Chapter 5: She Left Without Goodbye?

Blake's POV

She didn't look back. Not even once. The woman in red who'd just walked away with a confidence I'd never seen in my wife of three years. This wasn't the Mrs. Parker in my memory. This was someone else entirely – someone who'd learned to stand straight without seeking my approval.

When will you sign them?

Her words echoed in my mind, sharp as broken glass. The divorce papers. Of course, she would pull something like this – another one of her manipulative games.

I started after her, but Laurel pressed herself against my chest. "Your dancing is so much better! That gentleman... he was so rough, stepped on my toes several times!"

"Not now, Laurel." My eyes remained fixed on Audrey's retreating form. The sight of James Collins draping his navy suit jacket over her shoulders made a fierce surge of possessive jealousy churn in my chest. The same feeling I'd gotten watching her dance with every other man in the room tonight.

"Blake." Laurel caught my arm, her eyes fixed on Audrey's retreating figure. "What's wrong?"

She tilted her head with practiced concern. "Did Mrs. Parker upset you?"

"Laurel." I shook off her grip with barely concealed irritation. "I have something to handle. Enjoy yourself at the gala."

Without waiting for her response, I strode toward the exit where Audrey had disappeared. Three steps forward – and then the sound of shattering crystal glasses froze the entire ballroom.

I turned to find Laurel sprawled beside the collapsed champagne tower, her white dress now stained with spilled champagne, one hand clutched to her chest in apparent distress. A thin line of red was blooming across her palm where a broken champagne glass had cut her

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered, eyes wide with calculated fear. "I just felt so dizzy suddenly..."

Her eyes filled with tears. "The champagne tower... all those glasses... Blake, I've ruined everything!"

"Let me see." I caught her hand, examining the cut. It wasn't deep, but blood was already staining the pristine white of her dress. "We need to get this looked at."

"No, no..." She tried to pull away. "If you want to go after Audrey, you should. I'll be fine."

"Don't be ridiculous. You need medical attention."

"But after everything I did..." Her voice caught. "Five years ago, saving you when you were blind... I never asked for anything in return. And now I'm just causing trouble..."

My grip on her hand tightened. "Stop. You know I'll always be grateful for what you did back then." The words came automatically, practiced. "Let's get you to a doctor."

I held her and left the gala.

As I approached the entrance, I caught sight of Audrey again. She was standing with James near the entrance, speaking to a group of senior jewelry designers. I caught fragments of their conversation. James was introducing Audrey to those designers.

"This is my junior from Parsons," he was saying, gesturing to Audrey. "She's an exceptionally talented designer."

Audrey stood slightly behind him, a genuine smile gracing her features as she greeted the industry veterans. "Hello, I—"

The sight of her comfortable familiarity with James ignited something dark inside me. Before I realized what I was doing, my shoulder slammed into hers as we passed. Audrey stumbled, nearly falling, but James's hand shot out instantly, steadying her by the shoulder.

She turned after regaining her balance, pain flickering across her face as she realized who had bumped into her. Our eyes met for a brief moment – me still holding Laurel, her steadied by James's protective grip.

My gaze fixed on his hand resting on her shoulder, and I felt my jaw clench involuntarily.

"Audrey Sinclair." My voice cut through their conversation like ice. "You have three hours to explain tonight's little performance. Or have you forgotten who you are?"

Her eyes met mine, calm and distant. No trace of the woman who'd spent five years trying to please me. "I know exactly who I am, Mr. Parker. That's why I left those papers on your desk."

"Blake..." Laurel's pained whisper pulled at my attention. "It hurts..."

A hint of sorrow flashed on Audrey's face – before she turned back to those designers. "Shall we continue our discussion somewhere quieter?"

The hospital's VIP wing was eerily quiet at this hour. I stood in the corridor, watching through the glass as the doctor finished examining Laurel's hand. The cut had been minor – no nerve damage, wouldn't even leave a scar. But she'd worked herself into such a state about potential scarring affecting her career that they'd given her a mild sedative.

"Mr. Parker?" Michael's voice was hesitant. I turned to find my assistant hovering nearby, tablet in hand. "About Mrs. Parker..."

"Where is she?" The words came out sharper than intended. "It's been over three hours."

Michael swallowed hard. "Sir... Mrs. Paker is already on a flight back to New York."

Those words rendered me motionless, my mind going blank. "What did you say?"

"She left directly from the gala." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Her flight departed about an hour ago."

My temples throbbed with barely contained rage. "And you're just telling me this now?"

"I... I tried calling her, but Mrs. Parker had disconnected all her contact methods and deactivated every device provided by the Parker family."

How’s that possible? Audrey had never done this in three years. Even when we fought, even during my longest silences, she'd kept the number. Always available, always waiting.

"Sir?" Michael's voice seemed to come from far away. "Should I arrange for security to—"

"No, Michael." I cut him off, already striding toward the exit. "Handle things with Laurel. I need to go back to New York, right now!"

The Lunar mansion was dark when I arrived. No lights in the windows, no warm glow from the kitchen where Audrey usually waited up with her damn cat and her endless cups of tea. The security system beeped its recognition as I entered, the sound echoing through empty rooms.

Something felt wrong. Off. The house was exactly as it always was, and yet...

There was no longer Audrey's bustling figure.

In the bathroom, her toiletries had vanished. No fancy French creams, no elaborate skincare routine laid out precisely as she liked it. Just empty marble countertops reflecting the harsh overhead lights.

Back in the living room, I noticed more absences. The throw blanket she always curled up with while reading. The collection of poetry books on the coffee table. That ridiculous cat bed by the window where Snow spent his days watching birds.

The divorce papers sat in the center of my desk, exactly where she said they'd be. Her signature was neat and decisive at the bottom of the divorce papers. The date at the top caught my eye – one week ago.