The pen felt heavier than it should have. I placed it gently atop the divorce papers, my manicured fingers steady despite the storm inside. Across the desk, Justin didn’t look up. Not at first. Just kept signing documents like I was another contract to be processed.

"You’ve got five seconds to explain this before I burn it," he said, voice low, unreadable.

"I don’t need your permission," I said, standing straighter. "Just your signature. Page six. Bottom right."

He finally looked up. Cold. Calculating. Then—something else. Confusion? Amusement?

"You’re joking."

"I haven’t been this serious in years."

He leaned back, studying me like I’d spoken in a foreign language. The man who’d dismissed me at every gala, who’d introduced me as ‘my wife’ without ever saying my name—was suddenly paying attention. And for the first time, I didn’t want him to.

But it was too late. The game had changed. And now, he wanted to play.