When the police arrived, Dorian was pinned to a table, still cursing. Elara clung to him like a madwoman, screaming at the officers:
“He’s my husband! He was protecting me! We were acting in self-defense!”
Even after mediation, Dorian still groaned dramatically over a shallow cut on his arm.
“Elara,” he rasped, “for you, I’d die.”
She collapsed against him, sobbing.
“Dorian, don’t say that. I can’t live without you.”
Minutes later, the bodyguard sent me another update.
A new address.
They weren’t going back to Dorian’s home.
They had gone straight to the wedding house Elara and I had spent six months renovating together—a home that still smelled of fresh paint, a home I had never even set foot in as a husband.
Elara sent a message: “Adrian, Dorian and I ran into an old friend. We’re staying out all night and won’t be back.”
She didn’t know I’d had surveillance cameras installed in the wedding room—originally just to make sure the workers hung the wedding photos properly. Now, on the feed, I watched her and Dorian kiss as soon as they stepped inside, then vanish into the bathroom together.
That was all the evidence I needed.
I called my butler. “Have the lawyer draft a divorce agreement.”