Chapter 1: The Break
Dominic POV
The pen in my hand feels heavy. Too heavy. I examine it between my fingers and see the light fall on the gold clip. It's a nice pen. Expensive. I had purchased it in large quantities many years ago because I desire that everything around me should be the best. Now it is just another thing that I do not care about.
Twenty minutes ago my secretary came and said that Isabella was coming soon. I made no reply, just nodded and looked down at the city. The world is tiny, at a distance of forty two stories. Individuals in the lower world resemble ants and their issues seem petite. Perhaps it is the reason why I prefer this view. It makes me feel safe.
But there is something touching me now. It is a coldness that runs through my chest and I cannot stop.
The door is open before the statement of knock. Isabella always does this. She does not keep waiting. She does not adhere to the manners of respect that people include in my office when they enter. She struts as she has a right over the place, as she has a right over me. Maybe she does.
She looks different today. The black hair is tightly drawn back on her head and her almond eyes appear unbending. She is wearing a black dress which leaves her skin pale. This is the first time I am seeing her dressed this way in the three years that I have known her. She appears like a person who is attending a burial.
Dominic, some roughness of voice, she says.
Slowly I turn around and maintain a neutral expression. This is something I learned a long time ago. When you are in a fear and money-based company, you must not display your emotions. Your face is a mask. Your voice is a weapon. You become untouchable.
I say, I say, Isabella, keep up your cold voice. "You look beautiful today."
She doesn’t smile. She comes to my desk and puts a heavyweight, a folder on it. I am able to read typed words on every page: legal and important. I do not have to open it to know what it is about.
Divorce papers, she says, shaking her hands a little. "I want it done clean. No fights. No mess. I divide the half with you, and run off together.
Angry, hurt, furious, all the words a man ought to have said when his wife replies that they were not going to get married. But instead I feel nothing. It is as though a wall of glass leads my emotions. I can watch them from across the street, but I cannot reach them.
I take the folder with me and open it. Numbers and words that I have read scores of times are around every page. But these figures and these words spell the end. I read word by word and do it at a pace. I make her wait. That is what I do. I cause people to hold back and this makes them sweaty.
And by the end of it I shut the folder and put it down. Then I smile. I smiled my sharp smile out--the one that people in the city are too scared of. It demonstrates that I have made a choice, and nobody can change it.
"Okay," I say softly.
She blinks. She expected me to fight. I can see it in her eyes. She had been expecting me to drop papers and shout, when I did not do the latter.
You may have the divorce, I say, reclining. You are allowed to have half of everything. Thou hast enough thy liberty. Whatever you want, Isabella. I will give it to you."
She steps back. "Really?" she asks.
"Really." I then take the pen again and hold the pen in a loose grip. We could see the lawyers next week and sign everything. It will finish fast. And you will not see me again unless you will not want to.
Isabella momentarily relaxes her face. There is sadness or perhaps guilt in her eyes. Then it is gone, and her face is again hardened. She turns to leave.
Here, call out, I say, Isabella, her hand reaching the handle of the door.
She pauses without turning back. She waits for me to speak. The silence is oppressive and stifling. It occupies the entire room and dislocates all other things.
You will come to be mine, I whimper. Whatever papers you may sign. No matter how far you run. Some bonds do not break."
She walks off without uttering another word. I continue to hear her on her way down the corridor until I can no longer hear her. Then I take out my telephone and dial.
Next time, it is time, I say to the other person. "Start moving everything. And get Marco. I need him here next week."
I put up the receiver and gaze over the window. It is likely that below, Isabella is heading to her car. Most likely she believes that she is a winner. She is likely to believe that she has managed to get rid of me.
However, she is not aware of what is to happen.
