I walked out of the service elevator and into the cool, low-lit air of the hospital's underground parking garage.I found the G-Wagon parked far in the corner, a massive, dark silhouette of luxury that suddenly felt disgusting—a symbol of the high-stakes, hollow life Charles and I had built.
I walked towards it and collapsed into the driver's seat. I was safe now, and physically distant from Charles, but the silence was brutal. It was in this silence that the full, crushing weight of the betrayal finally hit.
It wasn't just the fact of the affair, which was a searing wound in itself. It was the calculated cruelty of it being with Lisa, his assistant, the person I had entrusted with the smallest details of my life. The humiliation, the self-doubt, the crushing realization that I had misjudged him completely—all of it shattered the carefully constructed facade of my future.
I thought Charles was my anchor; instead, he was the lead weight dragging me under.
I sat there, sobbing soundlessly, letting the years of suppressed emotional labor and disillusionment finally surface. I mourned not just the loss of him, but the loss of the woman I thought I was: the discerning, successful partner who had chosen correctly. The betrayal was absolute.
Then a quiet, cold kind of strength came over me. I sat up, wiping my cheeks furiously. I was an actress, a professional at that, and I was not going to let this man reduce me to a weeping cliché. My career was waiting for me and my identity was not defined by his flaws.
I took a deep, shuddering breath, my hand going to the ignition. I needed to get to Jules, get to Texas, and get back to being the person in control.
But before I could turn the key, the passenger door was yanked open.
I gasped, recoiling against the driver's side window. A tall, dark figure slipped inside, moving with a speed and stealth that belied his size. He slammed the door shut, locking it instantly.
"Please don't start the car," the man ordered, his voice low, deep, and instantly recognizable.
I was nowhere near shocked. I just felt a strange, fatalistic acceptance of the universe's perverse sense of humor that he always seemed to find me, everywhere.
It was Ivan Blackwood.
He was wearing a dark baseball cap pulled low and a thick, black medical face mask. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, clearly spooked.
"The press are swarming the main exit," he explained quickly, his voice muffled by the mask. "They saw me head this way. I just needed a place to disappear for a while. I apologize for the intrusion."
I stared at him, numb. I should have been furious at the sheer audacity of his appearance and his intrusion, but I was too emotionally spent.
"I don't have the energy to care about the press right now," I murmured, staring straight ahead.
Ivan settled back against the leather seat, offering a strange, powerful quietness that was both invasive and strangely comforting.
"I... I am truly sorry about your wife," I finally managed, the words catching in my throat.
He slowly reached up and removed the face mask,
folding it neatly into his pocket. His gaze was direct, earnest, and deeply tired. He was strikingly handsome, even under the terrible weight of his grief, he looked like the kind of man any woman would risk everything to be with. The base, shameful thought flared up again: I could not deny that any woman would want to kiss him and share a bed with him.
"Thank you, Kylie," he said, using my first name with a quiet authority that instantly commanded my attention.
I straightened, slightly intimidated by his firm, composed presence. "How do you know my name?"
"I watched your movie," he said simply. "Impressive acting by the way"
He shifted in his seat, his gaze becoming serious.
"We need to talk about that moment in the hallway."
My face flushed hot with shame. "I agree. It was wrong. Terribly wrong. I was furious, heartbroken, and completely out of control. I sincerely apologize, Ivan. It was inappropriate."
"It was inappropriate on both our parts," he corrected, his tone firm but respectful. He was not passing judgment; he was stating a fact. "I reacted out of pure, frantic emotion, I was very reckless. It was selfish, and I own that mistake completely. It should never have happened. I am sorry for putting you in that position. It was disrespectful to my late wife's memory, and to you."
"So, we both agree," I concluded, the statement offering a strange, clean professional closure. "It was a mistake. We put it in the past. It never happened."
"Agreed," he confirmed.
We sat in the car for several long minutes, the unspoken acknowledgment of the forbidden kiss creating a strange, heavy intimacy. I told him I needed to drive to Jules's apartment to get my things together for a flight to Texas the next morning.
"Texas," he murmured, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.
I nodded, feeling a strange pressure building. He seemed about to speak again, perhaps offering some profound piece of advice, when suddenly, the air outside the car began to thump.
It wasn't the sound that hit first; it was the light.
The entire world outside the car lit up in a blinding, flashing blue and red.
My peripheral vision was consumed by the sudden, silent illumination. From three distinct directions, police cruisers, their sirens silenced but their lights blazing, converged on the G-Wagon like a military operation.
The garage was instantly flooded with harsh, synthetic light, throwing the space into stark relief.
I stared, frozen, my pulse hammering a frantic, confused rhythm against my ribs. This wasn't a slow response to an alarm; this was a coordinated takedown.
Uniformed officers poured out of the vehicles, their movements rapid and precise, their hands resting near their holsters. The metallic snap of doors slamming shut echoed through the vast space.
I'd thought there was a crime of some sort, or that it was about Olivia's death. I reached forward to attempt to open the door, to be sure nothing was wrong, but before my hand could even reach the handle, a female officer was slamming her fist against the driver's side window, her face grim and unyielding.
"Kylie Hayes!" the officer shouted through the glass. "Step out of the vehicle with your hands up! You are under arrest!"
My blood ran cold. Arrested? For what?
My mind flashed through every chaotic event of the past day: the punch, the money, the crash, the stolen flash drive.
I looked at Ivan, whose eyes had widened in shock, mirroring my own terror.
The officer yanked the door open. Two strong hands grabbed my arm, pulling me roughly from the car and spinning me around. I was dazed, the harsh garage lights blinding me.
"You have the right to remain silent," the officer read, her voice a practiced drone as she snapped the handcuffs tightly onto my wrists behind my back.
"Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
I was actually being arrested.
"Would you at least tell me what this is about?" I cried suddenly, feeling desperate and scared, the handcuffs digging into my skin.
"What is this for?" Ivan Blackwood said, his voice ringing with outrage and authority as he walked out of the passenger side and towards the police who held me captive.
The officer ignored my question, her focus remaining intensely professional, instead looking directly at Ivan.
"Stay put, Mr. Blackwood," the officer commanded sharply, her voice cutting through the garage air. "We'll be speaking with you next."
My final, desperate glimpse was of Ivan's stunned, silent face, utterly powerless to stop the chaos I had brought into his orbit.