Chapter 4

Claire Costa POV:

I walked out of the city clerk' s office, the official confirmation of my divorce filing a cold, hard fact in my email inbox. The legal separation was complete. Freedom tasted less like victory and more like ash in my mouth.

As I stood on the rain-slicked steps, my phone rang. It was David Chen, the head of the prestigious photography fellowship in London I had been awarded months ago.

"Claire," he said, his voice warm. "I know you turned it down, but the spot is still open. We were so impressed with your portfolio, we held it for you. Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

I remembered why I'd said no. Elliot-the man I thought was Elliot-had been planning a surprise trip for a month-long anniversary celebration. I couldn't bear to be away from him. The irony was a bitter pill.

The world had shifted on its axis. New York was a graveyard of memories. London... London was a blank page.

"I'll take it," I said, my voice firm. "When do I start?"

David sounded surprised, then delighted. "That's fantastic news! The program starts in a week. This will be an incredible opportunity, Claire. Though I imagine your husband won't be thrilled about you being gone for a year."

My husband. The words no longer applied to me.

"He'll be fine," I said, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. "I'm no longer Mrs. Callahan." I was just Claire Costa now. And Claire Costa was moving to London.

I hung up and tried to hail a cab, but before I could, a gleaming black Bentley pulled up to the curb. Killian stepped out. He was dressed in a dark suit, feigning Elliot's sophisticated style, but the wildness in his eyes was unmistakable.

He reached for my burned hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Does it still hurt?" he asked, his voice a low murmur, trying to mimic his brother's soothing tone.

I was so tired of the performance. I snatched my hand back. "It's fine."

He winced, a flicker of genuine hurt in his eyes before he masked it again. "Come on," he said, trying for a playful smile. "I know you're upset. Let me make it up to you. There's a new exhibit at the Met. I know how much you love Monet."

He knew. Because for three years, he had been the one I shared my passions with. He had been the one who listened, who remembered, who cared. Or so I had thought.

I was too exhausted to fight. I let him lead me to the car, sinking into the plush leather seat and closing my eyes, blocking him out.

At the museum, he was the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband. He held my hand, pointed out details in the paintings he knew I'd appreciate, and bought me a coffee from my favorite cafe nearby. One of his friends, a vapid heir to some tech fortune, clapped him on the shoulder.

"Callahan, you're a lucky man," the friend said, winking at me. "Your wife is as beautiful as the art."

Killian beamed, squeezing my hand. I offered a tight-lipped smile and said nothing.

As he chatted with his friend, I found myself drawn to a series of photographs depicting a fire-breathing performance. The raw, chaotic energy of the flames was captivating. I took out my phone, snapping a few pictures, an idea for a new series sparking in my mind.

When I looked up, Killian and his friend were gone. I was alone. A sense of unease crept over me. I stood up to leave.

At that exact moment, on the stage in the center of the exhibition hall, the live performance art piece began. A man spun a staff of fire. A plume of flame erupted outwards, far further than intended, straight towards me.

I cried out, throwing my arms up to shield my face. A searing pain shot through the back of my hand, the same one Kassie had burned. I stumbled back, my eyes watering from the smoke and pain, instinctively running my hand under the cold water of a nearby decorative fountain.

Before I could even process what had happened, a group of rough-looking men materialized from the crowd. They cornered me against a wall.

"Well, well, look what we have here," their leader sneered, his eyes raking over me. "Lost, little lamb?"

My heart pounded in my chest. This wasn't random. This was planned.

"Leave me alone," I said, trying to push past them.

One of them grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "Not so fast, pretty thing. Our boss wants to have a word with you."

I fought, kicking and scratching, but they were too strong. Desperation clawed at my throat. I was trapped.

Just as one of them raised a hand to strike me, a blur of motion exploded from the side.

It was Killian.

But this wasn't the gentle, sophisticated man he had been pretending to be. This was the real Killian. His face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, murderous light. He moved with a brutal efficiency, a whirlwind of violence. A punch here, a kick there. The men, who had seemed so menacing moments before, were on the ground, groaning in pain, in seconds.

The remaining thugs scrambled away, terrified.

Killian turned to me, his chest heaving, the fury in his eyes instantly replaced by a raw, naked fear. He grabbed my shoulders, his hands shaking. "Claire? Are you hurt? Did they touch you?"

He looked so genuinely terrified, so relieved, that for a split second, a flicker of something other than hatred stirred within me.

Then, his friend, the tech heir, came running up, breathless.

"Jesus, Killian, I told you Elliot's plan to just scare her was stupid! I can't believe he'd actually hire people to get rough! What if something had really happened to her?"

The world stopped.

Elliot's plan.

The words echoed in the sudden silence. Killian' s face went pale. The concern, the fear-it was all another act. This was all their doing. Elliot's cold, calculated punishment for my defiance.

The pain, the fear, the betrayal-it all coalesced into a single, crushing weight. My vision swam, the edges turning black.

The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was Killian' s horrified face, his mouth forming my name.