Chapter 13

The sharp dial tone of a forcibly ended call exploded in Sebastian Sinclair’s ear.

His knuckles whitened around the phone, his expression darkening dangerously. He tapped open the video, and the chaotic background noise of the bar instantly dredged up fragmented memories.

“Let’s get a divorce.”

Eleanor Knight’s voice rang clear through the speaker.

His blood turned to ice.

In the clip, he was lounging carelessly on the sofa, barely glancing up as he muttered a distracted “Yeah,” before scrawling his signature across the document with a flourish.

Just fifteen seconds—but it hit him like a sledgehammer.

That document he’d signed… was a prenup agreement?

Back then, his mind had been consumed by Isabella Whitlock’s tantrums. He hadn’t even read the terms before signing.

The cold fury in Sebastian’s eyes shattered, replaced by something foreign—panic. He snatched up the agreement and stormed downstairs, slamming the accelerator as he sped toward the Knight residence.

“Eleanor hasn’t come home.”

The housekeeper’s words crushed his last shred of hope.

No answered calls. No returned messages. Sebastian tore through every possible location—their usual restaurants, the mansion he’d bought for her, even her best friend’s place.

Thirty-six hours without sleep. Endless cups of coffee. His temples throbbed relentlessly.

“Sebastian, what’s—”

Isabella’s saccharine voice oozed from the phone. He cut her off with a snarl. “Get lost.”

“Mr. Sinclair!” His secretary hesitantly pushed open the door. “Surveillance shows Mrs. Sinclair went to Southbay.”

Southbay Mansion—Eleanor’s private property, purchased before their marriage.

Sebastian grabbed his keys and bolted, his phone clattering to the floor unnoticed. The secretary barely caught it before “Isabella Whitlock” flashed across the screen again.

“Mr. Sinclair’s headed to Southbay. As for when he’ll return…” The secretary swallowed as the sports car vanished in a cloud of dust. “That’s undetermined.”

Tires screeched against asphalt. Sebastian’s grip on the wheel was bone-white, his mind replaying the video—his own indifferent signature sealing their fate.