Chapter 19: ’Why?’
By ten o’clock the next morning, the gates of the Kingston estate were completely blocked by dozens of news vans, reporters, and photographers shouting questions through the iron bars.
Inside his study, Kian stood behind his massive mahogany desk. He looked immaculate. His dark grey suit was freshly pressed, his hair perfectly combed back, his face devoid of any emotion.
Luke stood near the door, a small white bandage over his split lip.
"The press team is ready downstairs, sir," Luke said quietly. "The reporters are waiting in the main conference room at the city center."
"Good," Kian said. He picked up his watch from the desk, slowly strapping it onto his wrist.
He didn’t look like a man whose wife had betrayed him in front of the whole country. He looked like a man about to sign a routine business contract.
...
Twenty minutes later, Kian stepped out onto the stage at the grand hotel conference hall.
The moment he appeared, a hundred camera flashes erupted at once, blindingly bright, as reporters shoved their microphones forward, shouting over one another.
"Mr. Carter! Is it true your wife is seeking a divorce?!"
"Mr. Carter! How long has Mrs. Carter been involved with Aaron Kazarov?!"
"Are you planning to step down from the Kingston board?!"
Kian walked calmly to the podium. He adjusted the microphone, looking out over the frantic crowd of journalists with cold, steady eyes.
He waited until the noise slowly died down into a tense, expectant silence.
"Good morning," Kian said, his voice smooth, clear, and unbothered. "I am aware of the rumors and speculation circulating regarding my family after last night’s event."
He paused, resting his hands lightly on the edges of the wooden podium.
"Marriage is a private matter," Kian continued, every word coming out slow and deliberate. "It is not something to be discarded because of misunderstandings or outside interference. My wife, Isabella, is currently unwell and resting at home under proper care."
A murmur ran through the crowd of reporters.
"To clear up any confusion," Kian added, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked directly into the center news camera.
"There will be no divorce. Isabella and I are working through our private matters together, as husband and wife. We ask that the press respect our privacy during this time."
He didn’t wait for questions. He turned on his heel and walked off the stage, his dark coat sweeping behind him as his guards blocked the reporters from following.
Across town, in a high-rise office overlooking the river, Aaron sat in a dark leather armchair, watching the press conference live on a massive wall monitor.
He held a lit cigar between two fingers, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face as Kian’s image disappeared from the screen.
His lieutenant, standing near the door, stepped forward. "Boss? He’s denying the whole thing. He’s keeping her locked up."
Aaron took a slow drag from his cigar, blowing a trail of blue smoke toward the ceiling.
"Of course he is," Aaron said softly, his dark eyes gleaming with quiet excitement. "Kian would rather burn the whole city down than admit he lost."
He stood up, grabbing his black coat from the back of the chair.
"Tell the men to get ready," Aaron murmured, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "It looks like we’re doing this the hard way."
...
The back seat of the car was dead quiet.
Kian leaned his head against the cold glass of the window, watching the city lights blur together as they drove through the late evening rain. His tie was loose around his collar, his coat thrown over the seat beside him.
His phone buzzed in his palm. He didn’t need to look down to know what it was. Luke had already sent the brief update: Isabella is still inside the master bedroom. She hasn’t tried to break the lock again. She hasn’t made a sound in hours.
Kian let out a slow, tired breath. His mind kept pulling him back to the podium at the press conference, the flashing cameras, the endless sea of shouting reporters asking if his wife had really traded him for Aaron Kazarov.
The whole thing made his stomach turn.
He had spent his entire life learning control, keeping his personal world locked behind thick iron gates, and in a single night, Isabella had pulled the curtain back for everyone to see.
’Why?’
The question kept hammering at his temples like a dull ache. It didn’t make any sense. Isabella loved him. She had always loved him.
Before her father died, before she lost her sight, she used to follow him around like he held the sun in his hands.
She had nearly given up her entire inheritance just to keep him close when her father threatened to cut her off.
A woman like that didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to hand herself over to a man like Aaron.
Something was wrong. Someone had gotten to her. Aaron had manipulated her, scared her, or fed her lies until she couldn’t tell up from down anymore.
"Pull over," Kian said suddenly.
The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Sir?"
"Take the left on Third Street. Go toward the old bakery near the square."
"Yes, Mr. Carter."
Kian rubbed his eyes with his hand. He had been too harsh last night.
Locking her in was necessary, he couldn’t risk her running back out into the open where Aaron could reach her but he had left her alone for too long.
She was blind, confused, and terrified. She needed him to remind her who he was to her. She needed to feel safe again.
When the car pulled up to the small bakery, the rain was down to a soft drizzle.
The shop was small, tucked away between two tall brick buildings, with warm yellow light spilling out onto the wet pavement.
It was the place Lance used to take her every Saturday afternoon when she was little, back when she could still see the glass display cases full of pastries.
Kian stepped inside, the small brass bell above the door chiming softly.
The middle-aged woman behind the counter looked up, her smile freezing the moment she recognized his face.
The young girl sweeping the floor stopped dead in her tracks. Everyone in the city had seen the morning news. They knew who he was, and they knew what had happened.
The woman behind the counter gave him a look full of quiet, heavy pity. "Mr. Carter... we didn’t expect to see you tonight."
Kian didn’t break under their stares. In fact, he welcomed it.
He wanted them to look. He wanted them to see a devoted husband coming out in the rain to pick up his wife’s favorite treats after a hard day. It was good for people to see this and even the paparazzi hanging around.
It proved that the stories spreading on the internet were nothing more than poison.
"I need a box of the vanilla cream tartlets," Kian said, his voice quiet and polite. "And the lavender sponge cake. The small one she likes."
"Of course," the woman whispered, quickly pulling out a white cardboard box. "Right away, sir."
He didn’t stop there. He made three more stops down the boulevard.
He bought a heavy box of dark chocolates from the shop her family used to import from, a soft plush bear with rounded ears that she used to hold on long car rides, and a huge bundle of white lilies, the expensive, rare ones that had to be flown in from the coast.
He bought everything he could think of, spending money like it was water, piling the back seat of the car with luxury boxes and fragrant flowers.
He stared at the pile as the driver took them back toward the estate. It would fix things. It had to.
When Isabella smelled the lilies and tasted the sweets she loved so much, she would remember her old life.
She would see that he was looking out for her, that he was the only one who truly cared for her.
By the time the heavy iron gates of the estate rolled open, it was nearly midnight.
Kian stepped into the grand foyer, holding a few of the smaller boxes while the guards helped carry the rest of the bags and the large bouquet of lilies behind him.
"Where is she?" Kian asked Luke, who was waiting near the stairs.
"Still upstairs, sir," Luke replied, his voice quiet. The side of his jaw was dark and swollen from where Kian had struck him earlier, but his head remained bowed. "She hasn’t asked for food or water."
Before Kian could step toward the staircase, a sharp heel clicked against the marble floor.
Alice stepped out from the side drawing room, wearing a cream silk dress, her long hair draped over one shoulder. She looked tired, her dark eyes flashing with frustration as she marched toward him.
"Kian!" she called out, stopping a few feet away. "Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for hours! The servants said you were at the press conference, but then you disappeared, and nobody would tell me—"
She cut herself off, her eyes dropping to the boxes in his arms, then to the massive armful of white lilies Luke was holding behind him.
Her expression turned entirely blank for a fraction of a second before turning into deep confusion.
"What is all this?" Alice asked, her voice dropping lower. "Are those... are those for her? After what she did to you last night?"
Kian stared at her.
For years, Alice had been the person he turned to when the world got too loud. She was soft, elegant, and predictable.
She was the woman he was supposed to build a life with before old man Kingston forced his hand with the marriage contract.
But right now, standing in the middle of his hall while his wife was locked upstairs in the dark, Alice’s voice sounded thin and annoying.
The sharp, demanding tone in her voice didn’t feel comforting anymore. It felt like extra weight he didn’t have the energy to carry.
"I don’t have time for this tonight, Alice," Kian said flatly, his eyes cold as he looked at her.
Alice blinked, looking as though he had slapped her. "Kian, she humiliated you! The entire country is talking about you and you’re out buying her flowers?!"
"Take these upstairs," Kian instructed Luke and the guards, completely ignoring her. "Leave them outside the door."
"Yes, Mr. Carter."
Kian turned back to Alice, his face completely closed off. "Go home Alice. I’ll send for you tomorrow if I need to speak with you."
"Kian—"
He didn’t wait for her to finish. He turned his back on her and walked up the wide marble staircase, his long strides leaving her standing alone in the bright light of the empty hall.