Akta Nikah Palsu, Bukti Cinta Palsu

Jasmine.

“You’ve got beautiful eyes,” a voice said, pulling my attention back into the coffee shop. I instinctively turned, the sight of the divorce papers on the table making my smile feel like a stiff, cold thing.

My gaze landed on a tall man with broad shoulders, dressed in a black classic suit. His slicked-back black hair framed moon-grey eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard shadowed his jaw. 

His Adam’s apple dipped as he spoke, and the air between us thickened with his beast-musk cologne, a scent far too intense for a place like Maison du Café.

“Thank you,” I responded, hoping the politeness was sharp enough to cut the interaction short. I needed to continue enjoying the view of people needlessly walking past the street light, anything to avoid the decision waiting for me in bold ink. 

But he didn't move. He leaned a hand on the back of the vacant chair across from me, and the moongrey of his eyes darkened as he looked not at my face, but at the sheaf of documents lying between us.

I raised a brow, but he only chuckled. 

“Today must be my lucky day,” he smirked, placing a file on the table next to mine and opening the first page. My eyes followed his movement, and I saw the first word on his file. 

DIVORCE.

My heart sank deeper into my chest, and the ache I had been preventing resurfaced. 

“You look like you could do with some company,” he said, sliding his hand over his hair in a tired gesture. “There’s no need for a formal introduction. Just strangers having a conversation, and we would never see each other after this.” 

“I don’t need company,” I said quickly, pretending I didn’t feel the loneliness tearing through my chest. He didn’t argue, just looked at me as though he could see every crack I was trying to hide. 

The silence pressed on me, and for a moment I hated how badly I wanted someone—anyone—to talk to. My shoulders dropped before I could stop myself. 

“Fine… just a conversation,” I breathed, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt.

“So, tell me, Sharon. Why the split up?” he asked, forcing a smile but never leaving my gaze. 

Sharon. I didn't correct him. It was easier to be 'Sharon' for five minutes… a stranger who could confess the truth. I gave off a bitter laugh. 

Hearing the words said out loud made it seem more real than when the papers were sent to my apartment through Edwin’s lawyer. And I can’t tell a stranger that my soon-to-be ex-husband hadn’t touched me in two and a half years. 

“Well, it was my idea at first, after watching him cheat for the four years of our marriage,” I said, 

The words were more bitter than the aftertaste of coffee in my mouth. 

His brows furrowed. 

“Four years? Why stay that long?” he asked, and he sounded more confused than his expression. 

“Love makes us do stupid things, doesn’t it?” I asked, too ashamed to call myself a failure. I had been taught from a young age that a woman should keep her home together, and I know my mother would never let me hear the last of it when I went the Christmas weekend at the Waltons’ Mansion. 

This would be the perfect way she gets to flaunt my younger sister's perfect marriage in my face and call me names. 

“Well, it does,” he smirked in response. 

“And you? Why haven’t you signed it? Why did Matilda decide to call off the marriage?” I asked, desperate to divert attention from my failure. 

“Matilda?” he gave a half-laugh before clearing his throat. “Well, Matilda isn’t filing, I am.”

I don’t know how that made me feel, but that changed everything. 

“Why?” I asked defensively, grabbed my cup, and took a sip of coffee to shut myself up before I ruined the moment. 

“Matilda…” He paused, tapping the edge of his open file with a long, steady finger, then his smirk returned, sharper this time. “Let’s just say she had the enthusiasm of a tax auditor in the bedroom. And after a few months, you start to miss the good, old-fashioned chaos.”

I choked back a laugh, almost spitting the coffee in my mouth as I scoffed. “Wait, seriously? You’re filing for a divorce because Matilda is 'not good in bed?' That is easily the most absurd reason for a legal separation I've ever heard.”

He chuckled deeply, almost like my laughter had stirred up his, and his Adam's apple bounced in his throat. 

“It’s not as absurd as you think…” he added before he leaned back, and his gaze finally shifted from my papers to his, and his eyes softened. 

“The real reason is simple,” he murmured. “I stopped being happy a long time ago. I’d look across the dinner table and realise I was nothing more than a bank account with a pulse—a provider who happened to share her last name,” he added, raising his head to meet my gaze, and my fingers trembled around my cup. 

He didn't need to say much, I understood what being used felt like. And just as before, he hid the pain behind a smile, but I saw his eyes twitch. 

The silence that followed made my chest tighten, and we just kept staring at each other while my heart felt like it was bleeding. 

“So… Sharon,” he spoke, finally breaking the silence. “Since we're in the holiday spirit, imagine I 

were Santa, what would you wish for?” 

I didn't wait for the question to sit before responding. Because I knew what I wanted more than anything. “Love… Unconditional love. Like a romance novel where my knight can't stand seeing me next to someone else,” I said softly. 

“That possessive, obsessive love where nothing exists but us,” I breathed, and somehow saying it out loud felt like a relief. Like purging myself of the negativity. 

A smile curled up his lips, more genuine this time. 

“And I would wish for someone who sees the depth of me, not just the facade,” he said. 

I smiled back at him, letting the wind carry our wishes. Then he rose to his feet and walked 

towards my seat, offering his hand, requesting mine. 

“Thank you, Sharon, I had a wonderful evening,” he said softly in a deep, strong tone. 

“Are you leaving?” I blurted out before I could hold myself. 

I shot to my feet, still refusing to give him my hand. I hadn't had a genuine smile on my lips in years, and in less than an hour, he made me smile even in the most painful time.

“I have a flight to catch tonight… and I need to deliver this present to my wife.”

"The divorce papers?"

“Yes…” 

Heat coursed through my veins, and my breathing became uneasy. My eyes lowered to his lips and back to his eyes, but I clenched my fist, trying to keep my longings in check. 

His hands slowly slid down, and he walked back toward his seat and took the pen from my file. I just watched him, unable to speak. 

He quickly scrawled his signature, starting with a large 'G' at the signature spot on his file, and I didn't see the complete letters before he signed. Then he raised his head and handed the pen over to me. 

I reluctantly took it from him, and I placed it over the signature spot on my file. I froze for a second, but when I remembered Edwin's last words to me, my wrist moved, and I signed myself to freedom.

“Thank–” the words barely left my lips before something else pressed against them. Heat shot up my spine as he devoured my lips in a deep, desperate kiss, his minty breath clogging my lungs, making me give in even with the shock. 

His arms grabbed my waist, pulling my body flush over his as the kiss deepened, each slurp a reminder of my freedom. 

My arms slid to his broad bicep, perfectly encased in his suit, and just as I was about to lean in, he pulled away, snatched up his file, and walked out without a word. 

I gasped, catching my breath, and I covered my mouth with my hand, unable to believe the wild rush I had just felt. My lower lip slid back into my mouth, and I could still taste him. 

It was sinister in the best way, and the anonymity made goosebumps erupt across my skin. I didn't care that everyone in the cafe turned to look at me, my lips curled into a smile. 

Then my phone chimed, vibrating on the table. I picked it up, and the screen lit up with a message.

MUM: Jasmine, did you miss your flight? I’m waiting at the airport.

Sh*t, I just missed my flight, but all I could think about was the aftertaste of his lips.