Page 63 of Stealing His Cupcake (Stockholm Syndrome for the Win #2)
Amy
Waking up in an empty bed isn't new to me, although lately I’ve gotten used to soaking up Wyatt’s warmth in those early lazy mornings when we lie curled against each other, not talking or kissing, simply enjoying each other’s presence.
Wyatt’s spot on the bed is cold despite the sun barely being up, and it worries me enough to slip out of bed and pull on a warm robe.
“Wyatt?” He’s not in the bathroom. Perhaps he couldn’t sleep and went to make us breakfast?
Except there’s no smell of sizzling bacon filling the house when I enter the living room.
It’s quiet, eerily so. My arms prickle with gooseflesh as I realize just how quiet it is, my mind flashing back to the oppressive silence of my apartment after Kayla left and I realized I was truly, completely alone.
Which is ridiculous. I’m not alone. I have Wyatt now and I will never be alone again.
My unease grows when I don’t find him on the back porch either. Passing back through the silent house, I stop at the basement door. He must be down there. The doctors said he could start lightly working out again and I know how badly he was itching to get back to his usual strength .
Yes. That’s where he is. If I open the door, I will find him there, looking deliciously sweaty as he lifts dumbbells or jogs on the treadmill.
I’ll spend a few minutes ogling him, then kiss him and take him to bed and everything will be fine, just fine.
There’s nothing to be worried about, so why is my heart racing and my hands tremble as I reach for the knob?
This is Wyatt. Wyatt, who had been obsessed with me before he even met me in person.
Wyatt, who forced me to marry him. Who nearly killed a man just for looking at me wrong.
Who has been nothing but kind and supportive and…
Okay, he might have been acting a little strange these past few days, always talking to someone on his phone, leaving the room so I wouldn’t overhear his conversations, and barely even talking to me or touching me or holding me at night or—
No. This is Wyatt. He said I was his forever. He wouldn’t…what, cheat on me? Leave me?
He wouldn’t leave me.
Would he?
“Wyatt?” Easing the basement door open, I pause and listen, desperate to hear something.
Anything. A clang of a dumbbell, a thud of feet, a huff of a breath.
Anything other than this terrifying, oppressive silence.
“Wyatt, please.” My voice trembles, but I still try to hold myself together as I descend the basement steps.
With rows of cans and packs of non-perishable food, glasses of homemade marmalade, and modern gym equipment, it’s not a scary place, but right now, it might just be the gate to Hell itself because of how quiet and empty it is.
I hold back a whimper threatening to break free.
There’s a logical explanation for Wyatt’s absence.
I’m certain of it. Perhaps he went to a doctor’s appointment?
Or had to run some errand he forgot to tell me about.
Went for a ride to clear his head. He did mention he hated being cooped up in the house.
Maybe he just went for a walk. Yeah, that’s it.
He must have gone for a walk. Alone. At night?
What if something happened? Another danger, like the situation with Nolan?
Did he have to leave in a hurry to protect us?
Or was he taken? No, that’s nonsense. I was right there next to him.
We went to bed together, cuddling like usual.
We haven’t had sex since he got injured because the doctors strictly prohibited it, but since he was feeling better, I thought we might try something.
Wyatt just kissed me, whispering goodnight into my hair as he held me.
Tighter than usual. I thought it meant he was getting out of the rough patch, but what if—
No.
Storming out of the basement, I check the garage. The SUV is still there which— Which doesn’t really mean anything. Back in the bedroom, I grab my phone and dial Wyatt’s number. In just a second, I will hear his voice and everything will be back to normal. Everything will be alright.
Instead of Wyatt’s voice, a robotic message greets me. “We’re sorry, the number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”
“N-no…” The phone nearly slips from my suddenly numb fingers but I catch it, dialing Wyatt’s number again and again, only to be met by the same message.
A disconnected number. That’s not the same as just turning his phone off. He had to call the phone operator to get his number disconnected.
As dull pain spreads through my chest, it’s getting harder and harder to stop myself from panicking.
Perhaps the police were after him? That would explain the disconnected number. Perhaps he had to run to avoid them, but why wouldn’t he say anything to me? I would have gone with him. I would have followed him anywhere.
In a daze, I head to the bathroom. Wyatt will be back. He has to be back. He would never leave me. I just need to pull myself together and I can start with brushing my damned teeth so I don’t have morning breath when I finally get to kiss my damned husband. Yes. That’s a good idea. Except—
A raw sob tears through me when I notice that the cup on the bathroom sink only holds one toothbrush. Mine. Wyatt’s is gone, along with his shaving kit and his cosmetics. His hairbrush. His towel. He had time to pack a freaking towel but not to tell me he had to leave ?
This is not happening.
I’m about to break down into tears when the doorbell rings. My heart perks up for a microsecond before I realize Wyatt wouldn’t ring a damned doorbell. Maybe it’s the police?
A glance through the peephole reveals a middle-aged man wearing a polo with an unfamiliar company logo and holding a manila envelope. “Who is this?” I ask through the door. I might be rattled by Wyatt’s disappearance, but I’m not about to let a complete stranger inside. “What do you want?”
“I’m with Bellhorne Legal Services,” the man responds. “I’m looking for Amy Hudges. I have some legal documents for her.”
Legal documents? What the actual hell?
Memories of how Nolan tried to lure me out of the house under false pretenses are still too fresh in my mind, so I stay cautious. “Do you have an ID to prove you are who you say you are?”
“Of course, ma’am.” Shifting the envelope to the other hand, the man fishes out his wallet and holds up an ID card.
I don’t recognize the logo of the company, but it’s the same as the one on his shirt and there is a photo resembling the man on the other side of the door.
Sure, all of that could be faked, but it seems like a lot of work just to get me to open the door.
He eyes the scorch marks on the door curiously as I open it, but doesn’t comment on them.
“I’m Amy Hudges,” I say, wrapping the robe tighter around my chest to cover my pajamas.
There’s not much I can do about the tear-splotched face, but the man doesn’t comment on that either. He merely holds up the envelope.
As I grab it with trembling fingers, he nods. “You have been served.”
I gawk at him, incapable of uttering a single word.
Served? Don’t they tell that to people who are about to be on trial for some crimes?
My first thought is that I’m about to be imprisoned for killing Nolan, but that’s ridiculous.
How would they find out about that? And wouldn’t the police come instead of this…
delivery guy? “I don’t understand,” I murmur, only realizing I’ve said it out loud when the man gives me a professional smile .
“They’re divorce papers, ma’am. Everything you need to know is in the envelope.” With that, he marches off, like he didn’t just turn my life into crumbling ruins by two simple words.
Divorce papers.
Convinced it must be some sort of mistake, I tear open the envelope, my vision blurred with tears as I stare at the documents.
Petition for divorce. Dissolution of marriage.
Family court. Division of assets. The words jump out at me, each like a punch to my gut.
And the worst of them. Petitioner: Wyatt Archer.
His signature taunts me from every page.
Then there is a handwritten note.
“ I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. You deserve someone better. Have a great life, cupcake. W.”
Papers scatter over the threshold as the envelope slips from my hands. The note crumples in my fist. I crumple with it.