CHAPTER 2: The Paperwork

The law office of Bennett & Cole smelled like expensive leather, old paper, and bad decisions.

It was the kind of place that made you feel small the second you walked in. Dark wood panels. Art that probably cost more than my car. A receptionist who didn’t look up when I said my name.

"Ms. Bennett will see you now," she said.

Ms. Bennett’s office was on the 42nd floor. Floor to ceiling windows. A view of the city that probably helped her clients feel like signing away their lives wasn’t that big of a deal.

She was in her 50s. Sharp bob. Sharp suit. The kind of lawyer who’d seen everything twice and billed you for both times.

"Grounds for divorce?" she asked, not looking up from her tablet. Her pen was already moving.

"Irreconcilable differences," I said. My voice didn’t shake. I was proud of that. I’d practiced it in the mirror this morning.

"And assets?" 

I slid the prenup across the desk. The paper made a soft sound. "It says what I came in with, I leave with. I don’t want alimony. I don’t want his money."

She finally looked up. Her eyes were assessing. Cold, but not unkind. Just professional.

"Miss Carter, you’ve been married to Damian Weyland for five years. Most women in your position would ask for half of Weyland Group. That’s two billion dollars." She said it like she was reading a grocery list.

"I’m not most women," I said.

She studied me for a long moment. Like she was trying to figure out if I was lying, or stupid, or both.

"You understand that once we file, this becomes very public," she said. "The press will pick it up. Weyland Group stock might dip. His team will fight you on everything, even if you don’t want anything."

"I understand," I said. "I just want out."

She nodded once. "Okay. We’ll file tomorrow morning."

I signed where she told me to. Elena Carter. 

Not Elena Weyland. 

The moment the pen left the paper, something in my chest loosened. Like I’d been holding my breath for five years and only just remembered how to exhale.

"Do you want me to have someone serve him?" Ms. Bennett asked.

"No," I said. "I’ll give him the papers myself."

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. "Call me if you need anything."

I left with a copy in a manila envelope and a knot in my stomach that felt suspiciously like relief.

That night I packed. 

Two suitcases. That was all five years fit into. 

Clothes. Most of them I’d bought myself before I met him. My design portfolio. The small painting my mom gave me before she died. It was watercolor, a little crooked, and it was the only thing I owned that he’d never commented on.

I left his things. The suits he never let me pick because "navy is safer for meetings." The watch I’d given him for our first anniversary that he wore once to a board dinner. The framed photo from our honeymoon in Santorini that he’d put in his office and then never looked at again.

I zipped the second suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed. 

The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. No sound of him typing in the study. No sound of the TV he never watched. No sound of him at all.

I’d gotten so used to the silence that I’d mistaken it for peace.

At 2:17am, the front door opened. 

The sound made me jump. I hadn’t expected him back tonight. Dubai was supposed to keep him until Thursday.

Damian. Tie loosened. Shirt wrinkled. Jacket slung over his shoulder. He smelled like whiskey and jet lag and the cologne I’d bought him.

He stopped when he saw the suitcases by the door.

For a second, neither of us spoke. The city hummed 80 floors below us.

"You’re leaving for a project?" he asked, frowning. He dropped his jacket on the chair like he always did. "For how long?"

I pointed to the desk in the living room. To the manila envelope sitting there. My name on it. His name on it.

"The papers are there. Divorce papers."

He followed my finger. Saw the envelope. 

His face didn’t change. Not at first. 

"What papers?" 

"Divorce papers," I repeated. I kept my voice even. "Sign them. Send them back to Ms. Bennett."

He picked up the envelope but didn’t open it. He just held it, like it might bite him.

"This is a joke, right?" he said. "Because of Dubai? Because I missed—" He stopped. Because he missed what? Our anniversary? That’s what he was going to say.

"No," I said quietly. "It’s because of five years."

That got through. His jaw tightened. 

He looked at me then. Really looked. Like he was seeing me for the first time in forever. Like he was trying to match the woman in front of him to the one he’d married.

"Elena—"

"I’m going to stay at the Marriott downtown for now," I cut him off before he could say something that would make me stay. "Don’t call. Don’t text. Just sign the papers."

I walked past him to the door. My suitcases felt heavier than they should have.

At the door, I paused. I didn’t turn around.

"For what it’s worth," I said, "I did love you."

Then I left. 

For the first time in five years, I didn’t wait for him to follow me.

The elevator ride down was the longest 80 floors of my life.