7 #2
The driveway gleamed black beneath the morning light.
Somewhere beyond the gates, Dorothy existed in a place he did not know, unreachable by his calls, untouched by his instructions.
He had always known where she was.
That was another thing he had never considered until losing it.
Dorothy's life had been arranged around his.
When he was at home, she was somewhere in the house.
When he attended events, she stood beside him.
When he traveled, she remained behind, maintaining the household, answering his mother's demands, performing the role of wife with a dignity he had not bothered to admire.
He had not needed to wonder where Dorothy was because Dorothy had been reliable.
Reliability, he was learning, could look like devotion until the moment it disappeared.
His phone vibrated on the desk.
Trevor turned quickly.
Not Dorothy.
Marcus.
He answered. "Yes?"
"Sir, we found no outgoing travel under Mrs. Raymond's name. No airport records, no train bookings, no private car hire under the accounts available to us."
"Then she is still in the city."
"Likely, sir."
"Likely is not enough."
"I understand. There is one more thing."
Trevor's grip tightened around the phone. "Speak."
"Mrs. Raymond's personal legal representative contacted our office."
Trevor went still.
Vanessa's head lifted.
"What legal representative?" Trevor asked.
"A lawyer named Andrew Hale. He stated that all future communication regarding Mrs. Raymond should be directed through him."
The room changed temperature.
Trevor did not move. "Regarding what?"
Marcus paused. He had already guessed the answer, and Trevor hated him for it.
"The divorce, sir."
Vanessa rose slowly from the chair, one hand at her throat. For once, she did not speak.
Trevor looked at the folder on his desk.
Dorothy had not waited for him to come after her. She had not left the papers as a private threat to be negotiated over breakfast. She had already instructed a lawyer. She had already placed a wall between them, not made of silence, but of procedure.
That was not how Dorothy behaved.
Or perhaps it was how Dorothy behaved when she finally stopped being his.
"Send me everything," Trevor said.
"It has already arrived by courier. Reception is bringing it up."
Trevor ended the call.
For a moment, no one in the study spoke.
Vanessa's face had lost some of its careful softness.
She looked uncertain now, perhaps for the first time since Dorothy left.
Trevor saw the calculation behind her eyes, the quick attempt to fit this new fact into the story she preferred: Dorothy as jealous wife, Dorothy as emotional woman, Dorothy as someone with nowhere to go and no one to rely on.
A lawyer did not fit.
A woman crawling back did not send legal notice ahead of her.
Vanessa moved first. "Trevor, lawyers can be hired quickly. It doesn't mean anything."
He looked at her.
She rushed on, her voice gentle but too fast. "She is trying to frighten you. Maybe someone advised her. Maybe she had this prepared because she wanted leverage. Women do that when they feel insecure."
"Dorothy asked for nothing," Trevor said.
"That is also leverage. Pride can be leverage."
The answer was clever.
Too clever.
Trevor looked at Vanessa for a long second.
Her eyes were bright, her mouth soft, her body angled toward him as though she were there to support him.
Yet beneath all of it was impatience. She wanted Dorothy's absence to remain simple.
She wanted him to be angry, not thoughtful.
She wanted the divorce papers to be an insult, not a truth.
The door opened after a brief knock.
Mrs. Laurel entered with a sealed envelope on a silver tray. Her face remained perfectly composed, but her eyes did not move to Vanessa. That omission spoke louder than any insult.
"A courier delivered this for you, sir."
Trevor took the envelope.
The paper was thick, cream-colored, formal.
His name and office address had been printed with legal precision.
There was no perfume, no trembling handwriting, no private note tucked beneath the seal.
Only the clean impersonality of a woman who had stopped asking to be heard and had chosen representation instead.
Mrs. Laurel withdrew.
Trevor broke the seal.
Vanessa took a step closer. "What does it say?"
He unfolded the first page.
The words were formal. Polite. Merciless.
Dorothy Raymond had retained counsel.
All communication was to proceed through her lawyer.
Trevor was requested to review the enclosed divorce agreement and respond within the stated period.
Any attempt to contact Mrs. Raymond directly regarding the dissolution of the marriage would be considered unwelcome.
Trevor read the final line twice.
Unwelcome.
The word struck harder than it should have.
For three years, Dorothy had waited for him to come home. She had answered his calls, arranged his dinners, stood beside him in public, lived in his house, worn his ring. Now a lawyer was telling him that his contact was unwelcome.
Vanessa touched his arm. "Trevor?"
He did not look at her.
The document trembled slightly in his hand, not from fear, but from the force with which he held it still.
Dorothy had rejected his calls.
Now she had rejected his right to call.
Trevor Raymond stared at the legal notice from his wife's lawyer, and for the first time, the word divorce no longer looked like a dramatic gesture.
It looked like a door closing.