Chloe POV:

I crept to the door, my heart pounding against my ribs. Through the peephole, I saw a stranger in a well-tailored suit holding a briefcase. He was built solidly, like a hockey player. Could this be my husband?

"Who is it?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

"Ms. Miller?" The voice was polite and professional. "My name is Arthur Reynolds. I'm Mr. Kensington's attorney. I apologize for coming so early in the morning. I have your final divorce papers."

A wave of relief washed over me, so intense it was almost dizzying. It was just a lawyer.

I opened the door and let him in.

Mr. Reynolds's gaze swept across my small but tidy apartment with quick, practiced discretion. His expression was unreadable. He handed me a thick folder. "Ms. Miller, these are the divorce papers. Mr. Kensington has already signed them. Once you sign, there is a ninety-day waiting period, and then your marriage will be officially dissolved."

I took the heavy document, my fingers tracing the cover. My freedom. It was right here. I flipped to the last page and saw it: Caleb Kensington's signature, a bold, arrogant scrawl across the bottom of the page.

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed a pen from the counter and signed my name beneath his. I could feel Mr. Reynolds's eyes on me, but I didn't care.

As I wrote the final letter of my name, a tremendous weight lifted from my shoulders. It was over.

"Then, Ms. Miller, I wish you all the best," Mr. Reynolds said, retrieving the signed documents.

He was about to turn to leave when a sharp, clicking sound of high heels echoed in the hallway. My apartment door, which had not been fully latched, was pushed open with force.

A woman, immaculately dressed and radiating cold authority, strode into the room, flanked by two large men in dark suits. Her frigid gaze swept over me, making me feel like something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Mr. Reynolds's professional composure wavered. "Mrs. Kensington," he said, bowing his head slightly in deference.

Mrs. Kensington? Caleb's mother, Eleanor Kensington. I had only met her once.

"Hello. What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I heard my son sent the divorce papers. Can't I come and see for myself?"

She threw out the remark, then completely ignored the lawyer and me, walked right past me into my bedroom as if it were her domain. Her eyes were filled with undisguised contempt.

Moments later, she emerged, pinching something between her thumb and forefinger. A man's dress shirt. The very shirt I had grabbed in my panic, the one I had worn under my coat as I fled from the hotel. The shirt belonging to the stranger from last night.

"What is this?" Eleanor's voice was sharp as glass as she flung the shirt toward me. "You've been so desperate that you've brought men back to your apartment before the divorce is even finalized? You are a disgrace to the Kensington name."

"Madam, this might be a misunderstanding..." Mr. Reynolds began, trying to intervene.

"Be quiet, Arthur!" Eleanor snapped. "I told Caleb from the start that he shouldn't just marry any woman for the sake of a public image! A gold-digger from Brooklyn is not fit to be a part of this family!"

Her words hit me like a slap. I felt my cheeks burn with shame. Several neighbors, drawn by the commotion, were peering through their doors.

Enough. The humiliation ignited a fire in my chest. I met her gaze, my voice trembling with rage.

"First of all, this is my apartment, not your home. Secondly, before you stand here slut-shaming me, perhaps you should discipline your own son, the coward who sent a lawyer to handle his marriage and his divorce, the man who hasn't shown his face in two years."

Eleanor's perfectly made-up face twisted with fury. "How dare you speak to me like that!"

I let out a bitter laugh. "Why shouldn't I? Mrs. Kensington, I have already signed the papers. That shirt belonged to a friend who left it here, and you have no proof of any infidelity. In ninety days, I will have nothing to do with you or your precious family. Now, please take your security guards and leave my home."

I scooped up the shirt and tossed it back at her, watching as her mouth twisted into a snarl of anger. Mr. Reynolds frowned, giving her a small, submissive look.

"You will regret this!" she shrieked, probably embarrassed by the curious stares of the neighbors, as she decided to leave. "I will make sure you don't get a single cent!"

They all left, the hallway falling empty. The moment my apartment door clicked shut, my composure shattered. I sank down against the door, collapsing to the floor. After the anger faded, only exhaustion remained.

A long moment passed, I stood up, and grabbed my purse and keys from the counter. I needed to go somewhere I could pull myself together, some place that felt like my own. My little bakery, which had yet to open.

Inside the shop, I stared at the empty display cases and the brand new ovens. This was my dream. And now, it could all be taken away. I knew I had to strike first.

I pulled out my phone and found the number for Caleb Kensington's agent, Tristan Stone. The contract stated that in case of any emergency, he was to be contacted.

The phone rang for a long time before a calm male voice answered. "Hello?"

"Mr. Stone," I said, my voice trembling but clear. "This is Chloe Miller. Your boss's mother, Eleanor Kensington, just publicly humiliated and threatened me. I believe this is a serious violation of the confidentiality and non-interference clauses in our agreement."

Caleb POV:

My head ached, but it was a dull, familiar throb from too much whiskey, not the sharp, cutting pain that usually woke me from nightmares.

For the first time in five years, I had slept. Deeply.

Stranger still, my skin didn't itch. My throat didn't close. No rash. No shortness of breath.

A woman. I remembered a woman. A warm, soft body pressed against mine. I had touched a woman, held her through the night, and I was fine.

It was impossible. How could this be? I should be allergic to all women.

I sat up in bed. The space beside me was empty. The sheets were cold, but the air still held a faint, sweet scent. Vanilla and sugar. Like a bakery.

I rose to my feet, my body feeling unaccountably relaxed, and searched the entire suite. She had left no trace. No note. No forgotten clothes.

Except…

I frowned. On the carpet beside the sofa, something small and silver glinted. I picked it up. A delicate earring, shaped like a crescent moon and a star.

I closed my fist around it, and a fragmented image flashed in my mind: a pair of wide, frightened green eyes. Like a startled deer.

Five years. It had been five years since it happened. Since then, any physical contact with a woman had sent my body into a violent, psychosomatic rejection. Healers, specialists, none of it helped.

Who was this woman? Why was I unaffected by her touch?

I grabbed my phone and dialed my agent.

"Tristan, I need you to find someone for me," I said, my voice rough with sleep and whiskey.

"A woman. Last night, at the St. Regis, the penthouse. Pull up all the hotel security footage. I want to know who she is. Whatever it costs."

"Yes, Mr. Kensington," Tristan replied, his voice as calm and unquestioning as ever.

I walked into the bathroom and stared at my reflection. The old scar above my left eyebrow, and the one along the side of my neck, were clear reminders of the sport's brutality. But the deeper scars, the ones no one could see, were the ones that truly ruled my life.

This woman… she might be the cure. The cure for my mind.

I had to find her.

After my shower, I pulled on my training gear. My body felt light and strong. I found myself actually looking forward to practice.

I had barely arrived at the training facility when Tristan called back. His tone was strained, which was unusual.

"Mr. Kensington, there's something… about your wife."

I frowned. Wife. Right. Chloe Miller. The woman I had signed a two-year contract with, just to get my mother off my back about settling down.

"What about her? She signed the divorce papers, didn't she?" I said impatiently.

Tristan paused. "She just called me. She claims… your mother went to her apartment this morning. She found a man's shirt, accused Miss Miller of infidelity, and publicly humiliated her."

I blinked, then a surge of annoyance rose in me. My mother was meddling again.

"A man's shirt?" I let out a short, humorless laugh. "So she really is sleeping around. Tell her to handle her own mess and keep me out of it."

I hung up and dismissed it. A soon-to-be ex-wife who only cared about money was a distraction. Finding the woman from last night was my mission.

I threw myself into practice, the familiar burn in my muscles a welcome distraction from the strange restlessness in my chest.

When I returned to my penthouse, Tristan was waiting for me, his expression grim.

"Mr. Kensington, the hotel security logs… there was a thirty-minute gap in the system after your arrival last night. No footage."

My chest tightened. "And when she left?"

"Only a blurry image. A figure in a hoodie. No identifiable features," he said, handing me a tablet.

The only lead, gone. I tossed the tablet onto the sofa in frustration.

"However," Tristan continued, his tone careful, "we cross-referenced the guest list from the party you attended. And… I just spoke with your mother about this as well. The shirt found in Miss Miller's apartment is currently in her possession. Based on the brand and the size…"

He paused, choosing his words.

"Get to the point, Tristan."

"That shirt," he said quietly, "was a custom order. Made for you. Last month. One of a kind."

I slowly lifted my head and stared at him, my mind going blank.