A few days later, another post: Emily in Paris for Fashion Week. And there was Lorenz, beside her again, pride and devotion clear in the curve of his posture, the brightness in his gaze.
Each image twisted something inside me. Photos of him celebrating her birthday at her parents’ home, his arm protective around her, his lips brushing her cheek—my stomach knotted with frustration and fury.
“Why don’t they just move in together already?” I muttered, a sting of jealousy cutting through the ache.
Finally, I could hold back no longer.
My pulse raced as I threw my phone aside, gathered my things, and told the driver to take me to the courthouse. This time, hesitation had no place.
I signed the divorce papers, my signature decisive, resolute. No more doubt, no more waiting. I reclaimed my life.
---
A few days later, Lorenz returned from Paris.
That evening, I prepared a quiet dinner for us, the first time in weeks we had sat across from one another. Calm and focused, the divorce papers lay neatly beside my plate.
As he took his seat, I slid the documents across the table.
Lorenz glanced at the file, expression unreadable, then pushed it back. “Put it in my study. I’ll review it later.”
I froze. “You’re not even going to read them?” My voice shook with disbelief and frustration.
Lorenz sighed, pulling out his communicator. “Toni, can we not do this now? I just returned. I’m exhausted.”
“Do you even care?” I pressed, voice trembling. “Have you noticed anything? I stopped tending to your needs, stopped being the obedient mate you expect—and you barely registered my absence.”
“Look,” he said, waving carelessly, “throwing a fit doesn’t mean I jump to attention. Now, if you’re finished, let me eat in peace.”
I stared at him long and hard, the indifference in his eyes answering every unspoken question.
Finally, I stood, clutching the papers to my chest, strength blooming inside me.
“Very well, Lorenz,” I whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “I’ll leave them in your study. But this time, I am done waiting for you.”
I walked away, placing the divorce papers on his desk. My eyes fell on a messy stack of receipts and statements.
My heart sank. Since Emily’s return, his expenses had soared—a fifth higher than usual. A penthouse purchase leapt out at me, and I knew exactly who it was for.
On impulse, I grabbed a sticky note and scribbled: “Make sure you sign it!”