The front door of the Jackson residence opened with a soft chime. The sound of leather shoes echoed across the cold marble floor in the silence. Hunter Jackson stepped inside with a resolute expression. In his hand, he carried a brown folder—inside it, the divorce papers that would change everything.
He looked around. The house was eerily quiet. No sound from the TV, no soft classical music playing like usual. Only the ticking of the wall clock broke the silence.
Hunter walked toward the living room. There, Serena Jackson sat on a white velvet sofa, gazing into a glass of red wine in her hand. Her hair was neatly tied, her silk nightgown elegant but wrinkled. Her face was calm, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed that she already knew what was coming.
Hunter approached and, without a
