Chapter 171

Chapter 171
Ryan's POV

The door clicked shut behind her.

I stood frozen in the small parlor, my hand still half-raised as if I could pull her back through sheer force of will. But Lily was gone. The sound of her footsteps—uneven, hesitant—faded down the hallway, and the silence that rushed in to fill the space felt like drowning.

She'd said it. She'd actually said it.

I want a divorce.

My brain kept replaying the moment: the way her voice had gone flat and cold, the way her eyes—those eyes that used to soften when they looked at me—had turned into something hard and unreachable. She hadn't yelled. She hadn't cried. She'd just stood there in front of my grandmother, in front of me, and delivered the words like a death sentence.

My legs felt unsteady. I reached for the back of the nearest chair, gripping the carved wood until my knuckles went white. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, and somewhere in the back of my mind a voice was screaming that I needed to go after her, needed to fix this, needed to make her take it back.

But I couldn't move.

She's not serious. She can't be.

The thought came automatically, a reflex born from years of watching her bend, watching her forgive, watching her stay even when I gave her every reason to leave. She always stayed. Even when I'd failed her, even when I'd chosen wrong, she'd stayed.

She's just scared. She's been through so much—the threats, the car accident, being isolated here. Once she calms down, once she has time to think...

"Ryan."

My grandmother's voice cut through the spiral of my thoughts, cool and measured. I looked up to find her watching me with that same unreadable expression she'd worn when Lily had spoken.

"Sit down," she said. It wasn't a request. "Chasing after her now will only make her more certain of her decision."

I wanted to argue. Every instinct I had was telling me to ignore her, to run after my wife, to drop to my knees and beg if that's what it took. But my grandmother's words landed with the weight of truth, and I hated her for it.

Because she was right.

If I followed Lily now—if I cornered her, pleaded with her, made promises I wasn't sure I could keep—I would only prove what she already believed: that I was still trying to control her. That I still didn't trust her to make her own choices.

That I was still the man who'd locked her in a gilded cage and called it protection.

I sank into the chair, my hands trembling as I pressed them against my thighs. The room felt too small, too cold, the air too thick to breathe properly.

"She didn't mean it," I heard myself say. The words sounded hollow even to my own ears. "She's just... she's overwhelmed. Once she has time to process—"

"She meant it."

My grandmother's voice was calm, almost gentle, and that somehow made it worse. She moved to the sideboard, poured two glasses of whiskey with practiced precision, and handed one to me before settling into the chair across from mine.

"I saw it in her eyes," Eleanor continued, her tone clinical. "Not anger. Not even fear. Resolve. Do you understand the difference?"

I took the glass mechanically, the crystal cold against my palm. "You don't know her like I do. She just needs—"

"Six months ago, she would have cried in front of you. She would have demanded answers, made you promise to change, threatened to leave but ultimately stayed." My grandmother took a measured sip of her whiskey. "Today, she didn't ask for your explanation. She didn't give you a chance to negotiate. She simply stated her decision and walked away. Ryan, you're not losing her. You've lost her."

The words hit like a physical blow, and I felt something crack deep in my chest.

No. No, that's not—

"I've been watching her these past months," Eleanor said, and there was something almost like pity in her voice now. "The way she looks at William. The way she holds him. She doesn't need you the way she used to. Her dependency has shifted entirely to that child."

My hand tightened around the glass. Images flashed through my mind unbidden: Lily rocking William to sleep before I arrived on Friday evenings. The way her face lit up when she looked at our son—a completeness I hadn't seen in months when she looked at me. The quiet confidence in her voice when she'd said "we're fine" during our phone calls, that terrible peace that came from no longer needing to share her burdens with me.

She doesn't need me anymore.

The realization was a knife twisting in my gut.

Or rather—she needs William more than she needs me. And if she can take him with her...

The thought sent ice water through my veins. I jerked my head up to look at my grandmother, and found her watching me with those sharp, calculating eyes.

"If she leaves," I said, and my voice came out rough, desperate, "if she takes William—"

"Then you'll have lost everything that matters."

The bluntness of it stole my breath.

I'd spent the last months trying so hard—so hard—to be better. The therapy sessions with Dr. Morrison. Learning to recognize my control patterns. Giving Lily space even when every fiber of my being screamed to pull her close. I'd thought I was making progress. I'd thought she was starting to trust me again.

But she'd just asked for a divorce.

And somewhere beneath the panic and the grief, a darker voice whispered: She's going to take William and leave, and you'll never see either of them again.

"There must be something I can do," I said, and I hated how broken I sounded. "Some way to make her understand that I'm trying, that I've changed—"

"Ryan." My grandmother set down her glass with a soft clink. "If she truly wants to leave, you cannot stop her. But you can ensure she doesn't leave this family."

I stared at her, not comprehending.

"What do you mean?"