Chapter 10 The air went rigid. Gideon Holt's hand froze inches from Elaine Ward's. He turned slowly toward the envelope, as if he'd misheard-or as if he'd heard a joke too absurd to process. His brows locked hard, his tone clipped and cold. ""Is that a divorce decree? Has it been finalized?" "Yes, Captain Holt." The clerk shrank under the pressure rolling off him and still managed to speak up. "Ms. Angela Summers filed a no-fault petition a few days ago. It cleared the process and is now in effect. This is your copy." "That's ridiculous." Gideon cut him off, voice spiking with an anger that brooked no argument. "Who gave her the nerve? Who said she could file without my permission?" He didn't believe for a second she meant it. It had to be another one of her stunts-some drastic ploy to make him bend. Laughable. He even let a dry smile touch the corner of his mouth for the clerk's sake-and for Elaine, who had gone very still-before he said, full of scorn and certainty, "She can't live without me. This is bait-look-at-me theater. Take it back. Tell her to knock it off." The clerk flinched at the bark in his voice but stood his ground. "Sir... it's already lawful and binding. This isn't a prank." A flash of triumph flickered through Elaine's eyes, gone in an instant. She slipped on a worried look, touched Gideon's uninjured arm, and spoke in a tremble-soft voice. "Gideon, don't be angry... Angie must've been upset with me. It's my fault. Let me talk to her. I'll explain and ask her to calm down..." The words were all olive branches, but each one painted Angela as petty and hysterical. Gideon shook her hand off-not at her, exactly, but because something he couldn't control had just upended the room. "This isn't about you. She'll make a scene, then come to her senses-like always." Even so, he snatched the envelope. The weight of the paper under his fingers sent a thin prickle through him -unease so fine he almost missed it, irritation that he couldn't cage. His face darkened. He ignored the clerk and Elaine and strode for the door with the envelope burning hot in his palm. He would see what game Angela thought she was playing. He'd find her and put a stop to it-teach her to cut this nonsense out for good. He pushed the door open, but the silhouette he expected-her coming down the hall to meet him-did not appear. The house was too quiet-too clean. There was a faint scent of dust in the air, not the warm curl of soup simmering on the stove, not the trace of her mild, soapy scent. He stopped at the threshold, eyes sweeping the living room. 12 10a The pale throw she liked to curl under-gone. The dog-eared magazines she kept on the coffee table-gone. The little pots she fussed over on the sill were gone; only empty planters remained. His chest tightened. A bad feeling took him by the throat. He dropped the envelope and lunged for the bedroom. Florence Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She's also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.