The Ex-Wife's Triumph novel Chapter 9

It was past 11:00 PM when Kingsley emerged from the study. His eyes swept over the hallway, littered with smashed albums and the torn-down wedding portrait. He gave a calm order to the servant standing by the door: "Have someone clear this out tomorrow. Throw it all in the storage room."

"Yes, sir," the servant replied hastily.

Kingsley reached for the bedroom door handle and twisted. Locked.

He turned his head slightly. "Key."

The servant hurried downstairs and returned moments later. The lock clicked, and Kingsley pushed the door open.

He turned on only a dim amber side lamp. In the low light, he saw Lucy curled up on the bed, fast asleep. His eyes darkened slightly, but he didn't linger. He grabbed a bathrobe from the walk-in closet and headed straight for the ensuite bathroom.

The sound of running water eventually ceased. When he returned to the bedroom, Lucy was still sleeping soundly.

He pulled back the covers on the other side of the bed, lay down, and closed his eyes.

When Lucy woke the next day, her head felt heavy, as if stuffed with cotton. She had a vague memory of clinging to a warm body during the night, one that smelled of crisp cedar and soap.

She shook her head violently to dispel the thought.

She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the manicured garden and the swing in the corner. Her finger traced the cold glass as she calculated: *If I jump from here, I probably won't die. I'll just end up crippled, and then escape will be truly impossible.*

The guards at the gate were staring unblinkingly at the house.

"Jane, why haven't you come for me yet?" she whispered against the glass, her voice trembling. "If this goes on, I won't starve to death... I'll die of depression first."

A knock at the door made her stiffen.

Lucy opened it to find Paula holding a breakfast tray, her tone pleading. "My lady, please eat something. Just for your own health."

The food on the tray looked rich and inviting, and Lucy's stomach gave a traitorous growl. She had come to a realization: hunger strikes were useless. Even if she refused to eat, they would just put her on an IV drip.

There was no point in torturing herself.

Moments later, the maid entered to clear away the barely touched breakfast.

Downstairs, Kingsley, who hadn't yet left for the office, glanced at the full plate being carried back to the kitchen. He frowned. "She didn't eat?"

"Mrs. Sherwood took a few bites, then said she wanted fruit," the servant reported quietly.

"Mm." Kingsley made no further comment. He grabbed his jacket from the chair and walked out.

In the car, Kingsley scrolled through his phone. A video popped up on his feed from Thurston—it was his daughter, Molly, calling out "Daddy" in a soft, milky voice that oozed sweetness.

Kingsley's finger hovered, and he tapped 'Like'.

He then sent a message: [Drinks tonight?]

The reply was immediate: [Piss off! I don't know you.]