hadn’t been here in five months. It looked exactly the same. I had picked out the rugs, the art, the linen drapes. This was supposed to be our sanctuary.

Now, it felt like a tomb.

I spent three hours moving methodically through the rooms, pulling every piece of clothing, every book, every photograph that belonged to me, and shoving them into garbage bags.

I was halfway through emptying the bathroom cabinet when the front door banged open.

Donovan stormed down the hallway, his face twisted in a murderous rage. He grabbed my arm so hard my shoulder popped.

"Did you tell my mother? Did you run your mouth about Megan?!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "You know damn well my mother will destroy her! Why would you do that!"