The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 714

Chapter 714 Broken Cards 
One rag slipped away. He lunged before it skidded beneath a patient’s wheelchair. Knees hit tile with a hollow thud. Pain bloomed, dull but steady, matching the hammer inside his chest. 
A pair of polished shoes stopped near the supply cart. Through lowered lashes Trent saw Dr. Gavin Huxley’s tall frame. Recognition flickered in the doctor’s eyes–pity followed an instant later. 
“I didn’t know Trent worked here,” Gavin said, voice pitched low, almost embarrassed. 
Gavin’s brochure had guided Quinn to this rehab center. Trent had overheard enough break- room gossip to piece that together; his stomach still knotted whenever he remembered. 
Quinn’s tone floated back, even, almost bored. “Whether he works here or not has nothing to do with me.” 
The words rolled over Trent like cold water. Gavin lifted a brow, surprise clear, yet he let it drop. 
Their divorce, Trent knew, had traveled through the building on louder tongues than the lunchroom clock. No one ever called it amicable. 
Quinn’s shrug carried no heat. “We’re strangers now.” The casual dismissal cut cleaner than any shouted curse. Trent’s fist tightened around a spray bottle until plastic groaned. 
He risked a glance. She used to stand on tiptoe to kiss his jaw when he talked about stock options. Now she looked beyond him, studying the parking lot as though gauging weather. 
Gavin’s question about her feelings still hung in the air. Trent felt its weight; she did not seem to notice. Once he’d cursed her uncertainty–now her absence of it terrified him. 
Hatred had burned in her eyes the day she signed the papers. He had deserved it. Today, only disinterest lived there, and that punished him more thoroughly than rage ever could. 
He swallowed. Watching him kneel beside a knocked–over bucket was punishment enough, he supposed. Maybe it was justice. Maybe it was simply the logical end of arrogance. 
can’t The supervisor hovered, voice drilling on. “Big talk about owning companies, but you even gather a dustpan fast. Quit bragging about comebacks. Be thankful I let you mop floors.” Each jab struck where contracts and shareholders once applauded. 
Heat flooded Trent’s ears. The hallway lights seemed cruelly bright. Every new insult stacked atop the last, a tower of humiliation he had no strength to kick down. 
He remembered handshakes that had cost rivals their sleep. Those memories now mocked him, framed against the reflection of a paper hain a supply–closet mirror. 
And the worst blow–this tirade unfolded in front of Quinn. A woman he once wouldn’t allow to lift groceries now watched him struggle to lift squeegee. 
Rags finally gathered, he rose. Ahead, Quinn’s car door opened. Panic flared, fast and wild. “Quinn, wait!” The shout burst before he weighed consequences. 
Security intercepted, palms firm against his chest. He stumbled, catching the scent of their aftershave, sharp like disinfectant. The supervisor barreled up, shoving Trent’s head down so abruptly his spine popped. 
“Lost your mind? Trying to block Madam Whitethorn? Apologize before she presses charges!” The man’s laugh curdled into a grovel aimed at her. “Madam, sorry–he ran a little company once, went under, couldn’t get hired. I pitied him, gave him a mop. Didn’t expect this scene.” 
Shame scorched Trent’s cheeks. He forced his gaze to the floor tile pattern, blue, gray, blue, gray–anything but the pity or disgust he feared in Quinn’s eyes. 
For years he had rehearsed a triumphant return, imagined himself pulling up in a new car, offering her back the life she deserved. Instead, she saw him forced to bow at a stranger’s shove. 
Quinn flinched as the cleaning supervisor’s bark ricocheted off the concrete walls. “Hurry up and apologize!” The order cracked like a cheap whip, too loud for the underground garage, too close to her ear. 
She steadied her cane against the curb, met the man’s gaze, and let the chill in her chest seep into her voice. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “But I don’t intend to let this happen again.” 
The supervisor bobbed his head so quickly she feared it might snap. “Yes–yes, ma’am. It won’t. I swear.” Behind the eagerness, she saw a decision harden in his eyes, like wet cement turning unforgiving. 
A shaky tenor slipped through the garage, ruined by desperation. “I’m not crazy, Quinn. I 
say hello?” know you’re way up there now and I’ve fallen hard, but can’t I at least 
Without warning, Trent shoved the supervisor aside, the man’s clipboard skittering across the floor. Trent’s shoulders jerked as he faced her, eyes bright with something that looked too much like hunger and humiliation. 
Quinn’s fingers tightened around the handle of the passenger door. “We’re not on hello terms, Trent.” Each syllable tasted of iron, memory, and the ache that never quite left her knees. 
Color surged up his neck. “Yes, we’re divorced–I get it.” He slapped his own chest. “But does that really mean I’m stripped of the basic right to speak a single word to you?” 
Beside them, the supervisor’s mouth fell open. The clipboard lay forgotten, pen still ticking against concrete like a nervous metronome. Disbelief hollowed his face; he looked as if gravity had doubled. 
Something hot and razor thin slashed through her restraint. “When my parents‘ ashes finally made it home, you wouldn’t even ride with me to claim them. What gives you the right to want small talk now?” 
Red and white warred across Trent’s cheeks. His lips worked without sound before a crumb of protest escaped. “I–I only…” The words died, thin and brittle as dust. 
“Trent.” Her voice landed like a slammed door, cutting him short. “From now on, even if we cross paths, let’s pretend we’re strangers. It’ll be easier for both of us.” She didn’t wait for agreement. 
She pivoted, the ache shooting from her ankle to her hip, and reached for the car handle. The painted metal reflected her face–remote, unfamiliar–before the glass swallowed it whole. 
His shout ripped after her, raw and scraping. “Feeling proud watching me like this, aren’t you? But look at yourself–Is this the life you wanted? If you hadn’t dumped me, none of this would’ve happened!” 
Quinn’s brow tightened, the way storm clouds knit before breaking. She did not turn, yet the muscles between her shoulders bunched, ready to bear the next blow of words. 
Dr. Gavin Huxley stepped forward, voice clipped. “Security, remove him.” The calmness in his tone was sharper than any shout, and for a breath it steadied the air around Quinn. 
“Y–yes, sir.” Two guards seized Trent’s arms, tugging him backward. His sneakers squealed against the cement, a sound halfway between defiance and fear. 
But restraint only unlatched his bitterness. “Quinn, you left me for Julius, didn’t you? That’s why you threw the marriage away! Well, look at the prize you got. Let’s see how long he keeps you!” 
“He’s already swimming in rumors with that Luwoman–she’s younger, prettier. You can barely walk straight now. How long before he gets bored of you?” Spit glittered at the corner of his mouth. 
“Soon he’ll divorce you too. Then you’ll be empty–handed, just like me–maybe worse!” The threat sounded more like a wish sharpened on jealousy. 
He kept muttering, the words collapsing into a growl. “All her fault… the divorce ruined me…