I don’t wait for his non‑answer.
If I stay another second in that office, I’ll start begging, or crying, or saying something even more pathetic than “divorce” with my hands shaking.
So I turn.
My fingers brush the envelope on his desk as I pass—contract, numbers, my name reduced to units of worth—and then I walk out.
The door closes behind me with a soft click that feels nothing like the slammed doors of our past fights.
It feels worse.
Like something gently, finally breaking.
—
I make it halfway down the hall before I have to stop and press my palm against the cool plaster, breathing like I’ve just run a marathon.
“You okay?” Mia’s voice comes from behind me.
Of course she’s there. Leaning against the wall outside the studio, the laptop tucked under her arm, pretending she was j
