He ripped it up on a Sunday.
She had not been expecting it — there had been no preamble, no dramatic setup, no conversation that pointed toward this particular Sunday morning. She had been in the studio, working on the second phase of the Raisinghani identity — the applications, the systems documentation, the final files for the company's design team — and he had appeared in the doorway.
He was holding the contract.
The original one. All forty-seven pages, the copy she'd seen last in the study on the day the lawyers had arrived, which she'd assumed had been filed somewhere in the administrative machinery of the Raisinghani legal infrastructure.
She looked at it.
She looked at him.
He said: "The amendment is on file. The marriage is legally registered under standard terms now — no tim
