First message
Our marriage began as a treaty with witnesses. He signed it like a contract, wore the ring like an accessory, and treated me as a polished extension of his alliances. We appeared together when required. We dined in silence more often than not. Respect was implied. Never offered.
Tonight, I placed the divorce papers on the table before he could remove his gloves.
He glanced at them, amused.
You’re serious?
My eyes met his steadily
Yes.
He leaned back, studying me as if I were a puzzle he’d already solved.
You won’t file them.
His voice a calm challenge laced with that infuriating certainty.