Chapter 77: The courthouse
In the quiet, heavy atmosphere of the Kingston estate, the news was playing on a muted television screen in the corner of the study.
Kian stood by his mahogany desk, adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt. His dark suit jacket was draped over the back of a chair.
His face was entirely calm, his hair perfectly combed, his expression utterly unreadable. But his eyes were fixed on the screen, watching the photograph of Aaron holding Isabella by the waist.
The door behind him opened quietly.
Alice walked in.
She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t throwing things. She walked with a slow, measured step, her heels silent against the thick carpet. She was wearing a simple dark dress, her face unnaturally pale, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her eyes were wide, clear, and completely devoid of warmth.
Kian didn’t turn around immediately. He finished buttoning his cuff, then slowly turned to face her.
They stood in silence for five long seconds.
"You’re not going to ask?" Kian said smoothly, his voice flat and even.
"If I ask," Alice said, her voice dropping into a quiet, icy register that carried far more weight than a scream, "will you tell me the truth?"
Kian looked at her, his dark eyes steady. He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch.
"The truth is simple, Alice," Kian said, stepping around the desk with a slow, calm grace. He stopped a few feet in front of her, looking down at her with a gentle, almost pitying expression. "I am not contesting this divorce because I want her back."
Alice’s jaw tightened, but she remained silent, waiting.
"You’ve read the petition her legal team put together, haven’t you?" Kian continued, his voice lowering into a warm, persuasive tone that sounded entirely sincere.
"They are attempting to claim that the transfer of her assets was done under duress. They are trying to frame it as financial coercion. If I allow that petition to pass through court without contesting it, it leaves our family open to criminal investigations."
He reached out, taking Alice’s hand in his, his fingers wrapping around hers with a firm, comforting pressure.
"Aaron Kazarov is using her, Alice," Kian murmured, looking straight into her eyes.
"He brought her to Russia, he surrounded her with his own legal team, and he is steering her through this process so he can take control of the remaining Kingston holdings. He wants the southern shipping routes that her family still owns shares in. If I let her sign those papers today, she walks into his trap, and we take the blame for her ruin."
Alice looked at his face, searching his eyes for any sign of a lie. Kian met her gaze without a single flicker of hesitation, his expression open, reasonable, protective.
"I am fighting the terms of the petition," Kian said softly, stepping closer and resting his other hand gently against her cheek.
"Not the separation itself. Once the legal language is corrected, once her team removes those ridiculous claims against me, I will sign the papers, and she can go wherever she pleases. But I will not let that Russian butcher use my wife to destroy everything we’ve built."
My wife. The words struck a match in Alice’s chest.
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling in small, quiet breaths.
The lie was so smooth, so completely wrapped in logic and self-preservation, that the cold fury in her chest began to waver, replaced by a dull, hesitant doubt.
"You swear to me?" she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "It’s just about the company?"
"It has always been about the company, Alice," Kian said gently, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. "You know that better than anyone."
He stepped back, turning toward his jacket on the chair. "Now, I have to go to the courthouse. My lawyers are waiting."
Alice stood in the center of the quiet study, watching him put on his jacket. She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him.
But deep down, somewhere beneath the smooth words and the logical explanations, a cold, heavy knot of dread remained firmly in her stomach.
The street outside the Manhattan Family Courthouse looked less like a legal building and more like the perimeter of a high-security event.
Heavy steel barricades had been dragged into place along the wide sidewalk, holding back a dense crowd of journalists, photographers, television crews, and curious onlookers.
Dozens of police officers stood along the line, their arms crossed, keeping the path clear from the curb to the massive marble steps.
The air was freezing, filled with the loud, chaotic hum of shouting voices, generator engines from news vans, and the constant, rapid click of camera shutters.
A black SUV pulled up to the curb first.
The door opened, and Kian Carter stepped out.
Instantly, a wave of camera flashes exploded across the crowd, blindingly bright even in the grey afternoon light. Microphones were thrust forward over the steel barricades as reporters began screaming over one another.
"Mr. Carter! Are you still trying to save your marriage?"
"Kian! Is it true your wife is living in Russia with Aaron Kazarov?"
"Mr. Carter, do you deny the claims of financial coercion?"
Kian didn’t look at them. He buttoned his suit jacket with a calm, deliberate motion, his expression completely blank, as six private security guards formed a tight box around him, guiding him smoothly up the marble steps toward the heavy bronze doors.
Just as Kian reached the middle of the steps, a second black SUV pulled up directly behind his vehicle.
The crowd went wild.
"She’s here! Over here! Isabella!"
The rear door opened, and Aaron stepped out first.
He didn’t rush. He stood tall, towering over the surrounding security detail, his sharp grey eyes sweeping over the crowd with a cold, absolute indifference that made several reporters lower their cameras for a split second.
He turned back toward the open door, reaching inside, and carefully helped Isabella out into the cold air.