Chapter 3.

Jane's POV.

I didn’t scream, neither did I cry. I just stood there, frozen in the doorway, my fingers numb around the handle, my breath lodged somewhere in my chest like it had forgotten how to move.

His hands were on her, not hovering, not pulling away. He was holding her firmly, intentionally, with a sense of familiarity.

The world tilted, but I stayed upright, because if I moved even an inch, I was afraid I would shatter completely.

Lydia.

I recognized her instantly, not from photographs or introductions or polite society dinners. I recognized her from the way she fit against him, like she belonged there. Like she had been there before. Her body was pressed to his. His mouth was still so close to hers that the intimacy hadn’t even begun to fade. The air between them felt charged, alive with something I had spent three years begging for and never received.

For a moment, no one spoke. Lydia’s face drained of color first, her confidence that she wears so effortlessly cracked just slightly. But she didn’t move away, neither did she apologize, nor did she look ashamed. She just…looked at me like I was an interruption.

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable, calm, and composed. As if I had walked in on a business discussion instead of a betrayal.

“Jane,” he said just my name. No shock, no guilt, no scramble to explain.

Something inside me broke quietly. I felt foolish suddenly. Foolish for coming here unannounced. Foolish for thinking just for one irrational moment that maybe today would be different. Foolish for believing that three years of loyalty meant something.

My eyes drifted back to his hands. They were still on her waist, still holding her. 

I swallowed, my throat burning. “I...” My voice cracked, and I hated that it did. I cleared my throat, trying again. “I tried calling you.”

“I was busy,” he replied evenly, and I almost scoffed.

Busy, the word echoed, hollow and cruel.

Lydia finally stepped back then, smoothing her dress as if this were nothing more than an awkward misunderstanding. She glanced at him, then at me, her lips pressing together in something that looked almost like pity. “I should go,” she said softly. No apology, no explanation, and he didn’t stop her.

She walked past me, her perfume lingering in the air long after the door closed behind her. The sound of her heels faded, each step hammering into my skull.

The office felt too big suddenly, too empty, too crushing. I laughed, a small, broken sound I didn’t recognize as my own. “So this is what ‘late meetings’ look like.”

“Why did you come in without knowing?” He asked bluntly. 

The words hit me like a blow, and I scoffed. “Why did I come in without knocking? Do I need to knock before coming into my husband's office?!” I yelled, my eyes simmering with tears.

“Why did you come here?” He asked coldly. No apologies, nothing. 

“I came here to give you this,” I answered, showing him the file I came with. “I thought you needed it, but I guess I was wrong...you already have what you need.”

With that I let the file drop to the floor and I stormed out of the office, half-expecting him to call me back, but he didn't. 

The scene kept playing in my head even as I got into the car. His hands on her waist, her body against his, the proximity, the intimacy, something I never got in our three years of marriage. It was then I realized that I have been wasting my time on something that can never be. 

“John,” I called my chauffeur. 

“Yes, ma'am,” he answered. 

“Take me to the state court,” I said. 

“Yes, ma'am,” he responded, and took a turn. 

I didn't even realize when we arrived at the court, all that sounded me out was John's voice, “ma'am, we're here.”

The courthouse loomed ahead of us, tall and indifferent, its stone steps worn down by years of broken promises and endings people never planned for.

I stepped out of the car before John could open the door fully. The air felt heavier here, like it carried the weight of every marriage that had collapsed within those walls. For a brief second, my chest tightened, not from fear, but from finality.

This was it.

Inside, the building was quieter than I expected. Muted voices echoed softly, shoes tapping against polished floors. People sat on long benches, some whispering urgently, others staring ahead with hollow eyes. I clutched my purse tighter against my side, grounding myself.

The receptionist looked up as I approached. “How can I help you?”

“I want to file for a divorce,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

She paused, then nodded, reaching for a form. “Have a seat. Someone will assist you shortly.”

I took the papers and sat where she pointed. My fingers trembled as I scanned the document—names, dates, reasons. Irreconcilable differences. The words felt small compared to the devastation they represented.

A woman in her late forties approached me moments later, her expression professional but kind. “Mrs. Blackwood?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. A name that will no longer be mine soon. 

“I’m Counselor Harris,” she said, taking the seat across from me. “Before we proceed, it’s standard for us to ask a few questions. How long have you been married?”

“Three years,” I answered.

“Children?” She asked next. 

“No,” I replied. 

She nodded slowly, jotting something down. “May I ask the reason for the divorce?”

I hesitated, the image flashing vividly in my mind—hands, lips, betrayal. “Infidelity,” I said quietly.

Her pen paused. She looked up at me then, really looked. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

I didn’t answer immediately. 

Was I certain?

I thought of the couch, the silence, the nights spent waiting for footsteps that never came, the way he touched another woman without hesitation while I begged for scraps of affection.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m certain.”

She leaned back slightly. “Given your husband’s status and assets, divorces like this can become… complicated. Often, couples benefit from counseling or mediation before taking such a permanent step.”

“I’ve already spent three years mediating by myself,” I replied, my voice calm but firm. “I don’t want counseling... I don’t want explanations...I want out.”

She studied me for a long moment, then sighed softly. “Sometimes emotions are high immediately after discovering an affair. People regret rushing decisions.”

I met her gaze. “What I regret is staying.” I said and that seemed to settle it.

She slid the papers toward me. “All right. If you’re determined, we’ll proceed. Sign here.”

My hand hovered over the pen. This signature would end everything I had endured. It would also mean walking away from the only security I had known since my father’s death. From wealth. From status. From the illusion of a marriage. But also from humiliation.

I finally moved the pen and signed. I signed once, twice, then again, each stroke feeling lighter than the last.

Counselor Harris gathered the documents. “These will be filed today. Your husband will be notified.”

A strange calm washed over me, no tears, no shaking, just a quiet, steady resolve. “Thank you,” I said, standing.

As I walked out of the courthouse, the sun felt brighter, and warmer. I inhaled deeply, as though my lungs were finally expanding after years of shallow breaths.

John was waiting by the car. “Back home, ma’am?” He asked, as he opened the door for me. 

I shook my head, entering the car, “No.”

Entering the driver's side, he looked at me through the rearview mirror, confused. “Where to, ma'am?” He asked. 

I stared out the window, my reflection faint but clearer than it had ever been. “Anywhere but there.”

The car pulled away, and for the first time in three years, I wasn’t waiting for Adrian Blackwood to decide my fate. I had decided it myself, and this time, I wasn’t turning back.