Chapter 51 Let Her Go
Jared's POV
I watched helplessly as the taxi pulled over, watched her open the door. Her determined figure walking away hit me like a punch to the chest.
She was leaving.
The thought exploded in my chaotic mind like a thunderclap.
My rationality collapsed instantly. Blood rushed to my head. I couldn't even remember how I started the car or how I hit the gas pedal.
I only knew I couldn't let her leave like this.
The tires screeched against the pavement, the black car like a bolt of out-of-control lightning.
I shoved the door open and rushed toward her, carrying all my uncontrolled rage.
I thought she'd be scared, angry, that she'd accuse me of being brutal with those clear eyes like she used to.
But she didn't.
She just looked at me calmly. In those eyes I'd once been so captivated by, there was only a dead, barren wasteland.
No love, no hate, not even a ripple.
That complete, cold emptiness terrified me more than any hysterical accusation ever could.
Time seemed to flow backward to an hour ago.
The moment she followed my father into the study, my heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. Even breathing came with a dull pain.
I stood outside that closed door like a prisoner awaiting judgment.
I knew exactly what my father, Aeneas Montclair, would say to her.
Nothing but humiliation, charity, using money and status to grind whatever pitiful self-respect she had into the dirt.
I paced anxiously, my heart pounding with each step.
When that door finally opened and she came out, I rushed toward her almost immediately.
But she didn't even glance at me. She walked straight to Grandma and said goodbye in a voice I'd never heard before—gentle yet resolute.
In that moment, all the blood in my body went cold.
I grabbed her wrist, wanting to pull her back, wanting to keep her trapped in my world.
But she just lowered her head and pried my fingers off, one by one, with force.
Her fingertips were ice-cold, but that force was like a branding iron, burning until my soul trembled.
When the last finger was pushed away, I felt like I'd lost something important too.
She left.
Without looking back.
The atmosphere in the living room was suffocating. Grandma's crying, Mother's sighing—every sound grated on my nerves.
"Jared, come to my study."
Father's voice came from behind me, cold, emotionless, yet carrying a victor's arrogance.
I turned and walked step by step into the place that had just swallowed all my hope.
In the study, Aeneas sat leisurely in the leather sofa at the head position. He tossed a document onto the coffee table. Those few light pages felt like a boulder weighing on my heart.
"Sign it." Father's voice broke the silence, carrying a barely noticeable smugness. "She was smart about it—leaving with nothing. This is the best outcome for you, for the entire family."
I didn't pick up the pen. Instead, I grabbed the agreement directly.
At the bottom was her neat signature: Sloane Winslow, not Montclair.
That name made my heart suddenly contract.
I tore those pages down the middle, then tore them again, until they became a pile of pieces that couldn't be put back together, then threw them hard into the trash can by his feet.
"I'll say it again," I stared at him, my voice low and hoarse, "I won't divorce."
My defiance completely enraged him.
"You bastard!" He roared and stood up, raising his hand to slap me across the face.
But before his palm could land, I grabbed his wrist.
With such force that his wrist, no longer strong from a life of comfort, trembled slightly.
"Father," I raised my eyes, word by word, using all my strength to suppress the violence surging in my chest, "my marriage is not yours to interfere with."
His face turned livid with anger. He broke free from my grip and pointed at my nose, cursing for a long time—from how I didn't know what was good for me to being bewitched by a woman. He used every harsh word he could think of.
After venting his rage, he finally seemed to calm down. He sat back on the sofa and looked at me with an examining gaze. "What exactly are your feelings toward Keira?"
"She's just a sister." I answered without hesitation, a bitter metallic taste rising in my throat. "What I really want, from beginning to end, has only been Sloane."
"Is that so?" He laughed coldly and pulled out another stack of things from the drawer, slamming them heavily on the table.
It was a stack of photos.
In the photos were Keira and me.
Every single one was shot to look suggestively intimate.
A rage at being spied on and manipulated instantly destroyed the last bit of my rationality. "You had me followed?"
I stared at him hard, my voice carrying undisguised murderous intent.
He ignored my anger and just picked up a photo, flicking it with his fingertip, his tone cold and cruel. "I wasn't following you. I'm just making you see clearly how laughable and hurtful your so-called love is to her."
He stood up, walked in front of me, and stuffed that photo into my chest pocket. The gesture felt like he was marking me with shame.
"Jared," he looked at me, and in those eyes so similar to mine, for the first time there was no calculation, only a condescending pity. "If you really love her, let her go. Stop hurting her with that self-righteous love of yours."