Chasing His Divorced Wife

ELARA'S POV "Sign here, here, and initial here." Damien's voice was as cold as the marble desk between us, like he was closing a business deal rather than ending our marriage. I watched his manicured finger tap each yellow sticky tab marking where my signature would dissolve three years of my life into nothing. I should have felt something. Rage, maybe. Devastation. The kind of emotion that matched the moment. Instead, I felt hollow, like someone had scooped out my insides and left only the shell of who I used to be. "Elara? Did you hear me?" I blinked, focusing on his face. Damien looked impeccable as always, his dark hair perfectly styled, his charcoal suit probably worth more than everything I owned. His jaw was tight with impatience, and he kept glancing at his watch. Of course. He had a flight to catch. London waited for no one, certainly not for a wife he'd stopped seeing years ago. "I heard you." My voice came out steadier than I expected. I picked up the pen he'd placed precisely in the center of the folder. It was heavy, probably some luxury brand that cost more than my first car. Everything in Damien's world was expensive, beautiful, and ultimately meaningless. The first signature went down easily. Elara Bennett Cross, soon to be just Elara Bennett again. I'd hyphenated my name when we married because I thought we were building something together. What a joke. "The settlement is generous," Damien said, shuffling papers on his desk like this conversation bored him. "More than fair, considering the prenup. My lawyers wanted to offer less, but I told them to be reasonable." How magnanimous. I wanted to laugh, but the sound would probably come out broken. "Thank you," I said instead, signing the second page. My handwriting looked shaky next to the bold confidence of the legal text. "You'll retain access to the apartment until you find somewhere suitable. Take your time, within reason. A month should be sufficient." A month to pack up three years. To erase myself from the penthouse that had never felt like home anyway. I'd spent so many nights wandering those empty rooms, waiting for him to come home, to see me, to remember I existed. I signed the third page, then the fourth. The pen scratched across paper, each stroke a tiny amputation. "Elara." Something in his tone made me look up. For a second, just a fraction of a moment, I thought I saw something in his dark eyes. Regret, maybe. Hesitation. But then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by that familiar professional distance. "I want you to know this isn't personal." The laugh escaped before I could stop it. It sounded sharp and ugly in his pristine office. "Not personal?" I repeated. "Damien, we're married. We took vows. How is divorce not personal?" He had the audacity to look confused, like I'd said something in a foreign language. "We both know this arrangement hasn't been working. We're incompatible. Better to end it cleanly than drag it out indefinitely." He paused, straightening a stack of contracts. "I thought you'd appreciate the efficiency." Efficiency. He was describing our marriage like a failing business merger. I looked down at the papers, at all the places I still needed to sign. The settlement really was generous, enough money to start over, to rebuild. More than I'd come into this marriage with. Damien's lawyers had calculated exactly what my three years were worth, right down to the decimal point. "Did you ever love me?" The question came out before I could stop it. I hadn't meant to ask. What was the point? But some desperate part of me needed to know if any of it had been real. Damien's expression didn't change. He set down the contract he'd been pretending to read and met my eyes with the same look he probably gave underperforming executives. "I married you." "That's not an answer." "It's the only one I have." He checked his watch again. "Elara, I really do need to leave soon. If you could finish—" "I'm done." I signed the last three pages rapidly, not bothering to read the terms. I didn't care about the money, the apartment, any of it. I just wanted out of this office, out of this building, out of this life that had slowly suffocated me. I closed the folder and slid it across his desk. Our fingers didn't touch. They hadn't touched in months, except for those rare nights when he came home late and drunk and lonely enough to remember he had a wife. Those nights when he'd make love to me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, holding me so tight I thought maybe, finally, he felt it too. Damien took the folder, flipping through to verify I'd signed everything. Satisfied, he stood and extended his hand like we'd just concluded a successful negotiation. "Thank you for being reasonable about this. I appreciate you not making it difficult." I stared at his outstretched hand. Three years ago, that hand had slipped a ring on my finger while he promised forever. Now it waited to shake mine in corporate farewell. I stood without taking it. "Goodbye, Damien." I walked toward the door, each step feeling lighter. I was almost to the threshold when his voice stopped me. "Elara, one more thing." I turned back, and for just a heartbeat, I let myself hope he'd changed his mind. That he'd realized what he was throwing away. That the man I'd fallen in love with was still in there somewhere. "Don't forget to leave your key card at the front desk on your way out.”