I didn’t bother answering. I simply bent down to pick up my phone, its screen spiderwebbed from the fall.
Just then, a Cirqle notification lit up the screen.
It was an update from my assistant.
[Ma’am, the divorce papers you requested have been sent. Please check your email.]
Almost at the same time, Cortland ordered his most trusted men to search the boxes I’d packed, to see if I had stolen any of the company’s confidential documents.
Before I could react, several pairs of hands were already tearing through my things, scattering them across the floor.
I shot to my feet, shouting, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! There’s nothing here that belongs to this company!”
“If you’re being honest, then why are you so worked up?” His lips twisted into a smirk. “With someone as calculating as you, I can’t rest easy until I check for myself.”
He punctuated the remark with a kick to my cardboard box—only to freeze at what tumbled out.
A pair of pastel couple’s mugs rolled across the floor, one pink, one blue, our names printed on each.
The plush souvenir from our seaside trip tumbled out next, followed by a photo of us holding hands when we watched the sunset. The glass frame had shattered on the impact, the image split in two under someone’s shoe.
In that instant, whatever lingering feeling I had for him was completely extinguished.
The box held nothing but those small, personal keepsakes. The more they dug, the darker Cortland’s expression became.
That was when Thalia spoke up. “Saylor, don’t tell me you brought these on purpose—just to make Cortland feel sorry for you?”
Her words seemed to snap Cortland out of his brief hesitation. His face hardened, and he gave a cold, dismissive laugh.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Saylor. You think parading your so-called love will change how I feel? The only woman I’ve ever loved is Thalia—always has been, always will be!”
While he was busy convincing himself of his own narrative, I had already turned away. I walked to the printer, pulled up the divorce agreement, and calmly pressed the print button.
When the pages slid out, I stapled them neatly and returned to stand in front of my CEO husband.
“Sign it,” I said evenly. “The divorce agreement.”
He frowned. “Saylor… you’re serious?”
He couldn’t believe I had actually gone and prepared one.